Sutherland

by Karen Trailor Thomas

  “Hi!”

  Jennalee turned so quickly, Kendall Sutherland’s outstretched hand struck her cheek and she saw wide eyes grow wider. “Are you free?” he asked, words coming on what Jennalee saw was a controlled shudder. “I mean,” he added, before Jennalee could respond, “if you are, we could go somewhere, you know, like you promised, but if you’re not, if you’ve got stuff to do, we could make a date for later, maybe up on the hill or somewhere.”

  “Kendall.” Jennalee touched his arm and he flinched. “This isn’t a good time. I’m accompanying Harley tonight when he plays and we’ve got to practice now and I can’t really see you later. You have to understand, there’s a lot going on.”

  Jennalee had read about faces falling, but had never actually seen one do it until now. “You’re not gonna do it with me, are you?” Kendall said. “You’ve just been teasing me.”

  “That’s not so. I think you’re cute and sexy, like this promising little hunk, you know? And I do want to do it with you, okay, but I can’t right now. There’s still time.”

  “There’s only one more day.”

  Time hadn’t been an issue for Jennalee until now and her own face must have fallen with recognition because Kendall suddenly conceded and hurried away, leaving her with a bewildering sense of urgency that accompanied her all the way to the Oak Room.

  Chapter 11

  Harley was running scales at the window when Jennalee reached the Oak Room. She wasn’t sure if it was sight of him against the glass, lit like some movie star, or the scales themselves that stopped her. She stood just inside the door for a time, letting the notes play over her. Closing her eyes, she recalled her own practice sessions under Mr. Mendel’s watchful eye and found solace in the image until it struck her that someone else occupied his attentions now. She shook off the image and crossed to Harley.

  He didn’t stop playing when he saw her; he simply smiled and kept his fingers flying. Jennalee settled at the piano, enjoying the violin’s rhythmic stretch. There was something concrete in exercises, a kind of grounding that made her feel safe, a predictability that sometimes seemed the only one life had to offer. Leaning forward, she rested arms and chin on the piano until Harley finished. “Great view,” he said, looking out at the hills. “I usually watch TV.”

  “While you practice?”

  “Just the exercises and nothing with a story. Ballgame usually.”

  “Football?”

  He turned toward her. “Baseball.”

  “You like baseball?”

  “Yeah. I played some in high school. Mom freaked, said I’d break a finger, but the most that ever happened was getting spiked sliding into second.”

  “Does your dad like baseball?”

  Harley shook his head. “Bikes.”

  “Does Garth play sports?”

  “Just the one.” The look he gave her was so benign, she had to turn away. “How about we get started?” he suggested.

  She was grateful for the rescue. “Let me warm up a little.”

  She purposely didn’t think of Mr. Mendel as she ran the keyboard as she had a thousand times. She let conscious thought fall away and climbed with increasing speed until Garth suddenly came to mind and she broke off, nearly out of breath. “Ready,” she said. Harley nodded, and they began their Spring allegro.

  What Jennalee liked most about Beethoven was his ability to elude her, setting her after something only he could define, challenging her each time with what seemed an entirely new venue. Never mind how often she’d played the piece; discovery lay at the heart of it, and as she chased along, she invariably felt the composer himself urging her on. Mr. Mendel had called it assimilation and she had to agree because it charged into her like some electric current, made her skin tingle, her fingers hot.

  This time was no exception, her immersion so complete she forgot about Harley until his heels began to sound against the hardwood floor and she looked up to find him lost to the music all over again, his whole body engulfed before her. He leaned and lurched as the piece rose and fell, the give and take of the melody evolving into an urgent push and pull that drew Jennalee in, then left her stranded as the final notes died away.

  She stared down at her silent keys, avoiding Harley for the moment as she considered the composer’s intent, which now seemed almost sexual. Was that really what Beethoven had had in mind? She’d never arrived at such a conclusion before, but she’d never played the sonata this way before, either, not even with Harley. Their first time had been a revelation but now they’d gone further, from immature groping to pure passion, and she experienced a mix of apprehension and excitement as she wondered what would happen next time.

