Read Truths of the Heart Online
Authors: G.L. Rockey
Truths of the Heart (8 page)
“Memo from Dean Rait.” She held the memo up. “Short and sweet.” Rachelle
took it and read.
Kay said, “Going for a jog?”
“Yes, later.” She handed the memo back to Kay. “Who's been writing on my
Berlo sticker?”
Kay looked surprised. “I didn't notice….” Her eyes narrowed and she thumped
her letter opener to her desk, “I bet I know.”
“Who?”
“Some weird student was in here this morning, met me at the door,
looking for permission to take your new course. Undergrad, senior, pushy, needs
some elective hours, left a permission form, his advisor signed it. So did … well
here.” Kay held out the form. “He has all the signatures but yours … didn't
follow instructions.”
Rachelle took the form, scanned it in a glance.
Kay said, “He's a presumptuous asshole.”
Rachelle smiled. “Genius is sometimes disguised as such.”
“Not this guy, he's weird.” Kay circled an index finger at her temple.
“Dressed like a Russian peasant … ratty T-shirt, some kind of army boots,
hair like an uncut lawn. Quoting Robert Frost. Please, Dr. Zannes, don't let
him in. I don't wanna have to deal with him all year. I can see it now, he'll
be in her every time there's a glitch in the cock crows twice.”
“Kay, be nice.” Rachelle entered her office, closed her door, and
flipped on the overhead lights.
The office space about the size of a modest motel room, the beige walls
exuded library stillness. To the right of the entrance sat a modest wood desk
behind which was a blue-fabric-covered chair. Two similar covered straight-back
chairs faced the desk. The floor covered with gray commercial grade carpet,
closed vertical blinds blocked light coming through a window. A round conference
table with four chairs sat next to the window and open shelves on two walls
were replete with journals and books of all shapes and sizes. A third wall
featured oil paintings by Rachelle's father. One was of a quaint farm house in
front of which a maiden feeds a gaggle of white geese. Another was of a
sailboat, the stern showing
Esther II.
Another, a still life of apples
and pears. And lastly, the portrait of a radiant beauty, with a small name
plate bottom center–Esther Webster Zannes.
On the wall behind Rachelle's desk hung two 4x5 posters. One, a black and
white picture of the famous poet, T.S. Eliot. The other, a color photograph of
the other T.S. Eliot, her cat.
Rachelle stepped to the window and opened the blinds. The office
flooded with light. She looked at the picture view of the tree shrouded campus
lawn. After a distilled moment, she stepped to a CD stereo player. Below the player,
in neatly ordered rows, were many CDs. Most prominent: CATS, Oklahoma, Guys and
Dolls, Madam Butterfly, and her father's favorite, Phantom of the Opera.
She snapped the stereo on, loaded the CATS' CD and a piano version of “Memory”
filled the room.
She sat at her desk and read the permission-to-admit form that Kay had
given her:
PERMISSION TO TAKE GRADUATE COURSE FOR UNDERGRADUATE CREDIT
Student Name: Trudow, Seth
Student ID: 286-11-1754, Cumulative GPA: 3.18
Course: Com. 501
Reason for this request: Art Major, need eight elective credits hours (not
ART) to graduate … hate math, chemistry, political science, and pizza….
Approvals: signature approval from these five people in descending
order—course instructor, student's advisor, department chair, dean of graduate
studies, and associate provost.
(Note: signatures must be obtained in descending order)
Rachelle paused, smiled, then looked, below the 'approvals' notice at
the blank space for her authorization. Below the blank space were four
signatures: Seth's advisor, the department chair, the dean, and the associate
provost. All there but hers. If she didn't approve, it was all for naught.
“Hummm.” She again read the reason for the request then with flourish signed
the form and took it back to Kay.
Kay said, “You're going to let him in!”
“Yes.”
“Heaven help us.”
“We need all the help we can get.”
