Truths of the Heart (11 page)

That thought bouncing around, he recalled what had brought him to Olds Hall
this fine day: besides needing the eight credits, his interest in the creative
processes—a white canvas, a blank page—there was the more personal reason:
Natalie. She had wanted to become an author. He still wondered, with her
passion for truth, what wondrous things she would have written, discovered,
offered the long and ragged line of human history.

That thought paused as he scanned an interesting scene: five students,
in and out of bright sunlight, lounging under a tree. He opened his sketch pad
and began a pencil drawing. Seth did many drawings, some discarded, some transformed
into paintings. He worked mostly in oils, wet in wet, pushing raw colors around
in heavy impasto stokes, some squeezed directly from the tube onto the canvas.
It wasn't so much he wanted to paint, he had to, no choice, addicted. He had
sold some of his work at art shows. One, a landscape, brought three hundred
dollars. Another earned $250. And although the money was nice, he would
pay
whomever
to allow him to paint.

The group he sketched disbursed, his sketch roughed in,
might be a keeper.
Seth checked his Seiko wristwatch. Two minutes to start of class, he stood,
entered Olds Hall, and like going into a sacred temple, he sensed some third
presence.

He arrived at the assigned first floor classroom at exactly 2:00 P.M.
and entered.

The room empty, he thought,
everybody is late, must be a graduate
thing
.

He observed the rectangular room: three rows of wooden desk-chairs,
five to a row, like miniature Easter Island statues. The desks faced a wooden
table and chair. On the wall behind the table, a green chalkboard looked as if
it were hung as an afterthought. To the right were three narrow windows that
overlooked a leafy section of the campus. The floor was wood and the bare walls
were painted beige. The high ceiling white, the lighting consisted of three
strips of fluorescent lights.

Seth took a seat in the back row on the end, next to a window. The room
stuffy, no air-conditioning, he opened his sketch pad and wrote: Com. 501, then
leaned back in the creaking wooden chair and observed other students filtering
into the room. He watched quietly, catching bits of laughter, conversation, chuckles.
The room quickly filled. Four males, nine females, seeming like they all knew
each other. They snatched glances at him, some smiling, some feigning disinterest.
The females ranged, it seemed to Seth, from a pseudo grandmother who wore wire
granny glasses, had her gray hair in a bun, to one who looked like she could be
a high school cheerleader. Another had a long skinny nose and wore a white
T-shirt that exaggerated her ice-cream cone breasts. Still another with orange
hair smiled at Seth like he was raw meat and she ate such six times a day. It
seemed to Seth that the four males were like canines in a family of cats.
One—crew-cut, gold earrings—wore tattered jeans and a gray sweat shirt. To Seth
he looked like he might be very much full of himself.

Observing the group, he wondered where they came from, what their backgrounds
were. He imagined how any one of them might assess him, a stranger, sitting in
the back, dressed in flight boots, a
da Vinci's
sweat shirt, denim chino
pants: how’d this clown get in here?

He heard laughter at the front of room and noted that the
full-of-himself male had said something apparently funny. Seth looked at his
watch. 2:10. The professor has not yet arrived, he thought, then remembered the
many times he had tried to contact Zannes. Figures.

In the midst of his thoughts, he heard a movement toward silence and,
like a cool wind through tall pine trees, a person entered the classroom.

Seth, sitting up, thought,
the professor has arrived. But this
doesn't look like any professor I've ever seen before. Damn! This is Hollywood
stuff, Rodeo Drive, London Palladium. Unbelievable.

He detected a new and intoxicating fragrance in the room–fresh cut
citrus, some cinnamon in there, roses in light spring rain.

He frowned,
is this some bogus chess game a bored Zeus is playing
with reality? Has to be, because this being who is now at the front of this
classroom is more at a spirit force than human.

His eyes were glued to her.
But no, this diva is flesh and blood and
I'm feeling some primordial urge, mating, lusting, the first nuclei separated Something
stirs in me, a seed in soil drawn to life by the sun. There is no other one on
earth, a one and only one … damn!

He studied her honey brown hair that fell to her shoulders, eyes
perfectly placed in the oval face; sparkling topaz irises like jewels set
against titanium white, the nose, a little fleshy but very nice, elegant jaw line,
upper lip a distant winged-bird in flight, lower lip a little puffy but
marvelous, rounded chin, no discernible makeup.

Damn!

He observed her clothes—light tan sweater draped over elegant
shoulders, the loose sweater arms tied loosely and falling over the front of a
white long sleeve satin blouse; blouse collar turned up, cuffs rolled back
once, gray slacks, loose fitting, flowed over what appeared to be slender legs,
black low heel pumps. He imagined what other wondrous things were covered by
her finery.

Damn!

A soft burgundy attaché in hand, she smiled at the class, put the
attaché on the table, hung her sweater on the chair, and said, “Hi.” Hellos and
His rang out from the class.

She removed syllabuses and a class roster from her attaché. The roster
on top, she scanned it, then looked up to the class and said, “I recognize most
of you, but there are a few new faces.”

She looked at the familiar faces, “How was summer vacation?”

Amid the giddy chit chat, Seth turned to a fresh page in his sketch pad
and began to draw Rachelle. As he worked, he observed her more closely: neck
skin tight and smooth, perfect ears, small lobes, complexion peachy, Venus de
Milo breasts, delicate arms, sensuous hands, slim waist, modest loins, lean
delicate torso, molded pelvis, no flab....

Damn!

As she moved behind the table at the front of the room, he felt a
chilling weakness. Then he caught a glimpse into her eyes. Beyond the smiling
beauty, a longing for something beyond the grasp!

