Truths of the Heart (32 page)

Blank stares.

“I did, my dears! God, I'd sell my soul to be treading the boards
again. Timing is all.” Blows smoke in the air. “Any other questions?”

A young male asked, “I read where you used to do summer stock, acting.”

“God, you remind me of Phil Street. I played next to him in
Best
Little Whore House in Texas,
Park Dinner Theater, San Antonio. Phil Street,
ha, had to feed him lines every scene and, well, Mexican food. The hombre broke
wind all through the third act.”

Chuckles.

She smiled dreamily. “Anyhuu, let me tell you one thing, if you have a hankering
to go home, get rid of it. It's a long watch and the morning never comes and
the critics never sleep and the reviewers, hah, the reviewers eat their
mother's pie and father's cockatoos.” She looked over the group. “Any other
questions?”

Female: “I read where you performed in London, for the Queen.”

“I played Her Majesty’s Theater, Julie in
Liliom
, made into that
awful movie,
Carousel
. Alas, musicals, Rodgers and Hammerstein,
South
Pacific, Oklahoma, The King and I
… the great ones are gone. Now we have
shit-tong and cat nip whatever. Mary Weinstein playing the lead. God. I knew
her when she trekked tables, coffee for a hook and a crook, went to her knees
on a producer's look.”

“Didn't you do a TV version of that?”

“What?”

“
Carousel
.”

“God, television, one time, I directed it. The late night King, played
a police officer, walk-on, had three lines, muffed them all. Who would have
ever known? God, ten million a year, and he can't even pronounce Ferenc. Used
to be a disk jockey in Missouri somewhere. Gaawd.”

“Tell us more about your start.”

“It would take a year.”

A chorus of: “Please. Tell us. Yes. Oh yes. Come on, Simone, tell us. Please.”

After a misty pause. “If you insist.” She took a long drag and exhaled smoke,
“I felt it from a young age, a distant star shining like some human need. My
first coming out, lead in Cain Park's main stage production,
Sweet Bird of
Youth.
I played Alexandra del Largo. So deep. The following year I had top
billing in the Allen Playhouse production of
Cabaret.
Joe Green was the
leading man. The way he clutched my hand on stage, other things off stage, God
… he fancied me.”

She inhaled, winked, then exhaled. “Off the record, I resisted them
all. Marriage was out of the question. A producer, Rosario Ferrante, tall Mediterranean
type, looked like Bishop Sheen, tried to get me to genuflect more than once, if
you know what I mean. Awful, awful little hands. And then there was Sidney
Lake, a Brit, spitting image of Prince Charles, a director. He liked me too,
but he never bathed. God awful-est long body hairs and his ... I could go on,
but all that messing around, I had a career in front of me and playing doctor
was not my cup of tea. I was going to the top and the top is not for the weak
of heart. Remember that dawlings.”

She took a long drag and exhaled slowly. “Anyhuu, The Cleveland Plain Dealer
gave me rave reviews, then I got my big chance, Producer Ronnie Blumfield cast
me as Desdemona in
Othello,
off Broadway, understudy to one of the great
ones. No names shall pass my lips. But Sir Great was the Moor. So sweet. We had
an eight months run. I missed not one curtain call. Sir Great though, missed a
few matinees. Tipsy doodle, if you know what I mean. After
Othello,
I
toured Europe in
The Little Foxes.
I played Regina. Edward Berger, you
know him as the famous TV sitcom comedic, played Ben. I could tell you some
things about Edward too.”

“Didn't you win an Oscar?”

“Oscar! Gawd. Plated piece of junk in a Cracker Jack box. Forget that masculine
shaped bone head. And, if you want an ear full, say Emmy just once. Theater is
king. A plank and a passion. Antoinette Perry! Tony!”

Simone stood, looked off magically, hand raised: “'Tomorrow, and tomorrow,
and tomorrow, creeps in this petty pace from day to day, to the last syllable
of recorded time; and all our yesterdays have lighted fools the way to dusty
death. Out, out, brief candle! Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player, that
struts and frets his hour upon the stage, and then is heard no more: It is a
tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.'”

She looked over the gawking guests. “Macbeth, dawlings.”

“Did you transition to play writing easily?”

“Lips got tired.” She winked, “That's a wrap for today, people, I need
a drink and some fresh air. Rachelle dawling, please.”

Applause.

Rachelle moved to Simone's side and said to the group, “Wasn't that
exciting?”

More applause amid “yes, wonderful, more.”

Rachelle: “Simone will be around for refreshments out by the pool. You all
know the way, out that door by Seth, down the stairs.”

The group moved to the pool area. Carl manned a portable bar and people
mingled, ate snacks, got drinks, some went down to the lake.

Seth watched Rachelle circulating easily among the guests, sipping
white merlot, talking with her hands, flowing in the night. She reminded him of
delicate sculpted porcelain. Her white slacks, her honey hair, her amber topaz
eyes, her pacific face flooded the night. He made an effort to look at other guests,
but his attention always came back to her. And, when she looked at him, smiled
that smile, it seemed to him, she knew what he was thinking.

If she smiles at me once more like that I'm going to go to her and kiss
her on the lips. Carl or no, I don't care.

He looked at Carl who was looking at him. He raised his glass of ginger
ale.

Carl dragged on his cigarette.

Creep.
Seth
deliberately looked at Rachelle. She talked to a small group. He gushed to
himself,
I shall save you from the clogs of the world, somehow I will do it.
He smiled at Carl and felt something maneuvering around his shoes—T.S.
Eliot.

He whispered, “You too.”

