Sutherland

by Karen Trailor Thomas

  “Like what?”

  “Well, two years ago, Alden beat hell out of Russell for some reason nobody but them knows.”

  “Russell? Is he here?”

  “Nope. Never came back again. Left on a stretcher, broken jaw, ribs. You don’t cross Alden Sutherland.”

  “Wow. What else?”

  “You name it. You get over a hundred relatives together every year, you’re going to have problems. It’s like Thanksgiving dinner times ten. Somebody gets drunk and says the wrong thing. Stuff from last year flares up like that fire might. Sometimes I think they warm up on the drive here, poking at wounds from last year or even the year before or five years, ten, who knows. And yet, if you count how many flare-ups there have been, the percentage is relatively low.”

  “I never thought of it like that. We have a small family, tiny actually, both my parents only children so forget aunts, uncles, or cousins.”

  “When I was little,” Harley continued, “five or six, three women got into it, yelling at brunch, husbands trying to quiet them. Food was thrown and one lady was dragged out by her husband. Then other people got into it because they disrupted the meal so arguments were all over the place. My mom had to pry us out of there. We thought it was fun.”

  “Your mom is great. It’s hard to believe she’s a Sutherland.”

  “That’s what she says.”

  When their Cokes were gone and Jennalee started feeling sleepy, the fire engine made ready to leave. What seemed to be miles of hose was folded back into the truck while assorted axes and other equipment were tucked into appointed compartments. The men then climbed aboard, all except one.

  “They’re leaving a guy,” Jennalee said, now fully awake.

  “Hot spots,” said Harley as the fire engine drove away.

  The fireman who now manned one of Wesley’s garden hoses made the rounds of the four rooms. “He looks beat,” Harley said.

  “Be right back,” Jennalee replied as she jumped up. She ran around to the Coke machine, bought one, and when the fireman had finished checking the rooms, she took it to him. “Can you take a break?” she asked as she handed him the Coke.

  “You bet. Thanks.”

  He wouldn’t join them so they joined him instead at Building Eight. “Do you have to stay all night?” Jennalee asked.

  “I do. It’s part of the job. You don’t want a flare-up.”

  “So are you from around here?” Jennalee asked him.

  “No. I grew up in Visalia, became a firefighter in Fresno, and when a job opened up here, I jumped on it. It’s great country. My wife and kids love it. My daughter wants a pony and we’ve got room for one.”

  He didn’t look even thirty to Jennalee. So much already lived. She wished she was his age because then she’d be somewhere. “I hate being a kid,” she said. “Everybody says eighteen is this great time in your life. What a crock.”

  The fireman smiled. “When you’re forty, you’ll probably be saying the same thing.”

  “Forty? Don’t even go there.”

  The fireman finished his Coke and said he had to get back to work. He then disappeared behind the building, so Harley and Jennalee went back to their lawn chairs. “Forty,” Jennalee said as she flopped into hers. “That’s mean.”

  “It’s not like you won’t get there,” Harley said.

  “I know, but jeez, it’s a lifetime away.”

  “You crack me up,” said Harley.

  Once her Coke was finished, Jennalee began to drowse. It felt wonderful to slip toward sleep here with Harley, but she didn’t want that yet, however good it felt, so she straightened up and asked him a question.

  “How come you’re not all sad about the breakup with Carroll? Or mad. I’d be a wreck if my heart was broken.”

  “Mom told me once that life is learning the hard way. I think that’s what I’m doing. Hurts like hell, but the lesson sure sticks.”

  “What lesson?”

  He shrugged. “People can be shitty. Don’t give your heart too easily. Approach love with caution. Take your pick.”

  This was a lot to take in and Jennalee took time to digest it all. After a bit, Harley spoke again. “The irony of the situation is Carroll and I shared music along with everything else. At first I thought I’d never play again, but I missed it. Music rescued me. It means even more now and there’s another lesson: rewards don’t have to come from people. You can make them all by yourself.”

