Truths of the Heart (9 page)

She pulled to the curb and stopped. He opened the back door, threw in
his garment bag, got in the front, flipped his cigarette to the curb, slammed
the door, said, “Nice you could make it.”

“Carl….”

“Could we please go?”

Pulling away from the curb, “Carl, I'm sorry, I….”

“That's okay, I'm used to waiting at airport curbside with the great unwashed.”

“Carl, I got involved … a student had a problem….”

“Oh, we wouldn't want a student to have a problem, now would we?”

She tried to change the subject. “Did you hear about Kim and Dent?”

“Don't change the subject.”

After a minute, he said, “What about them?”

“The engagement, wedding, it's off. Dent went back with his wife.”

“Par for the course with Dent, been there before.”

“You did know, then, didn't you?”

“What?”

“When we talked, you told me Dent was going to be your best man. I mentioned
Kim and you stammered all over the block.”

“I didn't know.”

“You did so.”

“No, swear to god.”

He's lying
. “So how
was your flight?”

“Hah.”

She smiled, “You want to stop and put some food on that mooing
self-pity boo boo?”

“No!”

The Saab engine sputtered as Rachelle pulled from a red light.

Carl: “When are you going to get rid of this piece of junk?”

She increased the speed to 45.

“This is a 35-speed zone.”

“So it is.” She increased the speed to 50.

“Go ahead, it's your ass.” He leaned over and looked at the
speedometer.

She said, “What are you doing?”

“Checking the mileage on this piece of junk?”

“I can tell you, 64,556.”

“Put on a few miles since I left.”

She paused,
He checked the mileage.

Carl: “Anything in the local paper about my debut?”

She lied: “Not that I saw.”

“Pricks in Detroit gave me one line.” He opened the paper and read:
“'New radio side kick of Corky Dixon, former Lions quarterback, Carl Bostich,
could possibly have helped the Lions lackluster performance.'” He slammed the
paper shut, “That's it, believe that shit? One line.”

Rachelle thought,
Wait till you read the Lansing State Journal
.

At home, Carl slung his garment bag to the kitchen floor, kicked at T.S.Eliot,
went to the great room, mixed himself a rum and Coke, sat at the bar, lit a
cigarette and said, “Where's today's Lansing rag?”

“On the coffee table.” Rachelle said as she went to the kitchen to
prepare a cup of cappuccino.

Carl retrieved the paper, went back to the bar, opened to the Sports Section
and his eyes immediately went to the Bud West article.

He read slowly then screamed: “What the fuck! Did you read this?”

At the kitchen table, Rachelle crossed her fingers and called, “I
didn't have time to read the paper this morning.”

Carl’s voice crackling, “'Get the hook, know a cheerleader from a tight-end,
equipment manager, Gatoraid Boy!' ”

He threw the newspaper to the floor, “Cock sucker, son of a bitch. Who the
fuck is Bud West? Bet the prick never played a sport in his life, little runt
wannabe. All those pricks can do is write about it. Let the prick put on a jock
strap, shoulder pads, get on the field, I'd kick the piss out of him.”

Seemingly amazed by it all, T.S. studied Rachelle. She bugged her eyes
at him.

Carl called, “You didn't see this?”

“I told you, no. I didn't even have time to read the cartoons this
morning.”

“What was the hurry, have somebody in bed with you?”

“Just the Spartan baseball team.”

“Ha ha ha.” He sipped, thought a minute, then went to the kitchen and
put his arms around her shoulders. “You better start reading the Sports
section, honey, seeing how you're marrying into football history.”

“I promise.”

He kissed her, thought about telling her about the WJJ
Playing for Keeps
show, but decided he'd wait until it was a done deal, surprise at an opportune
time. He nibbled on her ear, “I'm going to take a hot bath, wanna join me?”

“Later, I have some catch up to do.”

