Where's Karen

by Greg Jolley

Karen swirled away. She took up her dobro and rejoined the song and its unveiling story.

  Paula watched all while she danced in Uncle Tim’s arms. The band expanded the song outward and wide across the stage. When Karen’s dobro began to solo with strong and sure notes, Paula hesitantly and slowly rested her head on Uncle Tim’s chest.

  The bells over the front door of the opera house tinkled.

  Brian had closed up the maintenance office and left with a list of client addresses, so Uncle Tim headed up front. He entered the lobby and was chagrinned; he recognized the client, but he had forgotten their appointment. She stood in front of the snack bar, a lovely woman in her thirties, elegantly dressed, her eyes turning from the menu to Uncle Tim. They greeted one another warmly, and she sat down on a lobby couch while Uncle Tim went upstairs to get his folio from the office.

  He returned, sat down beside her, and opened the latest drawings. They chatted quietly while looking over the changes to the river pool. She liked the revised layout, but had a new list of requirements and ideas for additional rooms and outdoor islands. Uncle Tim accepted the revisions and agreed to work them in. He offered her water or espresso. She looked across the lobby to the snack bar menu and asked, “Can I have box of Rolos?”

  “Of course. Be right back.” Uncle Tim went behind the snack bar, opened a new case of Rolos, and got her a fresh tube.

  “I’m pleased with the overall design. And the candy,” she said to the drawings. “I do wish I could see the house clearly,” she lamented.

  They shared a friendly frown.

  “I know a designer,” he said, looking at the stairs to the theatre. “She is creative. And daring. Brave, I think.”

  “A designer? Not an architect?”

  “I’m not sure. Does that matter at this point in the design?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “She’s seen the river and what I have of the house. She had some interesting and odd ideas. Well, not odd, but ...”

  “Oh?”

  Uncle Tim smiled and nodded.

  “Stylishly odd? Not whimsical or childish?”

  “Seems her work is more meaningfully odd. Well-thought-out odd.”

  “I like that. Set it up. Any night this week.”

  The client rose from the couch and Uncle Tim walked her out to her car. When he reentered, he extinguished the sidewalk and foyer lights and headed upstairs.

  Paula met him on the landing.

  “Can I sleep here?” she asked.

  “Of course. There are spare rooms on the third story.”

  She smiled lightly, her gaze steady, no blinks. “Where’s your bedroom? I like stealing those.”

  “My room?” Uncle Tim said thoughtfully, looking to the ceiling. “That’s another story.”

  “Oh. Well. Okay. I was—”

  She paused at the pad of feet behind her. Karen was dancing across the landing with a handful of carrots, one raised to her teeth. She paused long enough to give Uncle Tim a hip bump, shrug her shoulders, and take another bite.

  “Don’t say anything, please. You’ll spew orange,” Uncle Tim warned with a smile.

  Karen opened her mouth wide, displaying chewed carrot on her tongue and teeth. She laughed, coughed, and ran off.

  “Well,” Paula said, watching Karen, “if I can’t steal your room, those on three will do. Where do I go?”

  “Past the kitchen. Karen’s room is at the far end.”

  ‘Okay. And thank you. And none of those rooms are yours?”

  “Right.”

  Paula twisted her lips in a scowl. Her lovely eyes tightened. Then she smiled.

  “Okay. The other story?”

  Uncle Tim looked confused, “I’m sorry?”

  “Your room. The other story, as you said.”

  Uncle Tim changed the subject, “My client is looking for help with the river house. So am I.”

  “Oh?”

  “Are you interested?”

  “Could be. Karen’s new stage design is almost complete, but I can overlap. I do have an arch degree.”

  “Ark?”

  Paula laughed. It was a rare sound, rippling, and warm.

  “Architecture,” she explained. “Left that for stagecraft—it suits my temperament and curiosity more. It’s almost the same—get a concept, then move the boxes around, the squares, oblongs, circles, and fit them together.”

  “She is free this week in the evenings.”

  “I say let’s do it. A river home ...”

  Paula’s intelligent eyes processed, above a fading smile.