  “I used to live in my music,” Jennalee said, recalling her San Francisco days and Mr. Mendel. “I used to play for my boyfriend sometimes. His name was Howard Li. He’s Chinese-American, really cute, and I totally loved him. He was my first, you know? He was so sweet and caring. We had such a good thing going until my dad found out. I think he was on the fence about moving out here and that pushed him over.”

  “Are you still in touch with Howard?” asked Harley.

  “I was for the first few months, calls, texts, you name it. We were both wrecks, but gradually that all got less and less and then nothing. My friends, too. It all fell away because I wasn’t there to keep it alive. It’s been hell.”

  “I wouldn’t call this place hell.”

  “Okay, it’s plush, I know that, but you know what I mean. Emotional hell.”

  “Oh, yeah, that.”

  This comment did as intended, made her woes seem small. “I sound dumb, don’t I?”

  “You sound like a kid. Another thing Mom says to do is look past yourself. Best advice I ever got.”

  “I did that,” replied Jennalee. “And I saw you.”

  The fireman was back around front now, working his way through the rooms again. They watched him in silence until Jennalee said she felt like hitting the sack. “Not necessarily to sleep. Laying down is what sounds good.”

  “Okay, let’s head for camp.”

  Once stretched out atop their sleeping bags because it was too warm to get inside them, never mind the fact that the parents had, Jennalee fought the sleep that nudged her. “I don’t want to go to sleep,” she whispered to Harley, “because I don’t want the day to end.”

  “We’ll have all morning,” he said. “We never leave until afternoon. And I’m beat so let’s quit fighting it. Night.”

  “Night.”

  * * * *

  Morning for Jennalee came with Bach and it took her a second to decide she was awake and another to realize it was Harley up on the bluff. She sat up to find Lizann sitting on her sleeping bag, listening as she sipped coffee. Earl wasn’t in sight.

  “Sleepy head,” Lizann said. “It’s nearly eight.”

  Jennalee was dealing with morning grunge in her mouth, sleepy bits in her eyes, and the certainty her short hair must be totally haystack. Lizann handed her the coffee and she took a sip, the hot and bitter liquid snapping her to attention. She recognized the cup as one from the continental breakfast. She didn’t really like coffee, but took a second sip to rouse herself. Settled somewhat, she glanced at Lizann, who bore a faint smile as she listened to her son’s violin.

  “I know it’s Bach,” said Jennalee, “but not which piece.”

  “It’s the chaccone from the Partita No. 2 for solo violin. It’s his favorite, one of the longest movements, fifteen minutes. Harley says it’s Bach at his best, everything a violin can do in one movement. I agree.”

  Jennalee shut her eyes so she could enter the music and found both haunting strains and lively ones. Bach did so much in minor keys, challenging you, waking you up. This was perfect early morning music. “I love it.”

  “Me, too,” replied Lizann.

  A minute more, then Jennalee realized she wanted to be up on the bluff, not down below, so she excused herself, telling Lizann she’d collect her sleeping bag later, and ran to her living quarters. There she found Jane, Gerald, Marian, Bob, and Clifford at the breakfast table, chattering away as if they were one big family.

  “Just passing through,” Jennalee said. “I’m going up on the bluff to listen to Ha
rley practice. He’s incredible.” She didn’t wait for comment, just raced to her room where she changed into an apple green T-shirt, white shorts, and sandals because it was already warming outside, then addressed her haystack hair, which wasn’t really so bad. A few brush strokes and she was presentable.

  She splashed water on her face, brushed her teeth, and would have sailed out again had not Jane stopped her. “Don’t you want to eat something?” she asked.

  “Not right now, but I am thirsty.” She detoured to the kitchen for a Coke and ran past them again. “See you later,” she called as she went out the door.

  She felt like a deer running and leaping up the trail to the bluff. The chaccone was still in progress. She could tell, even though she’d missed a bunch, because what she heard now fit with what she’d heard before. Bach was consistent even as he did it all.

