Where's Karen

by Greg Jolley

  He folded the letter and placed it inside his last motel envelope. He addressed this one to his son, Sam, just like the others. At the cash register, he asked the waitress if she could mail them. She agreed and Brian left the diner.

  Rolling up the on ramp, Brian’s mind was calm and clear, and he stretched his big arms and shoulders and smiled to the expressway out beyond the hood.

  A hundred miles later, a movie started, simply titled Karen.

  The film began with her walking down any of the dozens of beaches they had shared. Her tall body moving in its slightly stilted manner—deer like, her arms carried out in front like they were new to her. She raised her white board from the sand with a steady, focused gaze. She regained a grace and fluidity of movements when she entered the water and began to paddle. Out in the line-up, her movements were strong and sure. She caught a shoulder-high wave, rose, and surfed. Her lines were smooth and graceful and changed with what each wave offered her as far as angles and power.

  As the Karen movie continued with her paddling out for another ride, Brian thought of her story, filling in the time until she caught another wave. He knew her mother had died at a young age—a car fire on a one-lane canyon road. He knew that Uncle Tim was not her biological father, but her adopted father. He had been in love with Karen’s mom when she died. He had no idea how music came to her, or when and how she turned to it. In another of Brian’s Karen movies, he saw a child version of her exploring a piano followed by a ukulele. Next were violin lessons that actually took and inspired her. She received a ribbon presented with applause at a holiday event in a gymnasium.

  A variation of the Karen movie began. Karen on that resort balcony, playing to the moon, the stars, and raised cell phones. And to him. Her song filling and waking him, lighting the kindling of his imagination and his heart.

  Another hundred miles rolled by. There were the other films and vignettes. And a soundtrack—the low and long and vibrating musical notes from Karen’s violin. From her fingers.

  At sunset, the current Karen movie ended, and the stage curtain closed. Brian refueled the truck, bought a plastic cup of burnt, bitter coffee, and watched the next film begin a hundred miles down the road. The opening scene: Karen and him, and their extended hands. And her silent gaze to his.

  The owner of the Blue Chair was flushed and anxious, nearly bouncing with pleasure at the attention his restaurant and gallery were receiving. He walked to the podium where a floral display of microphones rose from booms. He held a collection of three-by-five-inch index cards in his hands. He grimaced in response to the bright camera lights, and then promptly smiled, accidentally brushing the index card across a mic head, causing a scratchy introduction to his first words.

  The podium had been Israel’s idea—to add some structure to the press conference—but it was a bad one. After the proprietor greeted the crowd, he started in on a description of the history of the building, clearly delighted to be center stage. Next came stories of the gallery, the restaurant, and the beginning of a list of famous guests from the past. It became clear to Israel that he could talk all night if allowed. He was getting good and wound up. The members of the press, select guests, and fans were soon talking among themselves as the proprietor continued on, smiling, pleased, referencing, and restacking his cards. Israel waved a waiter over, and asked for a double shot of iced Tanqueray be delivered to the owner.

  The group of writers, reporters, and bloggers were restless in their chairs, bumping shoulders, yakking, and opening notebooks and tablets. The fans who were in with the press had their smart phones ready to aim. Israel pulled up his sleeve and frowned at his watch. He pasted a frozen smile on his face and waited for the proprietor to take a drink.

  Finally, the proprietor began his concluding remarks after a deep gulp of gin. He thanked everyone for attending and promised to conclude after one last tale of the night a famous musician, “Unnamed, of course, came into the Blue Chair with an entourage of hookers and a puma.”

  Israel relaxed when he saw Uncle Tim enter from the swinging kitchen doors. He would’ve liked to see Karen beside him, but this indicated she was likely en route. He gestured to his two crew members, and they started to the podium to roll it away.

  The proprietor looked at the crew and then to Israel, shrugged, and accepted what was happening. He left following the podium. Israel walked across the stage to the cluster of mics, nodding once to the owner and taking one of the just-placed chairs. He looked for Karen beside Uncle Tim. She was nowhere to be seen.

