Truths of the Heart (24 page)
Read Truths of the Heart Online
Authors: G.L. Rockey
Rachelle snapped on the TV and switched to CNN where an anchor person spoke:
“…in related news, Senator Joe Adaven says he is going to hold a hearing on the
increased rumors of gambling in the NFL. Reports are that the Justice
Department is reviewing FBI surveillance tapes made by undercover agents. “In a
potentially explosive development the Detroit Free Press is reporting that the
FBI has had High Five owner Tommi Gilmour under surveillance for months. Seems
illegal gambling activity associated with the High Five were wide spread. And
now, with the apparent death last night of the notorious restaurateur, the plot
thickens. A CNN source has reported links to organized crime.”
Rachelle snapped the TV off and, like a comic strip, the caricature straw
men of her past year raced through her mind—Tommi Gilmour, Dent, Carl.
She looked at T.S., “This isn't a Beetle Bailey cartoon, T.S., this is
real.”
T.S. jumped on her lap and meowed.
As she stroked him she heard Carl lumbering down the spiral staircase. Entering
the kitchen, dressed in his silver Lions sweats, he looked like he just came
out of a wash and dry.
T.S. jumped to the floor and scooted to the living room.
“Carl, look at this.” Rachelle handed him the newspaper.
He took the newspaper, looked at the headlines and threw it on the
table.
She said, “That's it?”
He grunted, “Any coffee?”
“They think Tommi Gilmour might have died in the fire.”
“The world's better off.”
“What's that mean?”
“How 'bout some coffee.”
“There's the pot, coffee is in the cabinet.”
“I'm sorry about....”
“Save it.”
She snapped on the TV again. “Look at this.”
They watched video of the High Five's smoldering ruins. Carl walked
behind her and began messaging her shoulders.
“Don't,” she said.
He reached to her breasts.
She pushed his hands away. “Carl, no.”
“Yes.” He tore at her pajama top.
“NO!” She ducked away and ran to the stairs.
Bristling, T.S. appeared, hissed.
Carl kicked at him and, running after Rachelle, caught her at the top
of the stairs. She scratched him, broke loose, ran to the bath and locked the
door. Carl pounding the door “Open this door!” More pounding, “Rachelle, I'm
sorry. Open this door.”
Breathing shallowly, she sat on the side of the tub.
He kicked the door, began cursing, and she could hear his rambling become
more distant. Then nothing.
After what seemed an hour, she opened the bathroom door, crept downstairs,
and looked into the garage. He had gone.
Returned to the kitchen, there was a note on the table:
Going back to Detroit, will call you, we need to talk.
Sorry and I love you.
Carl
She whispered, “No you don't.”
Cajoling an upset T.S., she assured him, fear of Carl aside, a major restructuring
of their lives must be accomplished.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Sunday, January
26
Detroit unusually warm at 45 degrees, WJJ was contracted to carry the
radio coverage of the Super Bowl starting at 6:00 P.M., Carl's pre game special
“Playing for Super Keeps” started at noon. Corky was in New Orleans to do
highlight reports.
After a lively show with many call-ins, at 5:58, Carl threw it to a commercial
break. His next segment a post-game show, he headed to the WJJ executive suite
to watch the game on big screen TV, have a Coke, sneak a snort or two of rum.
The game a defensive struggle throughout, tied with just a minute to
go, Dent Ruffin threw a controversial late flag which allowed the Philadelphia
Eagles to hand the favored-by-six San Francisco team a stunning defeat.
Carl took a slug of rum and whispered to himself, “Jesus Christ, he
threw the game the opposite way he was supposed to.”
CHAPTER NINE
A.M. Next Day
Carl, hangover a milestone, made his way to his favorite breakfast
diner,
Mort’s
, a block from his apartment. He sat at the counter,
retrieved a copy of the Detroit Free Press and, over a cup of black coffee read
PRIVATE JET CRASH KILLS ALL ON BOARD.
Denton Ruffin, returning from officiating the Super Bowl in New
Orleans, was killed in the crash of his firm's private jet....
PART IV
CHAPTER ONE
Friday, February
14
Spring a little over a month away, it was Valentine's Day. Com. 501 not
regularly meeting, Seth had finally had a meeting with Rachelle about his
project. Even more than before, she seemed like another person.
Distant, like a traveler lost on the nowhere road to why … dusty fear
and weary defeat, an eerie torment behind the forced smile
, he thought as he mostly listened, trying to
send her a 'message-in-a-bottle', but nothing.
And so Seth (a pessimistic seer of fate's negative scribbling on the
walls of nowhere, figuring Rachelle had no more interest in him than a
discarded milk carton) had begun to try to erase her from his mind. But, except
and otherwise, no matter how hard he tried, like carbon copy, when he lifted a
page, there was another image of her and another and another. Between the
endless attempts at closure, working on his Com. 501 project, Seth painted. It
was with brush, the smell of linseed oil, turpentine that he could most forget
her. Sleep came only when exhaustion shut his senses down. But even in
exhausted sleep the desire for Rachelle was there scattered, up, down, falling.
He had to rid himself of her or go insane.
Unable to sleep, Seth up early, he had made toast and, eating, sipping milk,
he worked on a math assignment. He had failed Math 101 twice, a basic course
required for graduation. He read a word problem:
IF JANE'S AUTOMOBILE GETS 10 MILES TO THE GALLON AND SHE BUYS TWENTY
GALLONS AT $2.00 PER GALLON, HOW MANY MILES CAN SHE TRAVEL ON $50.00?
On a midterm exam, a similar problem, he had written,
Depends how
fast she is going, number of hills, up, down … make of car she is driving.
Got an F.
On another similar test question he wrote:
Ask the reference
librarian or try Google, keyword: Math.
