Where's Karen

by Greg Jolley

  AFTER HE HAD HER on the table inside his studio, he warmed the stage lights and started his cameras. He put her on an I.V. and set out his paints, airbrushes, and tattoo equipment. He labored and created long into the night, oblivious to the movie cameras.

  When the sun rose, the painting was complete. Leonardo turned the cameras off. It had been a fine and masterful effort. He wanted to start the editing, but there were practical matters at hand. He opened his worn, marked copy of The Pillow Book to word-painting 229, ‘It’s lovely to see, on a day when the snow is thick’.

  Her role in his vignette was complete. Her next role would be that of a drugged form on a bus stop bench. She would awaken with her body completely shaved, bathed, painted, cleansed, and redressed. She might be one of those who spotted his tiny signature on her right ass cheek, but that wasn’t likely. He had a deft artistic touch with the fine-tipped tattoo needle. The gold ink check mark was minute.

  After miles and miles of two-lane road through green fields and trees, the road branched into six lanes and the venue’s large sign appeared. It was immense, one of those electronic ones that changed images every thirty seconds. The colorful advertising image of a future concert disappeared and in its place, the words ‘Country-Jazz Fest’ appeared over the vast empty parking lot. The names of the headlining bands were revealed, with Wyde in the middle of the list.

  Seeing the band’s name, Brian saw Karen in his own way making a bottom turn on a four-foot wave, her eyes focused, her delicate white hands extended, and her fingers wide. When the sign changed to another announcement, he steered across the parking lot. He had no idea where to park so he drove to the cluster of trucks and cars behind a fence.

  He spotted Uncle Tim and Karen’s Ford Expedition, and smiled when he saw Uncle Tim sitting on the passenger seat with the door open.

  “Hey,” Uncle Tim offered, looking up from the laptop on his knees. There was an open file box at his feet on the floorboard.

  Brian turned the engine off, set the brake, and climbed out.

  “That old truck made it?” Uncle Tim closed the laptop, “I’m impressed.”

  Brian offered a hug. Uncle Tim extended his hand.

  “I was working on the pool business. Soon as we get the time, I’ll start showing you what that’s all about.”

  Brian grinned.

  Uncle Tim climbed out and closed the passenger door. He pulled a fob from his pocket and locked the Expedition.

  “Glad you made it. Can use the help. Let’s go see if we can find Karen.”

  Brian walked alongside his uncle. They weaved through the equipment trucks, limos, and a small group of nondescript cars parked in the shade of the six-story auditorium. Uncle Tim stopped at the press entrance, looking at a four-door Oldsmobile with a sailboat behind it on a trailer.

  “I’ve seen that before,” he said. “At other shows. Can I buy you lunch?”

  Security was light that early in the day, but the gate to the garden area was manned. Uncle Tim raised his hanging I.D. card to the beefy guards in black.

  “Hey guys. This is my nephew, Brian. He works for Karen now. I’ll get him credentialed.”

  The guards stepped back, and Uncle Tim and Brian entered the temporary courtyard. There were two large white party tents. Long barbecues were manned and smoking. Women in white were cooking and serving the light crowd. Everyone looked relaxed. Brian was drawn to the scent of the cooking meat and was pleased when Uncle Tim turned in that direction. One of the women in white served Brian a lovely steak and added two chicken breasts. There was a buffet of vegetables, fruit on ice, drinks, and desserts. Brian handed his uncle his meat plate and filled a second with apple crumb cake and vanilla ice cream.

  The tent was about half full. Clusters of crewmembers, technicians, and staff were sitting here and there at picnic tables. Uncle Tim and Brian sat with a group of women wearing black t-shirts with the weekend’s list of artists on the back. The front of their shirts read, ‘Better to play than think’.

  Uncle Tim sipped water and chatted with the women. Brian chewed steak and had no idea what they were talking about, so he smiled between bites.

  From the corner of his eye, he saw a strong hand come to rest on Uncle Tim’s shoulder. Brian turned and set his fork down.