  Harley was waiting when she finally looked up. Grinning and waiting.

  “What?” she asked.

  His chest rose and fell like a satisfied jogger; sweat glistened at his temples. “Again,” was all he offered and Jennalee briefly chewed her lower lip before nodding.

  “Only after that second fortissimo, the sforzando—” he played a few notes—should be more—” he repeated the phrase, emphasis added. “Really hit it.”

  Jennalee knew her sforzando was perfect, but she shrugged her assent and went along because the here and now and Harley Laidlaw carried more weight than even the mighty Beethoven.

  When they’d played the movement through once more—sforzando far beyond what Mr. Mendel had taught—Harley went on to several other refinements and Jennalee followed along, until it came to her how far afield they’d gone, which compelled her to raise the issue.

  “You don’t think the old man would approve?” Harley countered.

  Jennalee thought he meant Mr. Mendel, then realized her error. “Beethoven?”

  “Beethoven. You don’t think if he were here right now he might not be open to a couple enhancements?”

  “But he’s not and you can’t…” Jennalee stopped herself. It was Mr. Mendel speaking, not her, and suddenly she didn’t like the sound.

  Worse, Harley picked up on it. “Is that all he taught you?” he asked. “Follow the rules? What about interpretation?”

  Jennalee wriggled on the piano bench. She couldn’t reply to such a question because it was crashing around inside her, bruising things.

  “I’m sorry,” Harley said. “That wasn’t fair. You play wonderfully and I know your teacher is a big part of that. I push too hard sometimes, okay? Nothing personal.”

  “Is it so wrong the way it’s written?” Jennalee asked.

  “Not at all. We’ll do it that way.”

  “Then you won’t like it.”

  “I like it all. C’mon.” He raised the violin to his chin, Jennalee set her hands upon the keys, and they took off together, threading their way along easily at first, then breaking free, soaring until Jennalee found herself giddy with delight.

  When the last note sounded, Harley gave no indication they’d reached a conclusion. Rather, he kept his violin at his chin and passed Jennalee a look she immediately understood and she began the treasured adagio, the playful exuberance dissolving into a now fluid warmth. When she found Harley’s eyes had not closed but remained fixed upon her, she kept with him, their connection now demanding acknowledgement that made the entire Oak Room and all its contents, its beamed ceilings and windowed wall, irrelevant. Two silent figures who had slipped into the edge of Jennalee’s peripheral vision went unacknowledged.

  Jennalee didn’t particularly want to stop with the adagio but found herself unable to proceed to the presto. Her hands remained where the movement left them, everything hushed inside her in a rare peaceful interlude. Harley, who had lowered his violin, simply waited.

  “Can we stop there?” she finally said. “I feel like I’m floating, you know? This out-of-body experience. I don’t want it to end.”

  “Okay.”

  “It’s like life has disappeared,” she continued. “Do you ever get that?”

  “Every time I play.”

  “Hey, you guys!”

/>   Harley looked up and Jennalee cursed Donna Witherspoon under her breath.

  “Not bad,” Donna added.

  Jennalee turned to see her adversary closing in. Wesley, who hovered near the door, took a single step backward.

  “I didn’t know we had an audience,” Harley said.

  “We don’t,” Jennalee snapped. And to Donna, “Shouldn’t you have your hand in a pot of beans or something?”

  “All done. Everybody’s fed so I’m cut loose, and what do I hear off in the distance but this classical shit.”

  “You don’t like classical shit?” Harley asked.

  Donna shrugged. “It’s okay, I guess, but I like a little more, you know?” She was around the piano now, aimed at Harley, who lifted his violin and gave her a few bars of something between Beethoven and Jimi Hendrix.

  “Not bad,” Donna said when Harley stopped. “Do some more.”

  Harley took off into an other-worldly improvisation.