Kay looked at the form, “The charmer said he'd be back to pick it up,
he acted like it was a done deal.” She looked at Rachelle, “Not too late, I
could lose it.”
“Kay, be nice. Maybe he will stir some creative juices around here.”
“He's juiced all right.” Kay made circles, this time with a yellow
pencil, at her right temple. “'Something there is that doesn't like a wall….'”
Rachelle smiled, returned to her office, closed the door, sat at her
desk and read the M.S.U. catalogue description for her new course:
Com. 501, Department of Communication
Creative interpretation in the study of abstract meanings through the
written word. Emphasis is on communicating universal truths through poems,
novels, short stories, novellas, plays.
She picked up and studied the printed notes for the class syllabus she
had prepared:
Com. 501, FALL SEMESTER
Olds Hall, Room #107, MONDAY AND WEDNESDAY, 2-3:00
Dr. Rachelle Zannes
Department of Communication
OFFICE: 201 Bessey Hall, office hours T/TH, 10-11 A.M., or by
arrangement. Phone 272-4767
TEXTS: Reading list attached. A one page synopsis with a second page
criticism will be due as indicated on the list. Students who wish to study
works others than those listed, please see me. Writing journal, in-class
readings, discussion required.
NOTE: Course writing project due, April 1. Prior approval of writing project
required. Make appointment to discuss. No formal class meeting in second
semester. Individual conferences only. Make appointments with instructor.
Rachelle penciled the draft 'OK,' made a note to Kay, 'Fourteen copies,'
then began reading, from a yellow legal pad, lecture notes for her first class
meeting:
...We will delve into the uniquely abstract (human we assume) concepts
of universal truths—love, honor, pity, pride, compassion, sacrifice … concepts
science cannot measure....
Just then her cell phone rang. She looked, Carl. She answered. “Hi.”
“Hey babe, what’s ya doing?”
“Reading Plato.”
Pause. “I'm on my way to San Francisco International, raining out here,
how's it there?”
“Great.”
“Have to connect in Detroit, then a puddle jumper to Lansing. I hate that.”
“I know.”
“Don't forget to pick me up.”
“5:30.”
“Anything in the local newspaper about last nights' game, my debut?”
“Ah … I didn't see anything.”
“Figures, Lansing hicks, probably something in the Detroit Free Press.
I'll pick one up at the airport. Hour layover in Detroit, dearest one.”
She suppressed a yawn.
Carl: “Nothing to say.”
“What's to say?”
“I have a surprise for you.”
“Oh? What?”
“Wouldn't be a surprise if I told you. See you this afternoon.”
“See you.”
“You forgot something.”
“Tell me.”
“I love you.”
“Me too.” TONE.
Sure she was correct about telling him the nothing-in-the newspaper
little-white-lie, he would just brood on the long flight, she continued reading
her notes:
Some question there is universal truth … claim there is only individual
truth. That being the case, individual death and all, everything eventually
must end. But some truths, it seems, go on, from generation to generation … are
they learned, innate, or infused … pride, compassion, etc., concepts I just
mentioned. In any case, for us in this course, we want to deal with beginnings.
Creativity indicates a beginning. William Faulkner seemed to hit the
nail on the head, 'to create out of the materials of the human spirit something
which did not exist before....’
She stopped reading and leaned back. She had prepared for fall classes
for more years than she cared to recall. But this new course was bringing forth
uncanny vibrations, questions, uneasiness. The recurring premonition: somehow
this year is going to be different. Something in the air, the atmosphere, the
water, refrigerator, tooth paste, the birds flying by the window; this one will
be singular.
There is something in the air all right and it's spelled F-o-r-d Field,
the fifty-yard line, national TV audience, 65,000 people in the stadium....
Stop that, just stop it.
She picked up the computer printout of Com. 501 enrollment. Thirteen students,
all graduates, but now, with this senior, Seth Tudor added, fourteen.