  “Hey big guy,” Israel greeted him.

  Israel’s face creased with a smile around sharp white teeth. He was studying Brian closely as though questioning him with his eyes.

  “Ready to go to work?” Israel asked.

  “Yes.” Brian stopped chewing.

  “Good. Finish your meal. Then your first task is to shoo the flock of small lunatics away from Karen.”

  Brian had no idea what Israel was asking him to do.

  A soft piano riff played. Israel raised a cell phone to his ear. He listened, nodded, and didn’t speak.

  Brian watched Israel walk away in the direction of the auditorium.

  Uncle Tim said to him, “On non-concert days, we’ll talk about out how to run the pool business better. I’m jazzed about adding pool maintenance to what we do. Hoping it provides a steady stream.”

  Brian used his fork for a bite of ice cream. It was good vanilla—no overt taste of sugar and the texture was smooth. There were tiny black specks of vanilla bean in the creamy white. He savored, smiling.

  “Come on. Bring that. You need to rescue Karen,” Uncle Tim said.

  THEY ENTERED THE AUDITORIUM from the rear and made their way through the crews and equipment backstage. Brian followed Uncle Tim to the center of the rough-planked stage. He was impressed to be on the boards before the vast audience area. The stage appeared worn with use, and there were odd shapes marked off with blue and yellow tape. Two-story black speakers already filled some of the taped outlines. He looked into the orchestra pit. To the aisles. The balconies. The thousands of chairs. Then he walked to center stage. Up above were lighting systems dangling from ironwork. The air on the stage seemed to vibrate, buzz, and glow.

  “Hey,” Uncle Tim called.

  Brian followed Uncle Tim around a drum kit on a raised platform. He heard a violin from somewhere deeper in the building. They went backstage to a man sitting in a recliner beside a table with a computer and printers. Uncle Tim spoke to the man, sounding familiar and friendly. The printer came alive, and Uncle Tim retrieved a laminated pass and gave it to Brian.

  “You’re now bulletproof,” Uncle Tim said.

  Brian didn’t understand.

  A woman approached Uncle Tim and drew him away in conversation. Brian put the necklace on and went in search of Karen.

  He found her kneeling and playing her violin for a half-dozen children. Their small faces were beaming, their little heads bobbing in rhythm. Two strangely dressed young women were standing back just a ways deep in private and serious conversation.

  Those two have an aura, Brian thought but didn’t understand. He recalled his ex-wife. Karleen would know the names of these famous people.

  Karen’s violin notes were vibrating and filling the air. The children looked delighted and in awe.

  Uncle Tim walked up.

  “Second thought,” he said to Brian. “She’s safe.”

  BRIAN AND UNCLE TIM watched the opening band from the wing at stage right. From time to time, they had to step back from the bustle of stage crew and other musicians watching.

  The first band’s music was brisk and manic. They were waking the crowd up with booming, stomping songs. Unlike the few bands Brian had heard Karen play with, this one had a heavy, thick sound. They played five songs without a pause. When they stopped, the giant curtain swept across and the band left the stage without an encore.

  From the other side of the curtain there was a wave of applause and voices. Brian saw that Uncle Tim had disappeared and found him with the instrument technician off in a far corner in a corral of instruments. The tech handed Uncle Tim a violin, and he carried it off down a hall at the back of the big room.

  The lights lowered a
nd the next band, Crickle Creek, was introduced and began to play. They had an acoustic sound and performed at a smooth pace, their music rich and varied.

  Brian got nudged to the side by a guy passing by, another photographer by the looks of him; a bunch of cameras, lots of necklaces and a bag on his shoulder. The guy was tall, well dressed, and had short blond hair. He was hurrying to the wings, unlike the other press people standing around and yakking. Brian decided to get something to eat.

  He loaded a plate with two baked potatoes and a dessert and took a chair. Chewing cheesecake, he heard Karen begin to play. Her violin joined the song out front and caused a ruckus and applause from the audience. Brian set his plate on top of the equipment case and went in search of her.