  Jennalee kept to her piano bench and, as much as she enjoyed Harley’s playing, she didn’t enjoy this because it seemed more Donna’s than Harley’s, never mind whose hand was on the bow. It had an off-kilter wail to it, something suited more for saxophone than violin. She wanted to slap Donna Witherspoon and chase her away because she’d destroyed a beautiful mood and worse, had taken Harley along. When the display ended in a piercing yet precise minor trill, Jennalee winced and Donna beamed.

  “Cool,” the intruder said, moving still closer to Harley. “I never knew a violin could do that.”

  Harley didn’t immediately respond. He was looking at Jennalee, who made no effort toward disguising her pout. When he offered an indulgent smile, she turned away. “We’re trying to practice here,” she told Donna. “If you don’t mind.”

  “Actually, I just came to give you a message from Garth. He’s looking for you, said he’d be by the manzanita, wherever that is.”

  “We’re done anyway,” Harley said and he had the violin case closed before Jennalee could protest. “Let’s meet at six forty-five,” he added, “in that room next door.”

  “The Pine Room,” Jennalee replied, urgency filling her. Harley nodded, and when he started for the door, Donna followed. “What are you wearing?” Jennalee asked.

  “It’s a surprise,” he called back. Jennalee was left on her own in the cavernous room.

  Her next thought was to run, but she stayed on her bench because she wasn’t sure who she’d be running after: Garth and his raw sexual promise; Harley, who’d abdicated to it; or Donna, who seemed to have engineered the whole thing. Sliding a hand along the keys, Jennalee made herself sit still, but the idea of Garth waiting ultimately overcame all consideration and she bolted for the door, chasing off Wesley, who had remained in silent attendance even after the music stopped.

  Once outside, Jennalee forced a saunter as she closed in on the horseshoe manzanita. She savored the idea of Garth until voices intruded, accompanied by the unmistakable sounds of a sexual encounter in progress. She froze on the path, unable to look at the manzanita, turning instead for a quick survey of the immediate area. Finding no one in the vicinity, she slowly and quite heavily crept a wide detour which placed her partway up the hillside where, hiding behind a thriving yet immature Scotch pine, she had a clear view down onto the horseshoe stage.

  It would have been bad enough had the scene been what she expected—clothes pulled open to Garth’s urgent demands—but Andrea, completely naked and facing away from her partner, was squatted over the prone and equally naked Garth, bouncing rhythmically on his penis while its owner lay back, hands under his head. Jennalee clutched a pine bough and leaned forward as if she hadn’t seen enough and Andrea, as if in response, stopped, rose until all but the tip of the glistening rod was visible. She then slowly revolved until she faced Garth, who sat up and fixed his mouth to one breast, his hand to the other. Andrea let her legs unfold and the couple rode and rocked until even Jennalee could see the climax rising, Garth bucking as he had with her except now the load was directed elsewhere. Andrea gave every indication she had reached her own peak at exactly the same moment, and Jennalee marveled at the orchestration even as it disgusted her, the awful truth slamming home moments later that these two were well-practiced.

  She turned away as if to flee but, bad as it was, curiosity was stronger, and she turned back to see the pair collapse onto one another, still entwined but now laughing. They seemed to have no concern whatsoever at possibly being seen, seemed almost to welcome it, and this ultimately sent Jennalee running, their repose far worse than their intercourse.

  She was in full flight and headed toward the bluff when Kendall Sutherland darted into her path and was knocked down. Jennalee, stunned as much by his sudden appearance as by the collision, stood mouth agape, tears on her cheeks.

  “I’m sorry,” Kendall said, rising. He still wore his garish bathing trunks. “Are you hurt?”

  She wasn’t, of course. She shook her head and tried to pass but he persisted. “Where are you going?”

  “The bluff,” she managed, pushing by. She resumed her escape, but Kendall was soon beside her and she stopped at the base of the hill to challenge him. “What do you want?”

  “You.”

  He gave her, in that brief moment, everything Garth denied. “Really?” she said, taking his hand.