Glass of ginger ale in hand, Seth, followed by T.S., walked down to the
lake, looked at the sail boat. He smiled at the name,
Percy Bysshe Shelley
.
T.S. jumped on board and looked at him as if to say “Let’s go.”

Seth said, “I don't think so. Come on off there.”

T.S. turned and looked out across the lake.

Seth said, “Maybe someday.”

After breathing several lungfuls of heady air coming off the lake, Seth
went back to pool side. He didn't see Rachelle, nor did he see Carl behind the
bar.

Going to the bar to get some ice for his drink, he heard, behind a
thick growth of arborvitae, heavy whispering. He listened. The hushed voices
were of Carl and Rachelle. He could partially see them through the boughs. Seth
listened: their voices muffled, the heated discussion had do with something
about the NFL, an investigation, betting, debts, selling the house. Carl had to
go to Washington D.C. Senate hearings. His lawyer was trying to keep it out of
the paper.

Rachelle: “How could you be such a stupid ass?”

Carl: “Don't call me stupid, bitch.”

Seth saw him grab her arm and twist.

“Ouch, damn you, ouch … stop that, you're hurting....”

“Bitch.” He released her.

Rubbing her arm, Rachelle walked around the arborvitae away from Carl.

Carl followed, kicked a folding chair in the pool, and walked up the
stairs to the deck.

The party paused, awkward glances, then smiled, it must be a joke.

Seth waited a minute then walked up to Rachelle. “Nice evening.”

She turned and smiled. “Seth.”

He whispered, “Why are you married to that jerk?”

Surprised, she whispered, “Seth, that is not appropriate.”

“I just saw what happened.”

“We should not be talking about this.”

“Sue me.”

“Come, let's go talk to Simone.”

They walked to the other side of the pool and Rachelle introduced again,
Seth.

Simone: “Ah, I remember.”

They chatted and Rachel said she was going to submit Seth's story.
Simone suggested they try her publisher, Triune Books; she would write a letter.

It got to be midnight and, the party breaking up, the guests moved inside,

Simone had departed.

Carl, pretty much tanked, wobbled behind the bar talking to a small gathering
about football. Amid Carl's rumblings, Seth noticed that he was eyeing him like
he might be tonight's midnight snack.

At the front door, a couple exchanged thank-you's and goodbyes with Rachelle.

When they left, Seth went to Rachelle. “I guess I'll be going, thanks,
it was quite an experience.”

Rachelle said, “Why don't you come by the office. We can discuss what
we need to do to get your manuscript ready for submission. I'll get that letter
from Simone.”

“When?”

“I have some work to do Monday, a symphony board luncheon, late faculty
meeting, could you come by my office, say, sevenish—”

“Yes.”

He noticed that Carl was eagle eyeing them. He winked at him and waved,
“Night Carl, pleased to meet you.”
Jackass.

Carl saluted with his glass.

As he stepped to the door, Rachelle offered her hand. “Seth, thank you
for coming.”

“Thank you for inviting me.”

“See you Monday.”

“Yes.” Shaking hands, he detected squeezes, exchanged a longer than a
glance. She released and, her fragrance intoxicating, he toppled slightly when
he stepped outside.

She chuckled. “Where did you park?”

“I took a bus.”

“What?”

“I took a bus.”

“How are you going to get home?”

“Bus.”

“There's no bus service this late on Saturdays to Lake Lansing.”

“Guess I'll walk.”

“Where do you live?”

“Lansing, half mile from the Capital.”

“That's ten miles!”

“If I get tired, I'll thumb.”

“No. I'll take you home.”

He glanced at Carl, “You sure about that?”

“Don't be silly.” She went to Carl, told him the situation. His eyes bugging
out, he said, “I'll take him.”

“You're in no condition to drive, all you need is a DUI on top of the
other stuff. I'll only be gone half an hour.”

“I'll go with you.”

“Carl, don't be silly, there are still some guests.”

“Make it fifteen minutes.”

After excusing herself to her remaining guests, Rachelle, backing her Saab
out of the garage, Seth noticed Carl staring down from the front door.
Lightening streaked across the night sky.

Seth said, “Zeus is watching.”

It began to spit rain, Rachelle turned on the wipers. “Aren't you glad
you aren't walking?”

“In more ways than one.”

“So, what's the best way to get to your place?”

“I-76 and head west, we'll be in Phoenix in about three days.”

She glanced at him.

“Just joking, head for Lansing, E. Michigan Avenue, I'll show you where
to turn, Allen Street.”

The rain pelting the car, the fragrances of Rachelle killing him, they talked
about the party, Simone Simone, the letter she promised to write, Triune Books.

Talk ceased, the wipers flapped and the wordless vacuum a message in itself,
she finally asked, “So, glad you came?”

“Yes and no.”

“How so?”

“Turn left next street.”

She slowed the car, repeated, “How so?”

“Think about it.”

She turned onto Allen Street.

“This is it, I live there, above Tony's Deli.”

She pulled to the curb and stopped. The rain droned on the car's
surface.

He pointed to a dim red, green, and white neon sign: TONY'S DELI
flickered through the mist.

“Tony Leeoda is the proprietor, owns the building, in case you ever come
by, you know for a portrait sitting, anybody asks questions, tell them you're
buying olive oil, prosciutto, whatever. Just in case.”

Paused, she didn't say anything.

He pointed, “That side entrance, there, up one flight of stairs,
apartment end of the hall, my studio, can't miss it.”

“Next time you walk.”

He thought of inviting her up now but the real possibility that Laura
might still be there, he said, “I'd invite you up to see my sketches, but I'm
sure Carl is expecting you.”

She looked at him. “Really now.”

“I know, but thanks very much for the ride and the night, it really was
… except for that scene behind the … well, you know.”