She stood, stretched, took the syllabus to Kay, gave it to her and
said,
“Fourteen copies please, for next Monday's class.”
“Next?”
“I mean the 26th.”
“Jitters about Ford Field?”
“Never.”
Just then colleagues Tim Hackworth and Kim Lee looked in. Tim smiled like
he had just won the lottery. Kim, brown circles under her eyes, looked like
last weeks' rye bread.
Rachelle said to Tim, “What's a matter with her?”
Tim said, “Come on Z, time for lunch.”
“Where you going?”
Tim: “I've unearthed this great wing and burger place, epicurean’s delight,
the Port-o-Call bar and grill, Pleasant Lake.”
Rachelle, “You got to be kidding me, that's an hour drive each way, besides,
I'm not dressed; I was going to go for a jog.”
Kay said to Rachelle, “Oh go on, nothing going on here, except a
wayward senior.”
Tim: “Come on, Kim needs some company, a shoulder to cry on.”
“What's the matter?”
Tim: “Come on, take a break,” he winked at Kay, “Z’s gonna need all the
breaks she can get before Ford Field, right Kay.”
Kay nodded with a smile. “And then she has to fly to Phoenix for the honeymoon.”
Tim said, “And fly back.”
Rachelle: “Jackals.”
****
His Jeep Wrangler's top removed, Tim drove like a two week vacation had
just begun. Buckled up, Kim sat front right. Rachelle, holding on to the
overhead roll bar, sat in back. Above the wind she said to Kim, “So what's the
matter with Kimberly, you get a last-minute class assignment?”
Tim looked in the read view mirror and Rachelle noted a twinkle in his eye.
Rachelle's cell phone rang.
Wind whistling around, Kim and Timothy could hear only Rachelle: “Hello
there … yes, of course I will … no … lunch with some colleagues … no … yes,
5:30 … okay … me too … bye.”
Kim turned to Rachelle and rolled her blood shot eyes skyward.
Timothy chuckled.
Kim poked him in the ribs.
At the seedy lake-side Port-o-Call, burgers ordered, Corona long necks served,
Tim's broad smile turned patrons' heads.
Kim asked Tim if he would please go smile at the lake.
Grinning broadly, he took his Corona and went outside.
Rachelle, “What's he so happy about?”
Kim, in tears, unloaded: The engagement, marriage to Dent, everything was
off. She shared (Tim knew) with Rachelle the reason: Dent had reconciled with
his wife, Penny.
Rachelle, after a nothing-to-say distilled minute, as Kim silently
cried, said, “Maybe it's for the better.”
Food served, Rachelle called out an open window, “Okay Tim, soup's on.”
Tim returned, sat next to Kim and massaged her neck.
Rachelle to Tim, “You seem happy as a duck.”
“I've been after Kimberly for an eternity.”
After a rambling two-hour disavowal-avowal-confession lunch, the trio got
back to Bessey Hall just after 3:30. A note from Kay advised Rachelle that, as
she was dropping off some paperwork at the Registrar's office, she would not be
back. Tim and Kim were going for a walk and three students stood at Rachelle's
office door. Two needed to talk about their final grade in Com. 201 and the
third, Nancy Bidwell, a grad student (Rachelle her adviser), had a problem with
her fall schedule. She needed a class to graduate and it was full. Rachelle
called the professor, pleaded, begged, coerced, promised a steak dinner, and
got Nancy into the class. Nancy lingered on, finally thanked Rachelle and left.
Rachelle noticed the time, 5:20. “Rats!” She rushed out the door.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Fifteen minutes later, 5:35, approaching the GROUND TRANSPORTATION sign
at Lansing's Capital City Airport, Rachelle saw, standing at the curb like his
feet were stuck in the cement, Carl. Hands on hips, red tie loosened, cigarette
dangling from his lower lips, newspaper under his left arm, he glared at her
like he would turn her car over, at least eat the front bumper.