  When she reached the bluff, she stopped to take in the scene. Harley, still in his blue shirt and jeans from the night before, had his back to the sun and to her. She wished she could see his face, but he was at the bluff’s edge, raining music down into the little valley. She thought Bach would have appreciated the scene.

  As usual when he played, Harley was a study of motion, but how could he not be with what was coming out of his violin? He leaned and swayed, almost jumped when the music took off, then seemed fluid when it quieted. Jennalee sat against the big oak, drew her knees up, and wrapped her arms around them. She felt herself in heaven.

  When Harley finally struck the final notes and quiet descended, he lowered the violin to his side and simply stood, looking skyward rather than down at the inn. Jennalee got this. Music was great that way, letting you soar until, when it was over, you had to take a minute to land. She waited and he finally turned. “Hey,” he said with a big smile.

  “You snuck away,” she said.

  “I wanted to wake you to music.”

  “Aw, that is so sweet. And it was great. Your mom was sitting and listening, and I joined her. It was nice. She said that movement is your favorite Bach.”

  “She’s right. Don’t you think it’s something?”

  “I do. It’s amazing and you played it beautifully.”

  He bowed, then came and sat beside her. “How’d you sleep?”

  “Good, I guess. I don’t think I moved all night. Just woke up and, oh yeah, I’m outside. That was a kick. Want a sip?” she asked, offering the Coke. He took it, drank, and handed it back.

  “I’m going to miss this spot,” he said. “It’s probably the best place ever to practice.”

  “Where do you practice at home?”

  He chuckled. “My room, the garage, back room at the pawn shop. Wherever I can. I keep the violin with me pretty much all the time. Once while I was working at the shop, I got to thinking about a Bach sonata and couldn’t wait to get out of there, but I didn’t want to play inside so I went to this park, got as far away from people as possible, and played. Pretty soon people were coming over to listen. After that, I played there whenever I wanted to escape.”

  “That’s what’s so great about the violin. It’s portable.”

  “You’ve got your keyboard.”

  “Yeah, but it’s a lot heavier than a violin, enough so I don’t want to drag it around anywhere. No, you’ve got the best of it.”

  After a few more minutes, he got up. “Back to work.”

  “What are you going to play?”

  “I’m in a Bach mood today so I’ll do his Sonata No. 1, all four movements.”

  “Let the concert begin.” She now sat cross-legged, leaning forward, an audience of one.

  It started out sort of haunting, then broke free in the second movement, sounding like two violins instead of one. Jennalee had heard something similar from Mr. Mendel when he went kind of nuts with his violin. Exhilarated, she imagined herself transported to a German mountaintop far from a bluff in Malvern. She was high in the clouds when the movement ended, the third one quiet, almost soothing, before the fourth cut loose. Her mouth dropped open as she watched Harley’s fingers fly for he played to her now, not to the sky. The movement was insanely quick, Harley bending and turning, and she felt herself pulled in, felt herself quicken in the most wonderful way. When he hit the final notes, she felt out of breath.

  “Wow,” she said as he came to her. “I love that last movement.”

  “The presto. That says it, right? He lulls you with that third movement, then slaps you awake with the fourth. You can never get tired with Bach.”

  She offered him the Coke again and, as he drank, she told him how she too liked to play complex pieces, enjoying that quickening. “Do you think that’s what Bach meant to happen? The violinist getting all excited, the listener slapped to attention and carried away?”

  “Absolutely. I think composers think as much about the performer as the audience, if they think of them at all. Like Beethoven. I doubt he thought of anyone but himself but who cares? Bach may have been a bit more cerebral. I mean he was an employee so he had to consider what was wanted, but still, I bet he wanted to give the violinist some sort of kick. I think Liszt did that with the piano, going kind of crazy because he thought it fun.”

  “Chopin did it, too,” said Jennalee.

  “He did? I thought he was all thoughtful pieces.”

  “You should hear his Scherzo No. 1. It’s insane. I love it.”

  “Well, what do you know. I had no idea, but then I’m not big on Chopin.”

  She took back the Coke, nearly empty now, and had a sip. “I like this,” she then said. “Us up here, away from the world, us and music. I could live in music.”