  “Good afternoon, all. Karen will be out shortly. It’s kind of you to make time for her.”

  With that, he smiled. He had approved letting the fans in to add a warm, patient buzz to the event; and there they were, mixed in with the press, their faces pleased and expectant. Most of the reporters and photographers looked a bit put out and impatient. Israel looked over their heads. In the back of the room, two film crews had their cameras rolling.

  One of the film crews belonged to a television network that was filming a short, with a feature segment possibly in the works. They had Israel, Uncle Tim, and Karen’s guarded approval. The other film team was rogue and in Israel’s begrudged opinion, they were doing some interesting work: filming their documentary in black and white which often starkly electrified Karen’s stage presence. As he understood their intent, they were playing with the question and working title of ‘Where’s Karen?’ The gangly rogue crew attended most of the Wyde shows and were somehow able to track and record Karen when she disappeared to perform with different bands, artists, and stars. Israel knew that no one within his crew was the source of her itineraries because even he didn’t know where she went half the time. She would vanish briefly and reappear next on YouTube and fan-based Facebook pages.

  What she needs is a professional minder, he thought, not for the first time. Uncle Tim and Emma were trying, but also encouraged her artistic flights. Hire a minder to gently put a grip and handle on the invites, drivers, and pilots. Start by reeling in her MacBook Pro.

  Israel looked at the audience. The usual aged and distracted faces, but also many grinning and smart women and men. He liked the looks of the younger set, those in their twenties, dressed haphazardly, clear-eyed with inquisitive minds engaged with their worlds with quick smarts and humor.

  “Karen and some of her compadres are finishing up the sound check in prep for tonight’s show, which is sold out. While we wait, let me bring you up-to-date on Karen’s new projects. No ink has been spilled, but we’re talking with the Dickey Bett’s organization. The scheduling is a cluster fu— a challenge.

  “Sales of Wyde’s current album, Musical Chairs, are good. There’s a gift pack for each of you that includes their CDs that Karen has signed. Look under your chairs, please.”

  Heads lowered and there was rustling from the paper gift bags. Against the back wall, Uncle Tim smiled as he handed a gift bag to the woman beside him. She opened it and looked as pleased as a child on Christmas morning.

  The photographer to Uncle Tim’s left looked familiar. The guy was studying Uncle Tim, ignoring an offered bag. It’s Handsome Guy from last week’s shows. The Artist? He remembered the guy. Leo? Leonard? Leonardo.

  Israel gave the press and audience two more minutes to open their bags and settle down. There was a percolation of boisterous voices from his left. He turned and grinned—some of the members of Wyde were crashing the party. They were swaggering, bumping against one another, and chatting each other up. Cameras were turning and firing. Israel looked to see if Karen was in tow. Three of the musicians took chairs in among the crowd. Fans looked pleased to be elbow-to-elbow with the famous and infamous. Israel smiled at this unplanned, but common interruption. The musicians were Karen’s buddies and fellow players and, for the most part, also her fans. Jen Clair, Wyde’s multi-instrumentalist, crossed to Israel and put her arm around him. She leaned to the mics, scanned the room, and said:

  “Here we are again. New town. Old questio
n. Where’s Karen?”

  There was knowing applause, and the question repeated about the room. The planned agenda for the press conference was now in tatters but Israel was okay with that. Mix a bowl of creative nuts and ... Israel paused, considering the answer; Let go of it. Just roll. He bumped Jen Clair’s shoulder playfully and spoke into the microphone:

  “Karen will be here momentarily. Thank you for your patience. You should know she’s a bit under the weather and will be conversing with all of you in writing. Karen is fighting laryngitis.”

  There were groans from the audience and a reporter said, “Again?”

  Ignoring that, Israel gestured to a crewmember and a white screen lowered from the ceiling. Another crewmember handed Israel a MacBook Pro. The laptop was open and on, and Israel tapped it one time. Now all the attendees could see the computer screen.

  The door to the right opened and Sej entered. He had a thermos in one hand and Karen’s hand in the other. Sej lowered his head to hers and spoke a few words no one else could hear. Karen nodded and let go of her friend’s hand and crossed to Israel.