Damn, Setho, that's Robert Browning and what is heaven for!

She said, “Most of you know me but for those new....” She turned to the
chalkboard, found a piece of white chalk, and wrote with a gentle flourish:

Dr. Rachelle Zannes (Bostich)

Com. 501

201 Bessey Hall

She put the chalk in the tray, turned back to the class, pointed to her
writing on the chalk board, “In case you didn't already know.”

A student out of the blue: “Dr. Rachelle Zannes Bostich, married on national
TV to the famous Carl Bostich, everybody knows you.”

Laughter.

She said, “Hardly.”

Student: “Why Bostich in parenthesis?”

“Budget. The university didn't want to have to print new catalogues, change
name plates.” She tilted her head. “You know?”

Laughter.

She said, “Warm in here, isn't it?”

Several: “Yes.”

Blah blah blah,
Seth
thought,
It's hot in here all right, but it's not from
the
atmosphere.

Rachelle said, “This is Com. 501, a seminar in creative interpretation

through the...” she picked up the chalk again and scrawled “written
word” on the blackboard and, as she underlined it, said, “Written word.”

She turned and locked eyes with Seth.

He thought he saw a glint of distant light, as in a tunnel, a train's
engine barreling toward him.

Eyes talking, she said to Seth, “Would you mind opening that window
next to you?”

He dropped his sketch pad to the floor. Looked at her, unable to look
away.

She tilted her head, smiled, and mouthed, Please.

Damn!

Quickened, he stumbled to the window and pushed it open.

Rachelle: “Thank you,” and she addressed the group: “If you are not a grad
student you should not be in this class, except the one senior with special
permission who is with us.” She looked over the students, “Is he here?”

Seth raised his hand.

“Ah, the window opener.”

The class turned to look at blushing Seth.

Rachelle paused, smiled at him, then continued in what, to him, was an unbridled
toying with his emotions:
lilting voice, playful smile, and those eyes...
she's killing me on purpose.

Sitting at the table, she said, “Presumably we know the basics of
writing. If you don't, good luck. Now,” smiling she spoke to a male student in
the front row, “Mark, would you pass out the syllabus. Thank you.”

Seth thought,
she knows the klutz. Hope he falls on his face. No you
don't. Get hold of yourself.

As the course outline was being distributed, Zannes said, “Please note that
this eight-credit course is offered in two consecutive semesters. You, actually
we, you and I, in a sense, are litmus paper. If all goes well, others may
follow. In any case, as you know there are three options open to grad students
for meeting the master degree requirements—a comprehensive exam, a thesis, or a
project. This course will focus on the latter, a project that will fulfill the
requirement.”

She looked at Seth, “For our non-graduate student, I would think, in addition
to the eight credits, you would be able, if you decided, to apply the project,
satisfactorily completed of course, toward a master's degree. I'm not sure,
we'll have to check with the powers that be, that is if you intend to go on.
See me and we'll discuss it.”

See me! See me! Do you know what you're doing to me?
Seth watched as

she stood, walked to
the window next to him, and leaned against the sill.

She spoke to the class, “As you can see in the syllabus, the project
may be any number of things: collection of short stories, a novella, play,
collection of poems. Emphasis here is on fiction, creating situations, people,
worlds using words. Three fourth of your grade will be based on the project.
This semester will be devoted mainly to discussions, writing assignments,
you'll read them in class, and works from the reading list. We will arrange
individual meetings to hone your ideas, select a project. Next semester there
will be no formal class meetings, instead, individual meetings to discuss your
progress on your projects.

“Now, let’s go around, please introduce yourself.” She pointed to a female
in the first row, “Carol, you go first.”

“My name is Carol Austin, I'm from Coldwater, Michigan and after I earn
my Master's degree, I plan to earn my PhD. I work, since my finances are low,
part time at Sears.”

Seth watched Rachelle—lively eye movement, lips pressed together, then slightly
open, moist, a smile; touching an ear, her chin–listening to each student as if
the student speaking was the only person in the world. And yes, she glanced at
him more than once.

The students continued: “I'm Audrey Barton ... I'm Doris Brady ... My name
is Joan Buterbaugh ... Dwight Adams, here ... Hi, my name is Donald Bower....”

Mark, the klutz who handed out the syllabus, was going to write the great
American novel, be another John Grisham, go to Hollywood.

Klutz.

The last student was the one he imagined the “meat eater,” Mary Dilts.
She sat next to Seth, smelling like medicated hospital soap, had a few zits, was
heartily built. She wasn't sure what she was going to do except she loved to
travel, especially Mexico and the Islands.

Mary finished, all eyes went to Seth.

He said “I'm Seth Trudow, art major, the senior among you.”

Rachelle, something tugging that shouldn't be tugging, smiled, “And
what brings you to this class, Mr. Trudow.”

He wanted to say, “you”
,
but how could he have known? He sat
erect, “'To sing to lords and ladies of Byzantium of what is past, or passing,
or to come,' Yeats.”

General laughter from students.

Rachelle knew the poem, “'Sailing to Byzantium', how so?”

“The fusion of art and life and beauty and death.”

More laughter.

Rachelle: “I'm impressed, and still, how so?”

“I'm interested in the similarities in the creative process, between
the colors on a palette and words on a piece of paper. It seems to me, in
writing, the artist has only words, which are abstractions of thought, whereas
a painter, a sculptor has materials, paint, clay, canvas, etc. In music there
are instruments. A writer has only a piece of blank paper or a computer screen,
whatever ... the creative process.”

She recalled his written request for permission. She tilted her head, waiting.

He continued, “I also wonder about beauty among the beasts and I want
to explore yo—that.”