  “You know I want you,” he said, “more than anyone ever.”

  “Okay.”

  “Okay?”

  “Yeah.” She hesitated briefly, taking in his almost palpable need. “C’mon.”

  “I’ve got the condom,” Kendall said as she pulled him along. When she had him behind the closed and locked door of the Spruce Room, she experienced an odd sense of relief, as if this immature creature might actually be the answer.

  The Spruce Room didn’t have a dramatic windowed wall as did the Oak Room. Far smaller, it bore the look of a neglected middle child, empty except for two long tables, a few odd folding chairs, and a stack of quilted furniture pads left over from the move. These Jennalee spread into a makeshift bed. “Now,” she said, unbuttoning her blouse and slipping out of her pants. When Kendall made no comparable move, she told him, “Naked. Everything off.”

  “Everything?”

  “You want to do this or not?”

  Seconds later the boy stood stripped before her, penis erect. “Come here,” she said, lying back on the furniture pads. He kneeled beside her, leaned over, and offered a warm but tentative kiss. She pulled his hand to her breast and the boy began to knead, then lowered his mouth to suck earnestly while she pulled his hand between her legs and set him working. “Now,” she told him no more than a minute later, and he sat back, eyes wide. “Do it,” she commanded. “Now.”

  He searched for the condom but when he tried to apply it, he came, crying out as his ejaculate spewed onto Jennalee. “Shit,” he said, then, “Wait, I can go again.” He grabbed his penis and began to work it.

  The sight of his efforts, his exasperation, caused Jennalee to sit up and rethink the situation.

  “Kendall, stop,” she said but he was beyond that now, too caught up in his rise to even get back to his intent with her. As he shot another stream, Jennalee rolled out of the way, his issue hitting the quilted pad. When he quieted, penis still in hand, she stood.

  “I don’t think you’re ready to fuck, Kendall. You come too quickly. You’d probably shoot the second you got inside and that’s not really pleasing to me. I’m sorry.” She picked up her pants and started to dress.

  “But I wanted to fuck,” he whined. His tone underscored her decision not to proceed, as did a good look at him. Despite his efforts toward manly things, he was still too much the boy.

  “You’re not ready yet,” Jennalee told him. “Give it another year. You have to learn control to please a woman. You can’t just jump on and come the second you’re inside. You have to learn to make love.”

  “Why can’t you teach me?”

  “We’ve only got
the weekend,” she said. “Check back next year.”

  “A whole year? I’ll go nuts.”

  She got up, then pulled him to his feet, and kissed him. “You’re going to break some hearts one day,” she said before finishing dressing. She left him there, naked, holding himself much as had Noel Sutherland’s little son. Outside, she stopped to gather her wits, realizing only then she wanted to kill Donna Witherspoon.

  Chapter 12

  Jennalee hadn’t climbed the oak on the bluff since the day she arrived at the Malvern Gardens Inn, but she did so now, starting from the single accessible limb to swing up much as she’d once done on the monkey bars at school. The tree’s age gave it a fullness that translated into opportunity, several sturdy avenues available to the climber. Jennalee tried two before settling on a third that allowed her high into the crown where branches thinned to a checkered canopy and reduced the Malvern Gardens Inn to manageable size.

  Squatting on a branch fully tested with her weight, she soon found the heat oppressive, yet not enough to wrest her from her perch. She compromised by removing her slacks and tossing them to the ground. Resuming her squat, she likened herself to a jungle animal and, with this image in mind, unbuttoned her blouse and dropped it as well. Panties were all that remained—they always seemed the issue—and she slipped them off but didn’t drop them. Rather, she examined the blue nylon and the small wet spot on the cotton crotch, then reached up and hung then on a twig just above.

  Fully naked, she enjoyed her animal state. She climbed among the branches as a fur-bearing cousin might, oblivious to danger, and finally stretched out upon a lower limb, bark rough against her breasts and thighs. Cradling head against her forearm, she discovered a feline self free of all encumbrance.