  She held an unwrapped white bar of surf wax. She took the chair beside Israel and offered the room one of her semi-famous sideways grins. She pointed to her throat and shook her head, swaying the fall of wheat- colored hair around her thin pale face.

  Cameras were clicking and both Karen and Israel waited until that was over. Israel handed Karen the laptop, and she settled it comfortably in her lap. She pushed up the sleeves of her granny sweater and looked to Israel.

  “You ask, and Karen will answer,” he said to the room, pointing to the white screen behind the two of them.

  The first handful of questions were kind and fawning. Karen tilted her head to one side, listening carefully and considering before typing her response. The band’s drummer interrupted in droll deadpan, “I hear you’re wagging the piano player. Concerned citizens need to know.”

  There was laughter. Karen smiled. Israel did the same and said, “Next?”

  It was an amiable start and only Israel was weary, knowing that the good vibe could change and change quickly with a single sharp question from any one of the jaundiced, older reporters. He studied the expressions of the reporters with their hands up.

  Sure enough.

  “Karen? Do you use body paint?”

  Karen pondered the question, poking the tip of her tongue out, rocking back on her chair. She typed, “Yes. Every time I wag the piano player. He’s into that.”

  There is genuine laughter. Israel relaxed and joined in, leaning away from Karen and arching an eyebrow.

  Karen was asked about her musical influences and who she was listening to. She typed her responses without much reflection and often with a sweet or sharp pang of wit. She was asked if Wyde’s career was suffering from her appearances with so many other different kinds of bands.

  On the white screen the words appeared, “What career? Next.”

  “Who does your wardrobe?”

  There was more laughter.

  Karen raised one of her bare feet. More laughter. She didn’t type a response.

  She was asked about the next three nights of the country-jazz festival and which groups she planned to play with. She raised her bar of surf wax and shrugged her narrow shoulders.

  She was asked about Wyde’s current album and the chatter about a possible collaboration with Dickey Betts. There were questions about her youth and how she found music. She was asked what she thought of some of the famous musicians she had jammed and recorded with. Karen listened to each question carefully, ignored the personal ones, and typed kind and patient answers.

  Israel let the Q and A go on for twenty minutes before standing. He thanked everyone for attending and waved to the crew off to the side. Wyde’s new album began to play, and the reporters and audience started to leave. No one moved toward Karen, and Israel grinned while watching for that. He leaned over and whispered to her, and she stood. Sej crossed and bowed to her and, among some laughter, took her hand and they walked from the room.

  The room emptied. The music stopped at Israel’s command. He stood still, looking across the empty chair backs to Uncle Tim. They nodded to each other. That camera monkey was beside Uncle Tim, looking very handsome, dressed like a surfer or a hobo, with the dangling cameras and shoulder bag. He was talking to Uncle Tim, who looked to be giving him perhaps twenty-five percent of his attention. Israel started toward them. Uncle Tim frowned in displeasure to something the guy said. Israel quickened his stride.

  “Credentials, invitation, or pass? I don’t recall having you invited.”

  The guy turned to Uncle Tim, looking for some help. Uncle Tim was still frowning in response to whatever he had asked or said. Israel reached for the press tags dangling from the handsome guy’s neck. The man turned from Uncle Tim and lowered his eyes to Israel’s hand. Israel lifted his two passes.

  “Thought so. Bro, you need to leave as in now. And, I do not wanna see you tonight. Or tomorrow night. Or, like, ever again.”

  The guy wouldn’t meet Israel’s eyes. He looked one last time to Uncle Tim but saw no help there. He turned and left the room without a word.

  When the guy was gone, Israel smiled to Uncle Tim. “Fake passes.”

  Uncle Tim’s smile returned. “Everyone seemed to enjoy Karen.”

  “Yes. Her mystique and goofiness. It’s a heady blend. She did fine.”

  Uncle Tim placed his hand on Israel’s shoulder, and the two of them walked up the aisle between the empty chairs.

