Read Online Truths of the Heart by G.L. Rockey - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: G.L. Rockey
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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
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
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