Truths of the Heart (10 page)

Dent said, “This is Gus, our driver. Limo courtesy of guess who? Shall we?”

In the limo's plush white cocoon, behind smoked safety glass, speeding
to Detroit's downtown Ambassador Hotel, Dent reminded Carl that the limo would
pick him and Rachelle up at 4:00 for the wedding rehearsal at Ford Field. He
had confirmed everything with Father Alfonso Lauro (no Mass, Father would perform
a civil ceremony).

Dent, with a squeeze of Candy's knees, said, “Candy's coming along to practice
up, we're hooking up in the spring.”

You amazing jackass jerk
, thought Rachelle. She said, “How wonderful.”

“Hey, congratulations,” said Carl.

“I want you to be my best man,” said Dent to Carl.

“You got it, coach.”

Rachelle and Candy exchanged grass-snake smiles.

The afternoon rehearsal at Ford Field went without a hitch and, after a
quick fresh-up, they all headed to the High Five for a Tommi Gilmour hosted
party. Attending would be the Lions’ football squad, coaching staff, the ESPN
TV crew, Father Alfonso, Corky, and much of the WJJ radio staff.

Approaching the High Five, Rachelle recalled the Dent-sponsored football
weekend when she met both Dent and Carl. It was nearly a year ago, but the
outside appearance of the two story brick building hadn't changed much. It
looked like a dump then, still did, hadn't changed a dime.

 
Entering the sports emporium, the sound of TV
announcers mixed with the grinding roar of yak, blab, belly laughs, thick
coughs, and smoke.

Out of the fog, in a husky voice, the bridal party was greeted by Ms.
Tommi Gilmour. Her hair tonight light-blue streaked with silver, her blue eyes
were encased in inch-long black eyelashes. Blue eye shadow sprinkled with
sparklies accented her baby-blues. Blood red lipstick lapped over the edge of
her lips.

Rachelle remembered her first “strange bird” assessment of Tommi as she
noted Tommi's long nose, hard jaw, and pasty whiteness of her neck. Tonight
Tommi's breasts were squeezed into a deeply cut sparkling silver gown.
Like
bread dough hanging over the sides of a pan
, thought Rachelle.

Tommi's gown, slits on both sides, fit snugly over her slim hips and flowed
down to the tips of her blue spike heels.

Escorted to a booth, Tommi said, “Let the gala begin,” and ordered a round
of drinks for the group.

Seated with the wedding party, Tommi's drink, served in a brandy
snifter, was what she called, “Polish moonshine.” She smiled, “Actually, it’s
slivovitz, 70% alcohol.” She poured a tiny amount in an ashtray, ignited her
platinum lighter, held it to the liquid, and POOF, a blue flame flashed.

“Forbidden fruit,” said Tommi and with raised eyebrows, smiling at
Carl, she licked the tip of a blue Virginia Slim, inserted it into a six-inch
silver cigarette holder, and lit up.

In the wee hours of Saturday morning, back at their Ambassador Hotel room,
Carl passed out on the bed, Rachelle, slightly tipsy herself, noted the date
and caught herself thinking, not of the morrow, nor the long plane ride to
Phoenix, but of Com. 501.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Saturday morning arrived with thunderstorms in the forecast. For Rachelle,
the day moved along like the famed bat out of hell, 9:02 P.M. finally arrived.
Raining outside, the temperature in enclosed Ford Field was a pleasant and dry
70 degrees. A sell-out crowd, half-time ended with the score, Detroit 13, Chicago
10.

ESPN announcer Tucker Stone bubbled into the TV camera: “Well sports fans,
that's the end of the first half. Looks like a different Lions team than last
week. Wooo-ee. Annnd, don't go way, coming up right after the commercial break,
it's a big night for former Lions star quarterback, Heisman Trophy winner, Carl
Bostich. The big man is hitching the knot right here, live, on the fifty-yard
line! Believe it.”

Tucker turned to his side kick, Fred Tekcit, “Fred my man, what a
night.”

Fred said, “Blockbuster, Tuck, Lions winning, Carl Bostich getting
hooked, and wait till you get a load of the dish he's hookin up with, oo la la,
centerfold stuff.”