  Karen’s playing wasn’t dominating the Crickle Creek song. She wasn’t soloing, but adding long drawn notes that gently wove with the other instruments. Brian stepped beside Uncle Tim and the others in the left wing. Karen wasn’t on stage. Brian was confused and searched the stage and players again. Uncle Tim squeezed his shoulder, and Brian followed his gaze out into the audience. He scanned the rows and rows of the crowd. Uncle Tim hip-bumped him and pointed up. There was a small booth extending from the auditorium wall. A flashlight was moving about, aimed downward. Just before it switched off, Brian saw Karen and her violin. Her hands on the instrument were in unison with the musical notes coming from the auditorium speakers.

  A blue spotlight climbed the wall and centered on the balcony and Karen.

  “Those fuckers,” Uncle Tim said harshly, and as if the lighting crew was listening to him, the beam extinguished. Karen was allowed to play in the dark. Some in the audience were turning and looking, pointing up to the balcony. A single camera was flashing upward.

  The band and Karen shared the remainder of the song and part of the next. When Crickle Creek began their following song, the violin played through the beginning and stopped with a single bowed note. She was silent through the rest of the band’s performance and the entire session by the next band.

  Wyde took the stage and began playing before the announcer could say a word. The version of their first familiar song was different from the album version. Brian sensed a South American influence. Karen wasn’t on stage. A third of the way through the next song, the singer sang and then stepped back. Karen’s violin was heard but not seen. She played through the remainder of the song and was silent during the next. Camera flashes started to splash on the backing curtain behind the drummer. In the blinks of white light, a hand parted the curtain and Karen appeared, nodding and playing. She was sliding ringing notes on a silver dobro.

  She strolled over to the piano were Sej was playing, staying in the dark. It looked to Brian as if she was studying the piano player’s hands and her notes were dancing with his. Kendal, Wyde’s singer and guitarist, turned from the drummer with a nod and began a crisp and clear solo. He repeated a phrase, the band adopted it, and they all begin to accent and add variations. The song seemed to stretch out to its sides as many different instruments played supporting lines.

  Karen stayed beside the piano for the rest of the performance, alternating between the dobro and her violin, each handed to her by the instrument tech. Wyde received two encores, the lights came up, and the crews began setting up the next band.

  Backstage, Karen and her bandmates were in a swarm of fellow musicians and crew. Brian stood to the side with Uncle Tim and Israel, as did the press. Karen slipped from the gathering and wandered off alone to the instrument corral.

  “Fresh air,” Brian said pulling at the neck of his t-shirt.

  He stood at the top of the back stairs where the mustard arc lights washed the cars and trucks in the fenced area. The chill in the night air felt good on his neck and face. There was a row of limos with open doors and people milling about in front of them. Out further, a white lantern shown up over the car roofs drawing Brian’s attention. He saw that the light was from the mast of a sailboat behind an old car. A man and a woman, both tall, were climbing up the side ladder.

  Brian heard the first notes of Karen’s violin from some distance. He watched the tall blond man gently assist the woman aboard the boat, struggling a little with his shoulder bag and dangling cameras. The man looked to be treating the woman kindly, gentleman-like, and Brian smiled remembering romance. Karen’s faint violin added to his softening mood and fond view of the couple.

  Ten minutes later, the lantern above the boat extinguished and Karen’s violin playing ended. Brian considered going back inside to ask if Uncle Tim needed him to do anything else that night. It didn’t seem likely as the parking lot had mostly emptied while he watched the romance movie, so he went out to the truck and drove off across the massive emptying parking lot. Out on the two-lane, Brian felt sleepy and began searching the nearby small town for a motel—ideally one with a swimming pool where he could read, sleep, and dream.

  Uncle Tim sat in the passenger seat with his computer on his lap and the file box open at his feet. Wind was crossing and kicking up swirls of sand. The Expedition was parked on the sea side of the unpaved lot in a mix of RVs, small cars, and trucks with surf racks. He wasn’t getting much work done; the view was so distracting. Karen and Brian carried their boards across the beach and paddled out into the small surf. He turned around to clear and refocus his thoughts on the computer and files. To the east, fog clouds were drawing across the chocolate hills like a white sheet being pulled slowly.