  “Me, too.”

  After another deliciously quiet interlude, Jennalee asked him to play another.

  “Okay, I’ll do the presto from the Partita No. 1.” He hopped up, moved to the bluff’s edge which Jennalee realized resembled a stage of sorts, nature’s stage, yellow grass at his feet, blue sky the backdrop. When he began the presto, Jennalee started laughing because it was another wild one. She loved Harley’s expression as he played, mouth clamped shut one second, then open another, smiling still another, all as he twisted and turned with the music. She was glad she hadn’t brought her keyboard, as it would have been an intrusion.

  When he finished this one, he blew out a big sigh and sat beside her, leaning against the oak. Finally he said, “We should go back down.”

  “No, not yet, please. I don’t want people, I just want us, up here in our own world.”

  “But I’m hungry. My stomach has growled through the last two pieces. Aren’t you hungry?”

  Jennalee had to think about it. “I guess,” she said, but really she didn’t have a growling stomach or growling anything. Her body felt absolutely serene. “It just means people and you know how they are.”

  He chuckled, tousled her hair, and got up. “Come on,” he said, offering a hand to pull her to her feet. He then packed his violin into its case, slung it onto his back, and said, “Let’s go.”

  “You know I don’t want to.”

  “Yes, I know you don’t want to, but we have no choice. It’s getaway day and I’m hungry.”

  They headed for the lobby, where they found breakfast remnants, it now being mid-morning. A few Sutherlands were present. She and Harley each managed a roll, some fruit, and a glass of juice. They settled at a small corner table and ate without a word. “What next?” Jennalee finally asked. “You said your folks don’t leave right away.”

  “Right. They’ll move the motorcycles out to the front and hang around while the Sutherlands leave. Mom likes to remind them of the biker side every chance she gets.”

  “She cracks me up.”

  “Me, too.”

  As they continued breakfast, Jennalee thought of something that made her giggle.

  “What?” asked Harley.

  “I can now say I slept with you.”

  He shook his head. “I hate how that means sex, don’t you?”

  “What?”

/>   “Sleeping with somebody means sex.”

  “I never thought about it.”

  “Well, you should. What does it say about society when it picks the most passive word possible as a euphemism for one of the most active pursuits?”

  Jennalee pondered this. “Maybe they’re afraid people will say fucking.”

  “Even if they are, sex isn’t a loaded word.”

  “It is to some people,” Jennalee offered. “My dad about turns green if I say it.”

  “He should be happy you’re not saying fucking.”

  “I’ve thought about it, but he has a weak heart. He’d croak if I even said sleeping with somebody.”

  “Then don’t. Don’t go up to him tomorrow and say you slept with me.”

  “Deal.”

  After breakfast, as they started out, they each picked up a bottle of orange juice. Jennalee took a third. “For that fireman,” she said, and they walked over to Building Eight.

  “Don’t you get to go home?” Jennalee asked him as he took the juice with thanks.

  “My replacement will be here soon. I’m used to long hours.”

  “Any sparks?” asked Harley.

  “Couple. That first unit won’t quit. I don’t see how that guy survived it without burns.”

  “They said he was in the bathtub, in the water, I guess,” offered Jennalee.

  “Good thinking.”

  They walked down the row of rooms, peeking into the last one, Harley’s. It reeked of smoke. Everything was intact though wet, and he found his pinstriped vest, his orange shirt, his white dinner jacket. “I think cleaners can get the smell out,” he said. He then began to gather any clothing he found, piling some into Jennalee’s arms, and the two took it to the campsite by Building Seven where the Laidlaw motorcycles and little trailer remained. He piled it all onto the trailer. “They must be at breakfast or something,” Harley said.

  But the Laidlaws weren’t at breakfast. Jane had fetched them with an offer to use her bathroom to wash up, since theirs wasn’t available. So the crowd in the living quarters had grown. Gerald had finally stepped out to man the desk and tend to departing guests. He’d told Jane he couldn’t wait to get every last Sutherland out of the place.