Sutherland

by Karen Trailor Thomas

  “Eighteen.”

  “Sure.”

  “I am. I graduated last month from Malvern High.”

  He was shaking his head. “Sixteen’s my guess and cherry still ripe.”

  “Wrong!” Soon as she said it, she wished she hadn’t.

  “So you’re fucking the farm boys?”

  “I do what I want when I want.”

  “So do I. And you know, you’re the best-looking thing I’ve seen in a long time. I think we could have us one wild weekend and hey, I can always come back up. It’s not a bad ride if it’s worth my while.”

  Jennalee inched toward the motorcycle and ran her fingers over the handlebar. When she leaned in to kiss him, he met her open-mouthed, tongue probing, and reached under her T-shirt to capture a breast, thumb against the hard little nipple.

  He kissed better than any of the boys, better even than Howard, and she leaned farther, resting a hand on the gas tank and then his thigh. He pulled her shirt up and then was at a breast, licking and sucking as his hand reached under her skirt and drove up between her legs. She had a moment’s concern at this juncture, some point-of-no-return line, never mind what all she’d done before because this guy was man instead of boy and what she would be doing with him would be different from anything she did with a Malvern boy no matter how similar the organ.

  He had a finger inside her, then two fingers, thumb pressing rhythmically at her center, sweeping away all concern, and she spread herself to him and pushed against his hand until he drew back and said, “Let’s fuck.”

  He pulled her panties off his penis, but before he could assist Jennalee on board for her ride, she said, “Condom.”

  “Oh, come on. You’re spoiling things.”

  “Sorry, it’s the only way I’ll do it. Suit up.” Jennalee suddenly felt herself gaining the upper hand, her demand one of power.

  Garth huffed, then reached in his pocket for the packet. In seconds he had expertly applied protection. “Now,” he said, edge to his voice.

  She shuddered as he lifted her onto him and slid up inside her. His hands were around her waist and he began to rock her back onto the gas tank, thrusting slowly, then speedily until a “shit yeah” erupted and he slammed into her, setting the bike teetering on its center stand. “God, what a piece,” he said as he quieted, then, “You get off or what?”

  Jennalee couldn’t speak. Heat had seared her throat shut and she shifted on the still hard member, aching for release. “No?” Garth said. “Well, we can fix that.” He pushed her off him, discarded the rubber, and eased her back until she lay prone along the seat and gas tank. “Put your feet up here,” he instructed, settling her boots against the engine. He then lifted her skirt to view where he’d just been. “Look at you, all swollen and juicy,” he said and he slid off the bike, bent over her, and began to work her with an expert tongue.

  No boy had ever done this and she watched at first. He caught her at this, raising his eyes as he licked. She held his gaze until he had her near the summit and as he took her over, she lay back and pushed up at him. When he finally pulled away, she saw her juices smeared across his mouth and he leaned down and kissed her, ramming his tongue into her, chasing her own. She rolled with revulsion at her own taste.

  Easing off the bike, she smoothed her skirt and thought they were done, but his jeans were still open, clinging to his narrow hips while allowing a renewed erection full play. “Now me,” he said with a slow thrust and when Jennalee hesitated, he added, “C’mon, suck me off,” and pushed her down. She kneeled as she had with Jimmy what’s-his-name and took the member into her mouth.

  But he wasn’t like Jimmy or Howard or any of them, he didn’t wait for her but pressed his palms over her ears and began a choking thrust, calling out “tighter” as she curled her tongue to trap him while shielding her teeth. “Fuck it,” he called as he shot a stream into her throat and commanded, “Swallow,” while driving into her, adding “Every fucking drop.”

  Jennalee gagged until he withdrew. “Christ, can’t you even handle a little deep throat?” he said, laughing. “Guys around here must have pigeon dicks.”

  Jennalee was coughing as Garth zipped his jeans with finality. He climbed onto the motorcycle and hit the starter. “C’mon, you’re not gonna die. Just swallow.”

