Where's Karen

by Greg Jolley

  “No rush, but Paula is staying up until you arrive. She wants to thank you herself.”

  THE RV DRIVER TOLD Uncle Tim that Paula was asleep in his bedroom. Karen and Kendal were playing six strings at the galley table. Uncle Tim went to close her bedroom door. He looked in on her and saw her beautiful lower back within the stir of the white linen. He lifted a blanket from the foot of the bed to cover her. The back of her lovely thigh also showed, as well as half of her rear. There was a dime-sized swelling on the skin of her left butt cheek—a small circle surrounded by some kind of tiny mark.

  The RV headed out at seven in the morning, rolling smooth and slow up Highway 1. The morning wore a thin fog that would burn off early.

  Weather wandered out from the short hall looking wobbly and sleepy. At Uncle Tim’s insistence, she had slept in the hallway berth cubby.

  “I smell strong coffee,” she nestled on the couch within the stir of Uncle Tim’s bedding.

  Uncle Tim was scrambling eggs and turning pancakes. He looked over with an empty coffee cup in his hand. “Sugar?”

  “Oh, God yes. I love you.”

  Uncle Tim returned Weather’s smile and poured espresso.

  They were quiet the next few minutes—Weather sipping, yawning, and stretching her eyes wide to awaken as Uncle Tim cooked and sliced bananas and a green melon.

  ”Seen Paula yet?” Weather asked, rising from the couch and refilling her cup at Uncle Tim’s side. Before he could respond, she added, “Girl does like her sleep. Do you have an ashtray?”

  Uncle Tim searched the left side cabinet stirring through the plates, cups, and bowls. “Anything will do,” Weather said.

  Uncle Tim chose a saucer and handed it to her.

  ”Thank you. Please set it aside,” she yawned.

  Uncle Tim set the saucer on the counter and used the side of his knife to slide fruit into a bowl. The pancakes were showing bubbles, and he flipped them and stirred the eggs.

  “Ready for breakfast?” he asked.

  Weather looked to him with playful scorn and shook her head. She sipped espresso and watched him transfer pancakes and eggs to a platter and cover them with a sheet of aluminum foil.

  “If you’ll pour Paula an espresso, I’ll take it to her.”

  Uncle Tim slid the platter into the oven and set it to warm. He took down a teacup and started to pour.

  “Bigger,” Weather told him.

  Uncle Tim placed the teacup in the sink and selected a coffee cup. Before he poured, Weather said, “Bigger.”

  Uncle Tim looked to Weather on the couch and returned her smile. He took out a soup bowl and showed it to her. To his surprise, she said, “That’ll do.” He filled the bowl with espresso and set it on the galley table.

  Weather climbed halfway from the couch and blanket and collapsed back.

  “I love her dearly, but…would you mind? She doesn’t do sugar,” she added, pulling her legs up on the couch.

  Uncle Tim looked to the short hall. The interior of the bus was sleepy quiet. With the bowl of coffee is his left hand, he picked up the astray and offered it to Weather.

  “Ew, God no,” she said. “That’s for Paula.”

  Uncle Tim pocketed the ashtray and opened Paula’s bedroom door soft and slow.

  “You are a darling,” Weather breathed over the top of her cup.

  PAULA TUE WAS SITTING up in the narrow bed, her shoulders supported by pillows, looking sleepy and comfortable.

  She spoke to the fog passing by in the window, “I feel. My mind is like that.”

  The small room was dark, warm, and fragrant with the scents of sleep.

  “I agree,” she said to Uncle Tim.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “I heard Weather. You are a darling.”

  Paula yawned an opened her beautiful eyes wide. Uncle Tim admired her lovely face within the spill and tangle of her mahogany hair. He looked at her tan, bare, and narrow shoulders.

  “Sit with me?” she asked.

  Uncle Tim sat on the chair before the small desk where some of his drawings lay.

  She sipped espresso from the bowl.

  “I looked at your designs before I went to sleep. You work in water. I like that. I woke up in the middle of the night and looked at them again. They’re practical and also over-the-hill crazy.”

  “Thank you, I think,” Uncle Tim replied.