Grumbling, fresh drink in hand, he climbed the staircase, went to the bedroom,
and turned the TV to an ESPN baseball game. The TV sound blaring, he went to
the bath, drew the tub full of hot water, turned the whirlpool surge on high,
stripped and, with drink in hand, sunk his body in the gurgling foam.

Rachelle, working at the kitchen table, could hear, above the TV sound,
bits and pieces of him spouting ugly things about sports writers, students, and
Saabs. Finally she yelled, “Will you cool it!”

After a half hour, the whirlpool turned off, slamming drawers and
doors, Carl, cloaked in his blue Lions bathrobe, ambled downstairs. Sulking, he
began making himself ham and eggs. In the process a raw egg dropped to the
floor. T.S. eyed the running yoke. Rachelle shooed him and, cleaning the mess
up, asked Carl if she might do the cooking for him.

Pouting, “If it's not too much to ask.”

While he watched the baseball game on the kitchen TV, Rachelle fried four
eggs sunny side up, a slab of ham, hash browns, and toast. He sat to eat and
she noticed he hesitated.

“What's the matter?”

“These eggs are a little over cooked.”

“Next time you'll get them raw.”

He watched TV, ate, wiped the plate clean with a piece of toast. Sulking,
he went to the great room, turned on the TV, mixed himself a drink, and sprawled
out on the sofa and watched another baseball game on ESPN.

Many things on her mind, familiar with Carl's moods, T. S. following, Rachelle
went upstairs. She changed into a Garfield nightshirt, sat on the sitting room
sofa and worked on a draft research paper she wanted to submit to the
Journal
of Communication
.

Tweaking the document, she lost concentration to guilt thoughts of
being late in picking up Carl this afternoon. She took up her journal and
wrote:

Feeling guilty about being late to pick Carl up. Was a little hard on
him even though he was being an asshole. After all, he was a BMOC, always will
be. Don't forget, he lost a career in a freaky accident, suffered a devastating
blow to his pride and ego. His hopes, dreams of the Hall of Fame, at least one
Super Bowl ring, millions of dollars lost … who wouldn't be a little testy, frustrated.
And I really do need to work on my tardiness. It's just selfish, undisciplined,
unprofessional behavior. Ahh, but methinks it is something deeper than that,
Professor. None of those adjectives—selfish, undisciplined, unprofessional—fit.
For you see, in high school, you were always the first to hand in assignments, never
late for classes, receiving high marks for thoroughness, neatness.

T.S. curled up beside her, Rachelle now funked into a deeper gray mood,
like a grainy black and white movie projected on a cement block wall which came
playing back the bleakest day in her life:

Just graduated from High School, anticipating going to M.S.U. in the
fall, at the family Houghton Lake cottage, she left her mother in the kitchen
and went to the dock. She stood on the end and looked out at, riding calmly a
hundred yards from shore,
Esther II.
On warm calm days like the day was,
Eric liked to go out, drop anchors, go below, and just dream. Rachelle, an
excellent swimmer, decided to surprise him. With strong overhand strokes, she
swam to the stern and, hoping to catch her father napping, climbed on board.
Looking around, Eric not on board, she became puzzled. He liked to swim. But he
wasn't in the water.

Maybe he had swum to shore. But why, where would he go? Then she
noticed a slight drift in the boat. It was not securely anchored. She began
pulling up the anchor and froze. Eric floated to the surface, his eyes open,
the anchor chair around his neck, she could never forget, on his face, the
serene look of peace.

Tears forming, she wrote in her journal:
Ahh, if they only knew—yes,
absent-minded, daydreamer, resisting reality, thinking one day I will awaken
and it will all have been a dream, all a dream.

She turned the sitting room light off, went to the bed and crawled in.
T.S. at her side, she quickly fell asleep. Dreaming of the M.S.U. campus in the
spring, dipping her feet in the Red Cedar's cool water, she awoke to a licking
at her toes. She thought at first it was T. S.

It was Carl.

“Carl….”

