Free Truths of the Heart by G.L. Rockey Page A

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