  She wanted to spit, but was afraid to and finally did as told. “It’s good for you,” he said. “Pure protein. C’mon.” He revved the engine and Jennalee climbed on, noting as they rode away her pink panties lying in the dry yellow grass.

  He didn’t kiss her goodbye. When she climbed off the motorcycle in front of his room and he asked what she was doing later, she had no answer. “How about a late one?” he asked. “You ever fuck in a pool?” When she didn’t respond, he laughed. “You know where to find me.” He stood outside his door as she walked away and she felt his eyes upon her as her residue slid down her leg.

  * * * *

  By five P.M., Sutherlands were deserting the Malvern Gardens Inn for nearby restaurants. The resort had no formal dining room or coffee shop, only the catered continental breakfast each morning in the lobby. The town of Malvern boasted several restaurants featuring upscale California cuisine as well as some home cooking, plus a newly opened McDonald’s and, of course, the Dunkin Donuts Jennalee knew so well. Gerald and Jane Preece took their own brief meal during this interlude.

  “Why isn’t Jennalee eating?” Gerald asked. “And where did she get to this afternoon? We could have used her help. Doesn’t she realize this is a team effort?”

  Jane had seen her daughter’s return as the motorcycle passed the pool area where she was blowing up inflatable toys with Kyle Sutherland, who had cornered her and led her to the shed where they were stored. When Jane encountered Jennalee in her room some time later, the girl’s hair was still wet from a shower. “It’s so hot,” Jennalee said. “I was sticky all over.”

  Jane hesitated, conscious of her daughter’s ever prickly nature. “I saw you on the motorcycle,” she said as offhandedly as possible, picking up a lanky stuffed rabbit, smoothing its worn fur. “It looked like fun.”

  “It was.”

  “What’s the boy’s name?”

  “Garth Laidlaw.”

  Jane nodded but didn’t inquire further. The name had come on a familiar tone and she knew pressing for more would only irritate her daughter. “Must be quite a thrill. The motorcycle, I mean.”

  Jennalee nodded and ran a brush through her hair. She hadn’t said she would miss dinner, but when she didn’t show, Jane wasn’t surprised and fabricated on both her daughter’s and her husband’s behalf. “She had something earlier in town with friends,” she told Gerald.

  “Why doesn’t she bring anyone out here?” Gerald asked.

  Jane simply sighed and ate her salmon, knowing Sutherlands would soon be drifting back to pester and inquire. And when she was back at the desk facing them, she couldn’t help thinking of Garth Laidlaw, who she guessed to be at least twenty-five.

  Jennalee remained in her room among her stuffed animals until tears at last erupted. She fought them down by taking her phone to the bathroom, locking the door, and calling Howard Li. She’d texted him like mad when she first arrived in Malvern and he’d texted back, sharing the agony of separation, but after several months the texts had thinned, then stopped. After his failure to answer several, Jennalee retreated, but all bets were off now. She needed him.

  When all she got was his voicemail, she couldn’t manage to speak. Instead she ended the call and tossed the phone onto the bed. She selected baggy white slacks, a red tank top, and blue cotton panties—the underwear decision had been rescinded—all this to lie on her bed and stare at the ceiling. She remained there until long after dark when she heard her parents settle in for the night. She then slipped out and sat by the pool until she heard the thin trill of a violin, the slow movement of the Kreutzer drifting by on a faint breeze.

  Chapter 4

  Anyone else would have stumbled i
n the darkness, but Jennalee climbed the bluff like an antelope, leaping when the Kreutzer’s finale began. She knew the sonata well; she and Mr. Mendel had spent much of her final year on it, and her fingers fluttered in recognition. She ran toward the summit and hopped up onto level ground, where moonlight illuminated the area like a city street corner.

  He was back near the oak, face in shadow, but she recognized the hair and the white vest which lost its pinstripe to the dark. She didn’t intrude, but waited near the edge and, when he’d completed the rousing presto, she applauded. “Do you know the Spring, too?” she asked as she crept forward.

  He didn’t answer right away but stood there, violin in one hand, bow in the other. “Yeah,” he finally said. “Do you?”