Tucker smiled into the camera, “That's right folks, Bostich is hooking
up with Michigan State University's own Dr. Rachelle Zannes.”

Fred said reverently: “She's a college professor.”

Tucker: “Doesn't get any better than this, folks. Be right back after a
quick break, don't dare go way.”

In the back seat of the High Five limo, thirteen long stem yellow roses
(courtesy of Tommi Gilmour) in her arms, Rachelle sat like a porcelain doll.
Dressed in a white suite (she refused wedding gown regalia) white half-heel
shoes, her glistening honey brown hair flowed to her shoulders. She hated it.
She rolled her eyes.
What am I doing here,
reverberating around in her
mind, she looked out the Limo windows to the hungry crowd.

Wonder if Jerry Springer might soon appear with a nude pig. This is
insane: I'm not a twenty year old cheerleader. Stop that Z, it's your wedding
day. Stop it this minute!

Waiting for a signal to drive onto the playing field, High Five limo
driver Gus—black suit, tie—studying Rachelle in the rear view mirror, smiled
like he had heard her thoughts.

She said, “Gus, why don't you gun this thing out of here, take me someplace,
rip this dress off, and rape me.”

He turned quickly and looked at her through the open partition.

“Just kidding.” She looked through the side window. The Ford Field audience
looked like a rock concert—bare chests, painted faces, signs: FOREVER LOVEBIRDS,
PLAYING FOR KEEPS. A fat lady bared her basketball size breasts to reveal a
blue and silver Lions logo.

The silence inside the limo stark, Rachelle,
this is insane
playing in her mind like a stuck recording, felt the limo began to move. She
looked forward through the windshield and saw, dressed in a maroon tux,
standing tall on the fifty-yard line, Carl. He smiled like the cat that had
eaten the bird, the cage, and the owner in one gulp.

Grimacing like he would rather be someplace else, Father Alfonso stood beside
Carl.

Rachelle, like she was on a platform moving for a close-up in some
surreal movie, observed Carl seeming to get larger and larger.

She noticed Gus talking into his cell phone as he began a maneuver that
brought the limo to straddle the forty yard line and stop. Out of nowhere,
Dent, dressed in a maroon tux identical to Carl’s, opened the back door,
greeted Rachelle, took her hand, and she stepped onto the green turf.
Sixty-seven-thousand-plus fans exploded in cheering. A thousand camera flashes.
A marching band played Rachelle's favorite, “Memory”.

ESPN announcer Tucker over the public address system: “And here she is folks,
the future Mrs. Carl Bostich.”

Mania, more camera flashes.

Dent raised his right elbow, Rachelle placed her left hand on his
forearm, and they walked to Carl and Father Alfonso.

Carl took Rachelle's hands and kissed her fingers. Wild screaming, more
camera flashes. A fan, chased by security guards, ran across the field.

Father Alfonso raised his hands, the crowd quieted and Father's
baritone voice boomed into the night air: “Dearly beloved, we are here gathered
on this evening to join together Rachelle Zannes and Carl Bostich....” Thunderous
ovation, still more camera flashes. Alfonso raised his hand again. The crowd
hushed. He looked at Carl. “Do you Carl….”

To Rachelle the short ceremony proceeded like science fiction outtakes,
the only thing she heard, like a cannon shot, was “until death do you part”, and
ESPN's Tucker over the public address, “Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Mr.
and Mrs. Carl Bostich.”

Ford Field erupted in cheers, and Carl snatched Rachelle in his arms
and carried her to the limo. Dent opened the back door. Rachelle and Carl
entered. Candy—white skimpy leather dress, a green scarf around her neck—sat on
the seat facing the back. She crossed her legs and giggled, “It's so exciting.”

Imagine that,
Rachelle
thought.

Dent got in, slammed the door, sat beside Candy, popped a bottle of Champagne,
poured flutes full and, as the limo began to slowly move, he and Candy saluted
to love, life, and the forever after.

Gus inched his bridal cargo across the field to the stadium tunnel. He drove
in and stopped next to a private elevator that expressed the wedding party to
the Lions owner's Ford Field suite.

Catered by Tommi Gilmour, a small group awaited and the reception began.
Nearing a break in the third quarter, ESPN female commentator Misty Short, waited
to interview the newlyweds.