  “I’m going to go find a bed on the third story,” she said, the words sounding reflective. She squeezed his arm, her fingers rubbing into his muscle. Then she was gone.

  Paula found the kitchen and as Uncle Tim had said, there were four doors beyond, each with a curtain before it. At the far end of the hall was Karen’s room. She noticed a sheet of music paper tacked to the doorframe with ‘No’ written across the center. Paula pulled the curtain back from the room to her left and saw Emma sleeping in a large bed with many multicolored blankets and all the lights on.

  The room across the hall was filled with musical instruments, a soundboard, and recording equipment in a maze of black baffle panels.

  She opened the curtain to the fourth room to the left of Karen’s. She tapped the light switch and low amber lights warmed the darkness away. There was a sitting area before the alcove bedroom. A sand leather sofa sat before a coffee table covered with flowers in vases. Paula striped her clothes off and lay them across the back of the couch. She untied and removed her shoes and socks and walked to the alcove where a tall and pale wood sleigh bed with many blankets and comforters welcomed her. Since her confusing abduction, sleep was a cherished reprieve from the jaded flickering images and fears.

  UNCLE TIM SAT IN the balcony with his chin on his crossed arms on the railing. The theatre before and below him was calm, warm, and quiet. He gave the view a nod, rubbed the corner of his suddenly sleepy eyes, and stood.

  “Good to be back,” he said, gazing upward at the ceiling. “After so much noise. And the pace and chaos out there.”

  Up on the third floor he paused just inside the brightly lit kitchen. He listened to the silence for a minute and turned the lights off.

  “Fine to be home,” he said. He headed off for bed, parting the curtain before the immensely tall window in the southern wall. And climbing out.

  Paula opened her eyes to faint gray light from the western window. She woke with a start, frightened and confused, uncertain of her location and safety. She lay perfectly still, her body tense until she had her bearings.

  She pulled on all her clothes before leaving the room. She made a pot of espresso noting that the glass carafe was warm from earlier use. While the coffee machine gurgled and brewed, she opened the refrigerator and found a large bowl of freshly sliced fruit. She made herself a small plate and carried it and a mug of espresso back to her room.

  Sitting in the straight-backed chair at the window, she looked out over the parking lot and over the rooftops of cottages that went downhill to the sea. Using her fork for another slice of banana, she watched an old pickup pull into the opera house parking lot. The bed of the truck was filled with five-gallon buckets, hoses, poles, and a rack of plastic bottles.

  When the driver climbed out, she recognized Brian. She watched him walk toward the back of the building and disappear under the window ledge. She took a sip of the strong and warm espresso and ate a few slices of melon and a strawberry, watching the view slowly fill with color and details as the fog melted. She couldn’t see the beach because of the cottages, but the sea and the approaching swells were a rich royal blue. She heard the soft sound of another bedroom door opening and the creaking of the floorboards in the hall.

  Minutes later, Brian reappeared in the parking lot dressed in a wetsuit and carrying a long surfboard. A moment later Karen appeared also in a wetsuit and holding a much smaller board. She recognized
Karen by her wandering gait and her light frame. Karen was holding what looked like a soap bar in her free hand and was sniffing from it. She jogged on light bare feet—bounding, actually—across the parking lot and caught up with Brian. The two left through a wrought iron gate and disappeared from view.

  Paula looked to the ocean. She saw the black silhouettes of surfers dotting the area just beyond where the swells were cresting. She finished her breakfast and sipped from the mug while waiting to see if she could recognize Karen and Brian paddling out to the other surfers.

  There were two knocks on her bedroom door. Paula set her plate and mug on the night table and left the bed. She opened the door, and Uncle Tim was standing in the hall, looking sleepy. He held a tray with a plate of pancakes, fruit, and a single lily in a white vase beside a glass of milk.

  Paula returned his smile and said, “I’ve eaten, but I can again. I raided the kitchen earlier. Thank you. This is lovely.”

  She stepped back, not turning her eyes from his as he entered. “Sit with me. Have you had breakfast?”

  “No, not yet.”