  “Want to know what happened? I know I do.”

  “Yes. Did you drink too much?”

  “I don’t drink or do drugs, though I think I was drugged. I believe I went boating. Odd, huh?”

  “How do you feel?”

  “You know, I don’t know. Do me a favor?”

  “Sure.”

  “Take off your boots.”

  Uncle Tim liked the random request, sensing that her mind worked that way. He removed his boots.

  “Better?”

  “Almost. Shoeless Tim, come over here please.”

  Uncle Tim sat on the foot of the bed.

  “Know what’s strange? Before I left the hospital, I took a shower. There was a bit of paint in my hairline. And elsewhere. I think someone painted me. And I don’t mean like in a portrait.”

  Paula raised her blanket and scooted to the wall.

  Uncle Tim hesitated and said, “I brought you an ashtray.”

  She watched him place it on the nightstand.

  “Thank you. Lay down beside me. I want to curl up and sleep some more.”

  Uncle Tim lay down slowly, hesitantly. Paula nestled her back against his body.

  He rested his arm across Paula’s ribs and breathed in the scent of her hair. It was warm and sleep misted. He relaxed.

  “Do me a favor?” she whispered.

  “If I can, yes.”

  “Replace that big car?”

  “Um, why?”

  “It smells like the sea. Like my nightmare.”

  That night’s opening band hurried through their set of indie near-hits. Karen joined them on violin during their fourth and sixth song, playing in the shadows of stage right. Someone set out her kitchen chair, but she didn’t sit down. She was a ghost in the wings with her new raven black hair and smock dress.

  Wyde huddled and worked up a South American song list for the evening. When they went on stage, they began with ‘Inca Queen’ and then flowed straight on into ‘Corazon Espinado’.

  “‘Jessica’s going Hispanic’,” Kendal said, introducing their next song, sweating and smiling. The set wasn’t tight, but the audience responded well to the new rhythms and colorful grooves.

  Two hours later, while their equipment was being torn down, Karen continued to play, her mic off, wandering among the road crew.

  The next night, Wyde played the same song list. Kendal stole the show with his growing confidence and joy at the front edge of the stage. Karen played from her kitchen chair alternating between violin and dobro.

  During a slow Latin-influenced ‘Loan Me a Dime’, Paula asked Uncle Tim to dance. She smiled kindly at his hesitant steps and laughed at their bumping shoes. They danced in the wing, in a loose circle, way out of time with the music.

  By one a.m., the stage and equipment was broken down and the trucks loaded. It was the start of a twelve-day hiatus. All of Wyde except Karen headed to an all-night club. Israel and Emma decided to go out for late night breakfast, and they invited Weather who was keeping a caring eye on her boss, Paula.

  “She’s in the best of hands,” Israel told her.

  Seeing Paula and Uncle Tim seated, talking, and smiling backstage, Weather accepted the invite.

  UNCLE TIM AND PAULA rode in the RV to the hotel sitting across from one another at the galley table. From the parking lot, they saw the large orange glow of a fire in the hotel courtyard.

  “Let’s go see,” Paula said.

  She took Uncle Tim’s hand as they approached the poolside bonfire and the revelers in its glow. There was music and a dancing crowd of about thirty. The two of them eased thro
ugh the crowd to the warmth of the fire. It was three a.m., and the hotel was overbooked. The night manager was adding logs to the flames. There was a big splash and some laughter, and Uncle Tim looked to the water half expecting to see Brian and his air mattress.

  Paula tugged on his hand, her happy expression warmed by the orange glow.

  “Another spin?” she sparkled.

  Their dance began in the crowd, their bodies aglow on one side and casting black shadows behind. The two of them danced hand-to-hand and smile-to-smile. Paula led their stilted happy waltz to the edge of the crowd. A young man asked to cut in. Paula didn’t turn her eyes from Uncle Tim, loudly saying, “Nope.”

  The two of them circled slowly, retreating from the courtyard, moving through a concrete hallway with ice and vending machines, music resounding off the walls. Paula led their dance out onto the lawn surrounded by the patio lights. No sooner had they had reached the center of the lawn, the sprinklers came on forming silver semi-circular domes. Uncle Tim and Paula continued their dance, eye-to-eye. Their clothing was jetted. Paula laughed and wiped water from Uncle Tim’s cheek. Her hand was warm. He leaned to her for a kiss.