  “Piano. We had it down…” She began to cry and he slipped his instrument and bow into the open case, then came to her.

  “I like the Kreutzer better,” he offered. “Do you know it?”

  Jennalee nodded and cried all the harder, hands traveling from eyes to nose to mouth as she fought the onslaught. Harley handed her a rumpled handkerchief. “Let it go,” he said as he guided her to the bluff’s edge and sat her down beside him. They remained silent until Jennalee ran dry.

  “I hope the Kreutzer didn’t do that,” he said.

  She smiled. “Some. It was so moving. I heard it down below and couldn’t believe my ears. It came down the hill like some prayer.”

  “I think God might be pissed at the analogy, but thanks.”

  Jennalee sniffed and blew her nose.

  “Harley Laidlaw,” he said, extending a hand.

  “Lee Preece.”

  “So there’s a piano down there now?” Harley asked, holding onto her hand.

  “In the Oak Room where you have your big dinner or whatever. My folks put it in for me.”

  “Our whatever. How long have you been playing?”

  “Since I was four.”

  “And now you’re…”

  “Eighteen. How about you?”

  “Piano at three, fiddle at five.”

  “And now?’

  “Nineteen.”

  “You’re really good.”

  “I’ll bet you are, too.” He squeezed her fingers and got up. When she stirred, he told her to stay put, and behind her began to play something she didn’t recognize, a slow piece that wrapped around her and made her cry all over again. “Elgar,” Harley said from the shadows and she asked for more.

  “More Elgar,” he said and continued while Jennalee stretched out, shut her eyes, and let her fingers play over the dry grass.

  “You better not be asleep,” Harley said when he finally sat beside her, concert over. She opened her eyes to his profile, sharp features lost to the cockscomb hair.

  “Floating,” she murmured and he stretched out next to her. “I can still hear it,” she said, “that first Elgar.”

  “Salut d’Amour.”

  “And that other one?”

  “Canto Popolare.”

  “You don’t know which one I mean.”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “I should get back,” Jennalee said, sitting up. “It must be really late and my dad would shit if he knew I was up here.” When Harley said nothing, she asked, “Are you planning to stay up here all night?”

  “Probably.”

  “You share a room with Garth, don’t you?”

  After a pause, Harley offered, “He’s an asshole, you know.”

  “Yeah,” she managed and she sat for some time looking down at the inn and the lights that dotted the winding path. She pictured Garth in the pool ramming himself into one of the inflatable toys. “I should go,” she said.

  “See ya.”

  I should, she told herself, but instead she sank back onto the grass and closed her eyes. “I should,” she repeated before falling asleep next to Harley Laidlaw.

  Vivaldi split the dawn and Jennalee opened her eyes and smiled as she thought the maestro might if he happened to be looking down onto this impudent protégé. Harley was grinning when she sat up, but it wasn’t his look that told her he loved this music, it was the music itself, high notes so pure and clear, lower registers so full they ached. She swam between the two as bow darted and fingers skated and she decided this was possibly the best start to a day she’d ever experienced.

  The bluff was bathed in that early heat that still holds a measure of night, a residual cool on the ground that chilled Jennalee’s backside. The oak’s shadow stretched over the bluff, speckling everything, including Harley as he brought the piece to a thrilling conclusion. “What was that?” Jennalee asked. “It’s gotta be Vivaldi, but which piece?”

  “Sonata No. 2.”

  “What a way to wake up!”

  “I hope the others share your enthusiasm.”

  She almost replied, “Fuck them.” She would have if Jimmy what’s-his-name had been talking to her or any of the Malvern boys or even Garth Laidlaw, but it didn’t fit to say it to Harley, never mind how he looked. She was discovering appearance had little to do with him and yet she was starting to find that very thing appealing. “More,” she urged, and he nodded and took off on another baroque whirl.

  “Think they’re all awake?” he asked later when he sat beside her. He kept the violin with him, and when Jennalee reached tentatively toward it, he handed it to her.