He pushed T.S. off the bed and began, as he forced her nightshirt
upward, licking her legs, gnawing her knees, flicked his tongue, probing her,
forcing her, gulping her. He offered himself to her but she declined. Pinning
her arms to the bed, he jammed himself hard into her. His aggressiveness
overpowering, she responded, screamed, moaned. Carl climaxed in a series of
short whimpers then slowly melted into her and slept.

Rachelle stared at the darkened ceiling.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Tuesday and Wednesday passed for Rachelle like mixed up dreams of visiting
in-laws. Thursday afternoon, Rachelle checked T.S. Eliot into Betty's Pet
Motel. She had reserved the carpeted “penthouse” (on the second floor, it had a
view of a ground floor dog kennel), gourmet Fancy Feast breakfast, snack
treats, a private litter box, and, one hour a day, he could socialize in the
cat common's area. Leaving him in the arms of genteel owner Betty Kemp,
Rachelle attempted a goodbye-kiss on T.S.'s nose but he ignored her, turning
his head away.

“Oh, be that way, see you in a few days, and you behave in the common area.”

T.S. licked Betty's chin.

****

Friday morning, Rachelle ran behind in her toilet, hair, everything. Downstairs
at the bar, Carl, decked out in maroon blazer, white mock turtleneck, gray
slacks, cordovan loafers, watched ESPN on the TV. He had put his and her
luggage in Rachelle's Saab an hour ago. Restless, he called Dent on his cell
phone: a reminder to pick up him and Rachelle at the Detroit airport, noon.

Before he could say goodbye, Dent said, “Just so you know, Penny and I
are split up again.”

“What?”

“Shit hit the fan Wednesday night.”

“Jesus Christ, you just got back together a week ago.”

“She's crazy as hell, I'll tell you about it.”

Just past 9:30, Rachelle descended the spiral staircase to the first
floor. Regal in white half-inch pumps, mango slacks, white silk blouse, she
carried a tan jacket over her arm. Her blown-dry hair glistened honey brown
around her face. No makeup and radiant, Carl screamed, “Ahhhhhhhyiyi, you
gorgeous bitch, I want to eat you right now.” He went to her, gave her a bear
hug, and they were off for the drive to Lansing's Capital City Airport.

Carl driving the Saab, Rachelle said, “Why couldn't we just have driven
to Detroit?”

Carl said, “In this piece of junk, you gotta be kidding, besides we’re getting
a free plane ride.”

She said nothing.

Carl said, “How much did it cost to keep that cat over the weekend?”

“Two thousand a night, plus tips.”

“What?!”

“Just kidding, fifty a day.”

“Too much.”

At the Lansing airport, the pilot of Dent’s private company Challenger jet,
Sherry Lucas, awaited the soon-to-be bride and groom. Rachelle wondered if
there was a copilot. Sherry smiled like pilots do. “Short flight, no problem.”

After take off, Carl turned to Rachelle, “You should know, case it
comes up, Dent and Penny are separated again.”

“What!”

“Dent and Penny….”

“I heard you. What is Dent boy’s problem?”

“I don't know, he says it's her.”

“And I like kidney pie.”

A half hour later, the Challenger touched down at Detroit's
International Airport and pilot Sherry rolled the jet to a private tarmac. Dent
greeted deplaning Rachelle and Carl. With him was a lady—big blond hair, cherry
lips, skimpy white blouse accenting (bazookas, Rachelle thought) breasts, tight
fitting red hip-huggers revealed a large sensuous navel. Red spike heels put
her even eyes with Dent and Carl. She smiled sweetly. Dent introduced her as
Candy. She giggled, shook hands with Rachelle, then kissed Carl on the cheek.

Rachelle to herself:
Dent, you are a bigger ass than I imagined.
Kim, someone is watching over you.

Dent—gold sports jacket, white turtleneck, white slacks—held an arm out
to a uniformed driver who stood by the open rear door of a long and white limo.
Bold lettering on the side in silver and black advertised:
Tommi Gilmour's High
Five.