  “We’re miles from that,” she said, her gaze steady, her smile not faltering.

  Uncle Tim turned her hand from his cheek and kissed her palm.

  She asked, “Where is Karen’s mom?”

  “Heaven.”

  “Heaven? Really? You believe?”

  “Sure. Considering the alternative.”

  “Which is?”

  “Dirt.”

  “Hmm, heaven. I’ll have to daydream on that. Thank you.”

  She stepped closer to him, pressing their damp clothing together. She slowed their dance but didn’t stop; she offered a body-to-body sway.

  The music ended.

  “Your kingdom for a big warm towel,” she whispered.

  “My kingdom? Why not yours?” Uncle Tim wiped his wet face with his damp sleeve.

  “Mine is filled with concepts and themes and furniture. Yours has people. And big towels?”

  “Yes. We have those.”

  Paula used the front of Uncle Tim’s shirt to dry her hands. “Weather has a room booked here, but I’m wondering, can I have another night on the bus?”

  “We do have towels.”

  “Yes.”

  “And a stream of odd people.”

  “True.”

  “So, let’s go.”

  “I can have your room again?”

  “Yes, I’ll take Karen’s or the hall bunk.”

  “Where will she sleep?”

  “If she shows, I’ll move to the cubby bed.”

  They walked hand-in-hand from the sprinklers to the fire. The crowd had thinned, and Paula led them to the edge of the pit. She closed her eyes, her arms extended for warmth. Standing to her side, Uncle Tim watched her. Light from the flames reflected in the water drops on her skin, her neck, and her lovely face. The water dried slowly, her expression calm and far away.

  Sunrise brought a blue warmth to the eastern sky and the low rumble of the RV engine beginning to warm. Uncle Tim woke up when Karen and Emma entered the back bedroom. He got up off the bed, and Karen and Emma climbed into it. He tapped the light switch and closed the door on the two of them laying back-to-back under the covers.

  Israel was at the galley table talking to a woman. Uncle Tim sat on the couch so he could see who she was. The topic was the fan abductions, and Uncle Tim recognized her. Zack, the police officer.

  Israel interrupted her and looked to Uncle Tim, “Espresso. Please?”

  “Me too, please,” she asked.

  “Timmy, you know Officer Zack. Or detective or investigator or—not sure.”

  Uncle Tim climbed from the couch and stepped over before the espresso machine.

  “Just Zack will do,” she said.

  “Okay. Hello, Zack. Sugar? Cream?”

  “Zack’s here to talk with Paula about her report.”

  Uncle Tim poured two cups and started another pot. When he turned with the espressos, Zack had swung around the table and sat beside Israel. She was tapping on the keys of a laptop. There was a binder on the table, and the two of them were looking at photographs in plastic sleeves and a website on the computer. A video was playing.

  Uncle Tim leaned over to watch.

  “Oh,” he whispered.

  The camera appeared to be flying, very slow, as if mounted on a helicopter. The movie was skimming a landscape of gentle hills and valleys. The film quality was high, and the camera work and lighting was professional, cinematic.

  The camera glided up along a round ridge of a calf and across a valley formed by the back of a knee. The terrain was smooth and non-porous from the white paint.

  “It’s not so much painted,” Zack pointed out. “It’s lighter, more like a dusting—I’m thinking airbrush.”

  The slow motion camera crossed a canyon of peach-shaped butt cheeks.

  “We never get the faces,” Zack explained.

  The camera continued on, northward, along a row of spine hills to a spray of mahogany-colored hair.

  “Can you rewind back to the woman’s butt?” Israel asked. “Saw something odd, I think.”

  “No. It’s locked as a film. It’s not like QuickTime or YouTube or other kinds of internet films. We can only start it over.”

  “Please do so,” Israel asked.

  Zack tapped the keyboard twice, once to restart the film and the second to raise the volume.

  The movie restarted with an added soundtrack.