  “I don’t play,” she said, but still she put the instrument to her chin and squeezed the neck. “It’s the only thing I have against piano, the distance. Sometimes I want to crawl inside and pluck the strings.” With her right hand, she stroked the G. “It must feel wonderful,” she said, “vibrations coming right up under your fingertips.”

  She found him staring at her. “That’s what I like best,” he said. “The piano was this huge beast and it pretty much overwhelmed me, but that first little violin…” He laughed softly. “We called it the Lundstrom because this guy, Fred Lundstrom, pawned it and never came back. What kind of parent pawns his kid’s violin? My mom had already seen piano wasn’t going to fly with me so she brings this thing home and I start squeaking and scratching on it and it felt so good. It still does; it’s never changed except I’ve gotten past the squeaking and scratching.”

  “It came from a pawn shop?”

  Harley nodded and she handed him back his violin. “The family business,” he explained as he rested the fiddle on his knee. “Grandpa Laidlaw started it back in the forties and my dad got it when he died, but Mom really runs it. Dad’s pretty much what you see.”

  “Is your mom a musician?”

  “She was. Her grandfather Adair was a pianist, but her dad didn’t follow and then she came along, the new family hope, this little keyboard genius, but she met Earl Laidlaw and that pretty much did her in.”

  Jennalee said nothing. She watched his playfulness fade. “She’s really good,” Harley continued, “but she got pregnant with Garth and they got married with all hell breaking loose because a Sutherland had broken ranks and her dad was ready to kill and then gradually I guess it all settled down and Garth was there and life goes on.”

  “How come you’re the musician and not him?”

  “Dad claimed him, practically cloned him. You’ve seen the result.”

  “Then you came along.”

  “Three years later, yeah, and Mom was ready this time. She offered Dad a deal he couldn’t refuse.”

  “Deal?”

  He was smiling now; she felt him relax again. “Harley Laidlaw. Think about it.”

  “Then you are named after the bike.”

  He nodded. “Dad wanted it the first time around and she said no way, but this time she knew it was the only card she had to play. He could name me Harley if he allowed her to teach me music.”

  Jennalee laughed, then caught herself. “Sorry, it’s not funny.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “So is your middle name Davidson?”

  “No. There are limits. It’s Adair, after Great Grandad.”

 
; “What a saga.”

  He sighed, got up, and put the violin into its case. “Won’t they be looking for you?” he asked.

  Jennalee hated the intrusion. It seemed that was all her parents did anymore, but she saw Harley’s genuine concern and conceded. “Probably. You hungry?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Then let’s get something to eat.”

  Sutherlands had taken their coffee and rolls outside to settle at assorted tables and chairs scattered in clusters on the large patio immediately behind the main building. Several nodded to Harley, but none spoke. “They love us,” he told Jennalee as they reached the lobby.

  Gerald Preece was deep in conversation with a tall, white-haired woman who flapped her arms as she gestured. She wore a sleeveless aqua jumpsuit with silver belt, silver sandals, and silver hair that looked to Jennalee like a hard hat. Jennalee was glad her father’s attention was diverted, but found her mother’s much the opposite, drilling her as she charged through Sutherland circles. “I want to talk to you, young lady!” She reached for her daughter, but Jennalee whirled and came to rest behind Harley.

  “Mother, this is Harley Laidlaw. Harley, my mother, Jane Preece.”

  “Mrs. Preece, it’s a pleasure.” He held out a hand and Jane took it, then quickly let go.

  “That was Harley playing this morning up on the bluff. You heard, didn’t you? Wasn’t it great?”

  Jane Preece was derailed exactly as her daughter intended, staring first at Harley’s hair, then his earring, then his shoes—black and white wingtips. “Harley,” she said tentatively, “yes, beautiful music, but Lee has some responsibilities she needs to attend to so—”

  “Can’t I even eat?” Jennalee whined so loudly heads turned. “I’m starving!”

  Jane’s jaw went rigid. “All right, but then I’ve got things for you to do.”

  Jennalee nudged Harley’s lower back. “C’mon,” she whispered as her mother strode to the desk.