  “Well, there you are.” She looked at the tray in his hands. “Come,” she added and walked to the window in the alcove. She nodded to the bed as she sat down in the chair. Uncle Tim set the tray down and sat beside it.

  “I saw Karen and your nephew go surfing.”

  Uncle Tim frowned. “He’s got a full work schedule today.” Selecting a wedge of watermelon, his frown warmed to a smile. “Karen enjoys surfing with him.”

  “He works here? What does he do?”

  “Brian runs the pool care side of the business. We just started it. Looks to be a nice cash flow that will float us between projects.”

  “Is he any good at it?”

  “Yes. He is. He really knows water.”

  Paula looked out the window to Brian’s truck.

  “Karen leaves for a show today?”

  “Right.”

  “So let them surf and enjoy?”

  “Right. Yes.”

  “You ... You’re a caretaker.”

  She turned to Uncle Tim and looked for his response. She received a nod.

  “…And a builder. It’s a nice mix.”

  Paula leaned over and placed her hand on his Uncle Tim’s chest, restraining him back as she rose slightly and kissed his cheek.

  AT NOON, A BLACK Lincoln Town Car pulled up in front of the opera house. Ross, the driver got out and circled the car briskly, buttoning his black suit coat. When he reached the other side of the automobile, Israel was already climbing out. He returned Israel’s curt smile and opened the trunk before following Israel up the foyer and inside the unlocked front doors.

  The lobby was brightly lit and offered Ross the warm scent of butter. He saw Uncle Tim behind the snack bar using a scoop to fill a round bucket with popcorn. Uncle Tim opened one side of a large wicker picnic basket and carefully lowered the popcorn bucket inside. He then shifted other bags and boxes around inside the basket before adding a box of Dots. Uncle Tim was wearing a gold vest and gold boat hat that matched the gold of the carpet.

  The driver looked away and saw Karen, whom he recognized from magazines and the web. She was sitting on the green velvet couch with another woman.

  “Hello, Ms. Karen,” he offered. He nodded to the other woman.

  The two women looked to be in private and happy conversation. They both nodded to his greeting without looking up. The driver waited a moment, watching the two talking shoulder-to-shoulder while looking over a spill of photographs and documents. Karen’s feet were bare, and the woman wore all black, including her boots.

  “Cop,” Ross whispered.

  “Where’s Emma?” Israel asked, and Uncle Tim behind the snack bar answered, “I think she has the first bedroom.”

  “And how would you know?”

  The driver heard the humor in the question.

  “I did the bedding and her laundry,” Uncle Tim answered.

  “Know what, Timmy? I believe you,” Israel said.

  Ross watched the two men smile to each other. Israel pointed to the suitcases, small trunks, and instrument cases at the base of the stairs.

  “Put the instruments in the middle of the other luggage,” Israel instructed politely.

  Ross carried the trunks out first, surprised by how light they were.

  He eased the instrument cases in between the suitcases and the trunks. Looking up at the marque, he read, Immersion, Inc. and assumed it was the title of a film; one he had never heard of. Back inside, he walked over to Israel and a third woman; a blonde dressed in black with white streaks.

  Israel turned to him. “Ross, this is Emma. She’s Karen’s assistant and travel buddy. Emma, this is Ross, our driver and bodyguard—”

  “Her bodyguard.”

  “Yes. Or guardian angel, if you prefer.”

  Emma reached across and firmly shook Ross’s hand with no expression. She looked him over from his big shoes to his wide shoulders. “Big, strong guardian angel. Good,” she said.

  Uncle Tim rounded the snack bar glass cases with the picnic basket. Ross watched him cross to Karen, who stood up and looked delighted by the basket and Uncle Tim’s attire. She played at adjusting the line of his vest, accepted the basket, and kissed his cheek. Uncle Tim removed a pair of Wayfarer’s from his vest and handed them to Karen, who put them on—the black shades matching the color of her straight falling hair.

  “Shall we?” Israel said firmly, heading for the doors.

  Emma exited first, stepping out into the light of day and holding the door.