Got yet another F.
At his desk, working the math problems, Rachelle images in the numbers,
words, letters, he felt a presence. He looked up and there stood Laura.
Surprised but not surprised, he was sure he locked the door last night, he
stood up. “Laura, how...?”
“Magic,” she smiled at him.
“You can't do this....”
“Seth.” She put a hand on his arm, “I'm having a Valentine's Day party
at my house, tonight, starts at 7:00, would you please come. I'll pick you up.”
While she talked, there was in the back of his mind, that day that she
had told him love was more dangerous than hate. People suffered in the name of
love. In hate you could skip the suffering, there's only the killing part. He
remembered vividly, when he refused her, told her to leave, she had threatened
him with a knife, it ended in a standoff. Since then she had apologized, become
almost gentle, more civilized, sent him letters, cards.
After much beseeching, Seth reluctantly agreed to attend her party, but
refused the ride. He would get there on his own. After she left, he realized
Jude was right. Something murky, if he kept seeing Laura, lurked down the pike.
At the party he would convince Laura that it was over.
The day passed quickly and, dressed in jeans, blue sweater, brown
flight jacket, black flight boots, he took a bus to Lansing's historic district.
After walking two blocks toward Laura's house, turning a corner, he heard the
dull distant sounds of heavy-metal rock. In front of Laura's house, the rock
music reverberated through the sidewalk cement. He paused to study the old
Victorian structure—sagging front-porch rail, narrow rectangular windows,
blinds pulled, peeling brackish paint, two towering cupolas.
A thought came to him:
Rather than Valentine's Day, Halloween comes
to mind.
He went up the rickety wooden steps to the front door and pressed, in the
shape of a crescent moon, a door bell button. A police siren went off inside.
Seconds later, the door opened and Laura—blue hair, blue eye shadow,
long black dress, top plunging to her navel—gushed over the raucous rock music,
“Seth, darling.”
Clove perfume intense, she shoved her lips toward Seth's mouth but he turned
just in time and got a wet suck on the cheek.
Laura grasped his hands, “You're late,” and led him into the foyer.
Smells of incense mingled with sweet smoke and meaty body odors. Laura's latest
life-size paper-mache—a greyhound dog mounting a kneeling human female—sat in
the center of the foyer. Laura explained that she was attempting to show the
animal side of human nature. She called it RUFF & JANE.
Seth: “Interesting.”
Laura led Seth to a room where, on and around a table, six males were engaged
in group sex. Another mixed threesome, in a corner nook, was fused around each
other like melting wax. Studying the threesome, Laura slurred, “I'm thinking of
doing it in mache.”
“Good, real good.”
Laura took Seth by the hand and led him to the kitchen. There, a nude male,
on stilts, his gorilla masked head skimming the ceiling, roared insanely as
women ravished him.
Seth's immediate thought was,
Forget about telling her it’s over,
just get the hell out of here, now!
But before he could make the move, Laura, clutching his elbow, announced,
“Showtime, everybody,” and the group followed her to the basement. There, all
gathered round a small red carpet, Laura chanted something like “Sheala low
low,” and a very fat naked woman brought in a greyhound similar to the dog in
Laura's RUFF & JANE sculpture. The naked woman played with the dog, got it
aroused then, as it was about to mount her, the woman reached under the carpet,
pulled out a large butcher knife, turned quickly and slit the dog's throats.
Mania. Wild applause.
Seth, hyperventilating, gasped, “I'm out of here,” and bolted up the
stairs. Laura ran after him.
On the front porch he told her it was over, done, never again. “You're crazy
as a loon.”
“Bastard.”
“Be that as it may, have a good life.”
She lunged at him, scratching his face, ears to chin.
He pushed her away and left.
Other worldly strung-out, the moon rising full and yellow, Seth took a
bus to Pudd'nheads and Jude's smiling and very sane face. He arrived a little
before 8:00, eased by Mark Twain and entered the lounge. Jude, dressed in gray
suede jeans and matching jacket, played “Blue Moon.” Her usual smile absent,
replaced by a frown, Seth paused to place a dollar in her violin case, heard
someone say, “jerk,” ignored the remark and went to his spot at the bar.
After being served a Ginger Beer, Seth realized the cause of Jude's frowning:
sitting at a table close to her was three males. One huge and two smaller, they
wore green M.S.U. sweat shirts, and drank Budweiser from long neck bottles.
Cavorting in horse play, they threw peanuts at each other and Jude.
Jude finished “Blue Moon” and the trio exploded in jeering cat calls, boos,
and threw peanuts in Jude's violin case.
Immediately Seth left his bar seat and went to the table where the trio
sat. Jude, wide-eyed, stared at Seth and mouthed, “Nooo, go back, sit down!”
Ignoring her, Seth table side, put his hand on the larger male's
shoulder, and said, “Hey, guys, could you please keep it down.” He nodded to
Jude, “I want to hear my friend play.”
The large male pushed Seth's hand away and threw a peanut in his face.
“Get lost, pug nuts.”
Seth leaned on the table, looked him in the eye, and said, “You know,
you and you friends are behaving like ten year olds.”
“Prick.” The large male pushed Seth backward, one of his friends stuck his
leg out and Seth tumbled to the floor.
Patrons began screaming, running, commotion. Seth stood and was immediately
sucker-punched by the large male. Seth crumbled to the floor. The large male
then sat on his chest and began alternately punching then pounding Seth's head
against the floor. Jude jumped from the stage, grabbed a Budweiser long neck
beer bottle and hit the bruiser square on the forehead. Blood. He stood. She
kicked him in the shins then with all her force kicked him in the groin. He
went down. Jude grabbed another beer bottle and waved it at the bruisers two
partners. They stood back. The large male staggered to his feet.
