Truths of the Heart by G.L. Rockey Read Free Book Online

lifetime, thought he had earned special privileges from. His
father's last death rattling whisper, “Sorry Master, forgive my doubt.”
    After ramming that moment though many years of thought, Seth came up with
the master's probable answer, “No, no special privileges here, get in line, lie
down with the lamb. So sorry my son, no exceptions, we are God, you must pay.”
    And his father probable response, “Thank you, Master.”
    Seth concluded that his father had chickened out.
    Bitter, the present coalescing in nuggets of doubt, he often asked,
then and now, of an invisible presence: “Could we please, sometime soon, have
the punch line? Procreation, family, marriage, go and replenish the earth with
lovely little creatures possessed of free will so they can search for the
ultimate Truth? Truth? Who double-crossed whom? To prove what? You began the
enigma in the first place!!! What a lie, a dirty lie. What about the living?
You hate them? The Bible-thumping idiot praying for You to take the tornado further
north, away from his house, 'kill the neighbors across the road, just not me.'
Safe in the blood of others. Stomping the canvas of truth in dung-covered
boots, a private line to God, grubbing for a pissy pledge of gold. What is this
crazy insanity perpetuated on the world. This ruse written, east of the
Mediterranean and west of the Dead Sea, by old men and murdering kings.”
    Seth remembered going to Natalie's grave site: in the winter dusting
snow from the granite headstone, in the spring placing flowers, in the summer
sitting with her, autumn, shuffling away leaves. It became so that he felt
comfortable there. More so than with the living. Maybe Lord Byron was right
after all, those who died young were the lucky ones. The living get to witness
the dung covered boots—trampling, trampling, trampling.
    It was no surprise that Seth had developed a crusty shell but, no
matter the attempt at hardness, Natalie's giving spirit imbued him.
    After graduating high school, guilt pangs pinging, Seth took a shot at theology.
Reasoning, penance for his cynicism, he attended, for six months, Grand Rapids'
Corner Stone Bible College.
    But the senseless double-cross death of Natalie, his father's
bitterness, and divinity school's covering of blood wasn't for him. So, just
turned twenty, he joined the Air Force, serving two years as a communications
specialist aboard an AWACS aircraft. A few dollars saved, service completed, he
spent a year backpacking England, France, Italy, Greece, then the word—his
mother had died. He returned to Travis City, the Trudows had never owned a
home, living in parsonages; his mother was buried in a reserved plot next to
Walter in the Methodist Church cemetery where he last pastored. A small sum
saved, contemplating college, Seth applied to M.S.U. to work for a degree “in
something.”
    After one semester, not a science, math or chemistry type, on probation
with a 1.9 grade point average, he was referred to an adviser. She asked what
he did that didn't cause him to be bored. He remembered, in younger years, his
mother had bought him a paint set. He dabbled in bliss for hours. “So,” said
adviser with a sure smile, “that would appear to be the ticket.” He switched to
fine arts. Now twenty-six, absorbed in painting, taking summer classes,
encouraged by his professors, nine months from his BA, he contemplated going to
the Chicago Institute of Art.
    He glanced at the clock again, 8:15. He shook his head, “Amazing.” Killing
time, Seth scanned, next to the office's worn wood door, a colorful poster for
the Broadway musical CATS. Next to the poster was the office number, 204. Below
that was a black rectangular plastic name plaque that read in white letters,
DR.RACHELLE ZANNES. Below that was a six-inch silver sculpted fish. Engraved in
the center of the fish:
    PISCES: Sensitive, tend toward artistic. Creators. Not power hungry,
    humble and
modest. Desire to please, hold deep beliefs. Integrity.