  “I should’ve got that,” Ross said, moving quickly, hurrying to get the car doors open.

  Karen came out next with her arm around Uncle Tim and the basket in her free hand. Their heads were close together, and they were whispering. He walked Karen to the rear door and stepped back as she climbed in onto the black leather seat. Emma climbed in beside her, Ross closed the door, circled, and climbed in behind the wheel.

  He started the motor, and Israel climbed in beside him and lowered his window.

  “Two concerts and then we’ll be back in the studio with Wyde,” Israel reminded Uncle Tim. “I’ll call you twice a day—2am and 2pm.”

  Uncle Tim nodded. He looked sad, and the gold hat and vest only made it worse. He offered Israel a brave smile as Israel raised the pane.

  Israel turned to Ross.

  “No rush. There’s no firm schedule. Brothers & Friends sent us, sent Karen, a private jet.”

  Ross steered the car from the sandy curb and up the sleepy main street of the small beach town of Coyote.

  Uncle Tim was working in boots, rust corduroys, and a ratty gray wool sweater. His sketchpad was open on the table to his left with a spill of precise pens and colorful pastel pencils. Before him was the model of the river pool and river house constructed with bisque-colored molds. His hands were moving pieces and parts about, occasionally using his X-Acto blade to shave edges for a better fit, always updating the CAD display with the changes. For the most part, the river mock-up sections fit smoothly.

  Paula stood on the other side of the big table. She was working from his sketchpad with an occasional upside down look at the CAD. She worked with sienna paperboard and clear glue, clear tape, and Uncle Tim’s X-Acto knife. He was constructing the river. She was designing the home.

  From time to time, he went to the snack bar storeroom where his 3D model printer was among the cases of candy, popcorn, and cleaning supplies.

  Occasionally, the two circled the table to review their work from new angles and elevations. The CAD model—their shared canvas—was a scaled-down version of the ten square acres that the residence and water would occupy.

  Where the river ebbed to the lake, she had constructed the sectioned, tiered deck that extended out over the water toward the islands that were in the client’s latest requirements.

  The client’s river home design was taking quick form through the river’s gentle tu
rning coarse. Paula’s architectural expertise and ideas were a gift of breakthrough for Uncle Tim. He was finally seeing the meld of house and water.

  He circled the table keeping his eyes on a spot of concern—a low level turn of plumbing—and nudged Paula lightly, saying, “Excuse me, please.”

  “Can’t.”

  She didn’t step aside—her fingertips were securing an arch that would support the open air dining room.

  “I’m thinking cerulean here,” she said softly. Her expertise with colors and their use was impressive, and Uncle Tim was learning hourly of both the exacting hues she was so comfortable working with and their emotional give and contrast to other shades. “Work around me,” she added.

  Uncle Tim leaned and looked to her creased brow of concentration. Her fixed gaze wasn’t on the arch in her fingertips but across the overall residence.

  He picked up the six-inch-by-six-inch picture frame that she had taught him to use for perspective views. Stepping closer, his chest to her back, he reached his hands and arms around her and raised the viewfinder. His fingers guided his eyes—the angle was wrong, too highly elevated—but he could see that river turn number four was likely to cause an unwanted whirlpool. He looked to the CAD planning to adjust the angle of the upstream flow.

  Paula’s fingertips released the arch.

  Uncle Tim’s fingers tapped and typed on the tablet adding six degrees of angle to the river turn.

  Her head reclined back. Uncle Tim breathed from her neck and her bunted hair. She had set the bunt with his unneeded pastel pencil—the white one. Her lavender scent widened and softened his gaze. Her glue-sticky hand took his and gently brushed and pressed the adhesive into his skin.

  He closed his eyes.

  Paula took his other hand and pulled so that Uncle Tim’s body pressed closer. She raised their hands and crisscrossed them over her chest. She raised her chin and the back of her head rested on his shoulder.

  Their embrace had begun the same way over the past four days of Karen’s hiatus, each time a mystery for Uncle Tim. These moments of tenderness always ended in the same manner—Uncle Tim’s cell began to ring; it was two p.m.