Free Truths of the Heart by G.L. Rockey

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