  “What did that creep say to you?” Israel asked. “You puckered like you’d sucked a lemon.”

  “A lemon? Yes. That works. He was pleasant at first. Lots of nice things to say about Karen.”

  “And?”

  “And? Yes. He started in on the fan-abduction thing. He’s got theories.”

  “And?”

  “And? Well, let’s just say he’s got a lot of passion about it all.”

  “Lord ... Okay. Well we won’t be seeing him again. His credentials are home cooked. Probably on Granny’s laser printer in the cellar.”

  The two men left the room talking of other things.

  Leonardo left the conference room grimacing and not just a little pissed. Fucking pretentious manager. He spotted his fellow reporters pushing two tables together in the Blue Chair bar. They were yapping and grinning like raccoons. He wasn’t going to join them. No way was he gonna sit among those soon-to-be intoxicated rodents.

  He scanned the foyer and dining room, aiming his eyes at the mingling fans. He walked into the restaurant, following the sound of clinking silverware and glass; noting that Wyde’s second album—the Latin acoustic one—was playing from the speakers in the ceiling. He ignored the maître d’ and started in among the white-clothed tables.

  She was sitting alone at a table for four with her gift bag in her lap, smiling at the collectibles, and ignoring the open menu atop her charger and silverware. Leonardo approached slowly. He waited until she looked up and saw his ‘good guy’ expression. Once she had taken it in, he added some smile. He looked at her and asked in French:

  “C’était magique. Vos impressions?”

  He waited. As expected, she looked a bit taken aback with his French. He glanced to the chair opposite hers, placed his hand on it lightly, and tilted his head.

  She looked at the chair and then back to his eyes. A moment passed before she nodded.

  Leonardo smiled again and sat down slowly, deferentially. He was careful to keep his hands off the white tablecloth. They were eye-to-eye with a candle between them. He waited. He wanted her to smile. When she did, he tilted his handsome face slightly, letting his long hair sweep over his left eye.

  ‘Bonjour, elle est un délice. Vous êtes journaliste?” she asked.

  His body tightened. Clenching fast. This hadn’t happened before. What were the odds that one of them would be conversant in French? He had a few charming phrases and introductions, as well as a
small collection of colorful observations. He blinked, blinked again, and raised his hand to his eye feigning something bothering his vision.

  She leaned forward and offered her linen napkin. He gently dabbed and wiped the corner of his eye. Gathering himself back together, he returned the napkin. Continuing to blink, he asked her:

  “Is your English good? I always need the practice.”

  The young woman nodded and said with a whimsical twang, “Yep.”

  Leonardo was pleased. He talked to her in a soft voice; not talking so much as querying her, drawing out her impressions of Karen and her wonderful music, antics, attire, and mystique.

  He listened to her with faked interest while also reviewing her, considering her. And his art. He had his slow-paced romancing tools. And the bottle of drops and kerchief in his pocket.

  He watched her warm to him, thaw with his attention. She appreciated his few practiced self-deprecating comments. They ordered, and she looked pleased, relaxed, and taken by his drop-dead handsome looks.

  Dinner was served, and she was the one who made the next move. She rose and sat in the chair beside him. He prodded her with softball questions and listened to her mundane, well-educated babble. She was telling him a version of her life story, he noticed.

  They ordered dessert, deciding to share some chocolate decadence she selected. They shared her fork, their faces moved closer, and their conversation grew quiet and warm. She was not an ideal canvas, her skin was coarse, but he could work with that. He forced his thoughts away from textures and hues and did an admirable job staying within the slow verbal dance of romance and seduction.

  She turned from her story and began to chatter about Karen, which was distracting and irritating. He batted away her voice by turning to the practicalities of what had to happen after he walked her to her car. She touched his wrist with her fingertips, and he had to swallow away a rise of queasiness. He paid with a stolen credit card and suggested a stroll.

  They left the Blue Chair. She took his arm and talked about maybe skipping Wyde’s concert that night. With that, she was no longer a woman. He breathed in the warm evening air and walked slowly with his living canvas.