Eight inch Punch cigar in one hand, rum and Coke in the other, Carl
ogled petite smiling Misty like she might be a snack.

Misty said, “Stand by,” smiled, then at a cue: “So, here we are with
the newly married couple.”

The TV video zoomed out to show Carl and Rachelle, Misty said, “So Mrs.
Bostich, where's the honeymoon?”

Carl: “Where else, land of the sun, Phoenix, Arizona.”

Misty: “Cool. Any thoughts, Mrs. Bostich?”

Carl: “Lions have a game there next week, kill two birds with one
stone. Hah hah hah.”

Misty, with a roll of her eyes, said to the ESPN announcers, “Back to
you guys.”

Corky Dixon, drink in left hand, maneuvered in front of Rachelle and Carl.
“Well, Mr. and Mrs. Bostich, we were saving this as a wedding present.” He
extended his right hand to Carl. “Playing for keeps big man, the WJJ show is a
go.”

Carl threw his head back, screamed, “Yessss,” then grabbed Corky's right
hand, hugged him, kissed his cheek, said, “You beautiful son of a bitch you.”

Rachelle said, “Did I miss something?”

Carl hugged her, “We're in like Flynn, babe.” He turned to Corky, “When
do I start?”

“Get the honeymoon over, when you get back, we'll talk. Looking at September
16, need some lead time for promotion, you know.”

****

Football game over, Lions 21, Chicago 13, reception over, goodbyes, kisses,
the newlyweds being limoed by Gus through heavy rain to the Detroit airport,
Rachelle said, “Tell me more about this show with WJJ.”

“They want me to do a weekly sports talk show?”

“They do?”

“Yep, live call-in, weekdays, 3-6 P.M., calling it
Playing for Keeps
.”

“Isn't that wonderful.”

He squeezed her inner thigh, “We're on our way babe, can't keep Bostich
down.”

“When did all this happen?”

“Cork just confirmed it, you heard him.”

With luggage on board Dent’s Martin Lang & Ruffin company jet, the
door closed, pilot Sherry smiled at Rachelle and pointed to her copilot. “We
got one for this trip.”

Rachelle nodded out a window to the stormy weather, “Thanks.”

Carl had Rachelle sit in the front lounge seat, spoke to Sherry, then
closed the cockpit door.

As the plane taxied, rain streaking the cabin windows, Carl popped a bottle
of Champagne, poured two flutes, sat next to Rachelle, and toasted. “To us,
babe, playing for keeps.”

Racing down the runway, taking off into a black filled bumpy night,
they began a climb to 40,000 feet and the trip to Phoenix.

Through a few minutes of extreme turbulence, the ride smoother but choppy,
Carl slipped a hand under Rachelle's dress. “We get back, we'll have to put the
house up for sale, babe, start looking for a place in Detroit.”

Rachelle reached for a courtesy bag.

PART II

CHAPTER ONE

Monday, August
26, Two Weeks Later

First day of fall classes, Michigan State's campus emerged from early morning
mist awash in a sunny afternoon. Students toted a jacket over a shoulder, swung
a sweater over an arm, clutched books in hand. Some talked on cell phones,
others studied the screens of their hand-held readers.

Seth Trudow wore his black flight boots, denim chino pants, and a navy-
blue sweatshirt. The sweatshirt hung loose over his beltless waist. Printed on
the back of his shirt, in white letters, the place he worked part time:
daVinci's
Art & Frame Shop.
This semester, with a full class load, Seth's
da
Vinci
schedule was Tuesday and Thursday, 3-7:00 P.M.

Fifteen minutes early for COM 501's 2:00 P.M. start, Seth sat on the
grass outside Olds Hall. One of the original Michigan State college buildings,
Olds was built of red brick, ivy covered, and surrounded by leafy oak and maple
trees.

Seth put his 9x12 artist's sketch pad in front of him. The sketch pad
served two purposes: taking class notes and making sketches for future paintings.
He stretched his legs out and, savoring the outdoors, scanned the
landscape—brilliant sunlight set against dark shadows in a million shades of
green. People dressed in wisps of reds, MSU green and white, placed in delicate
poses. As he absorbed the three-dimensional representation of reality, a
thought intrigued him,
is truth like that?