  A violin was being played in a familiar style. The music carried the film over snow-covered hills and plains.

  “There is a second film. Actually, there are five,” Zack said when the movie ended, dissolving into black.

  She started another. This one began at the back of small toes.

  The camera rose to the heels, and Zack’s finger went to the top right corner of the frame. “See that?” she asked.

  “See what?” Israel answered for himself and Uncle Tim.

  “It’s fast. Just a glimpse. Shiny wood. Is it a coffin?”

  “Let’s hope not,” Israel grumbled.

  “Why are we watching these?”’ Uncle Tim asked.

  “Officer—Zack found them.”

  “Is this—are these of the girls that were taken?”

  “Yes. I believe so.”

  “And why are you showing this to Israel?”

  “Killing time. I have an appointment with Ms. Tue.”

  One of the bedroom doors clicked as its lock was opened. Paula looked bedraggled; her clothing was disheveled and sideways, and her shoulders were draped with a blanket from Uncle Tim’s bed.

  “I smell coffee,” a sleepy-eyed Paula whispered.

  “Good morning, Ms. Tue, I’m Zack. We spoke on the phone.”

  “I smell coffee,” Paula repeated.

  “Good morning,” Uncle Tim offered her.

  Paula turned her eyes to him, not saying a word or changing her expression.

  “Right. One second,” Uncle Tim went to the galley.

  Paula looked at Israel, Zack, the laptop, and the open binder. She glanced at the empty bench seat across the table and sat down on the opposite couch.

  Uncle Tim brought Paula a teacup of espresso on a saucer. She accepted both, giving him a downcast eyebrow.

  “Yes, I’m making more.”

  She sipped and closed her eyes. “Thank you.”

  Setting the saucer on the side table, she beckoned Uncle Tim.

  “Sit here,” she asked, glancing at the open spot on the couch. He sat.

  “Closer.”

  Uncle Tim slid closer.

  Zack turned to the two of them.

  “Ms. Tue, do you think you could identify your rear—your body from a movie?”

  “Huh?”

  “I agree,” Israel added.

  “I know my ass, I think. I could try.”

  Zack turned the laptop on the t
able. She killed the current movie and selected a file. Before she touched the movie icon, Uncle Tim said:

  “It’s her.”

  Zack’s finger paused above the keyboard. Both women turned to Uncle Tim.

  “How would you—” Paula started and stopped.

  “Yes. How? I don’t mean to pry into your personal lives—”

  “We don’t have a personal life,” Paula said, speaking over the top of her small cup.

  Uncle Tim pursed his lips in response.

  “Her right butt cheek,” he said.

  “Huh?” Paula repeated.

  “Watch the film during that part.”

  “Okay ...” Zack replied. She tapped the keyboard, and the film began again. The three watched the slow motion landscape of flesh like a shot from an airplane over a white desert. As the aerial camera skimmed the flesh of two pressed thighs, Israel asked, “The right butt cheek, right?”

  Uncle Tim turned away, not replying. Paula turned from the movie to Uncle Tim, back and forth, as the camera crossed the faint crease between leg and rear.

  “It is a beautiful rear. So it might be mine…” Paula said.

  “Look for gold,” Uncle Tim instructed.

  “Gold?” Zack asked, leaning closer to the monitor.

  “There? I think—Timmy?” Israel placed his finger on the screen where the right butt cheek was just off center in the frame.

  “Maybe. Is that it?” Zack said, staring at the spot above Israel’s fingernail.

  “There’s no way to stop the film?” Israel asked.

  “Must be,” Zack said. “Well, maybe. I don’t know how.”

  “Let me call Weather,” Paula suggested in sad voice. “Can I borrow a phone?”

  Israel handed her his cell, and she dialed from memory and tapped the speaker icon.

  “It’s Weather,” they heard.

  “Hi, you.”

  “Hey, Paula. Good morning?”

  “Mmm, No. Have a tech question.”

  “Gladly. Shoot.”

  “Want to do a screen capture on a laptop.”

  Weather told her what keys to hit.

  Paula did so. “Okay. And?”

  “And?”

  “Love ...”

  “Right. Go to Photos, and it’ll be there.”