  Three boys with surfboards passed his open door followed by a woman. Her voice rattled his attention away from the view; she was cautioning the boys, and they were ignoring her. Uncle Tim looked out to the sea. Karen and Brian were paddling out to a group of surfers sitting on their boards just past the break, chatting and pointing. His cell phone rang, and he looked at the screen. He saw Israel’s name and frowned before tapping the phone to answer.

  “How’s your day off going?” Israel asked. Business voices filled the background.

  Uncle Tim picked out Karen among the other surfers. It wasn’t difficult, she was the white figure among all the tans. He also saw Brian, looking like a bear on a board a few feet away from her.

  “Good,” he told Israel.

  “How’s the coast?”

  “Interesting. Sunny on one side, fog on the other.”

  “Hope you’re on the sunny side.”

  “We are,” Uncle Tim smiled.

  “I’ve emailed you—well, Karen and you—about an interview request. This one is big. Do you think she could go over the questions today? Later, I know. This could really help.”

  “Sure. Who is it with?”

  Israel told him. An elderly man and woman approached the Expedition. Uncle Tim pulled the open door closer, making room. The woman was talking brightly, and the man thanked Uncle Tim who watched them enter an RV. There was an awning extended from the side of the big vehicle, and the couple had set out cozy looking chairs, a table, books, and a lamp. Bicycles were parked at the edge of a green carpet they’d rolled out on the dirt.

  “Uncle Tim?”

  “Sorry. What was that?”

  “Never you worry. Nothing. Enjoy the day off.”

  Uncle Tim was studying the temporary living room in front of the Winnebago. “How are we doing, financially?”

  “Miserable. Dreadful. Okay.”

  Uncle Tim smiled to the cell phone.

  “Doing the interview would help,” Israel nudged. “Karen’s thoughts, even if written out, will add some wood to the fire.”

  “Can we afford an RV? Maybe a leased one?”

  “It’s about time. Finally. And yes. Know which one you want?”

  “No idea. Big enough for two separate bedrooms.”

  “I’ll have someone start working on it.”

  Uncle Tim turned to the surf and saw Karen paddle into a wave and miss it. Brian, the bear, caught the wave, rose, and made a smooth bottom turn. It looked like Karen was smiling as she watched her cousin.

  “Her sou
nd check is at three. I’ll have an RV on location and your belongings moved to it before the show ends.”

  “Israel?”

  Israel let a moment pass, waiting for the rest of the request, “Yes?”

  “Thank you.”

  The two men smiled to one another, even though neither could see the other’s expression.

  “Do they make one with a small office?” Uncle Tim asked.

  “That can happen. Yes.”

  Uncle Tim chuckled.

  “Was that laughter?”

  “Yes, it was. Thank you again.”

  “And you’re welcome again, but really, all I’m doing is spending Karen’s money.”

  “Oops, no. This has to come out of the pool business.”

  “Oh. That’s gonna be a stretch ...”

  Uncle Tim waited, knowing Israel was thinking and calculating.

  “Yes. Can make that happen, too. It’ll have to be a lease instead of a buy.”

  “And that’s fine.”

  “You will have to start working more. At your real job.”

  “Yes,” Uncle Tim was looking across the dusty parking lot. Along with the RVs, there were worn cars and salt-rusted small trucks. At the bluff, there was a cluster of bicycles parked beside a big green car with a sailboat on a trailer.

  ”Got another call, bro. See you at three, okay?” Israel said.

  “She’ll be there. Ready and willing.”

  “Okay.”

  “Okay.” Uncle Tim ended the call.

  He turned from the vehicles and looked to the east where the fog had erased the hills and was creeping across the meadow in his direction.

  Wyde was having an ideal, magical set. The band members were raising the level of interaction and melodic exploration. They were discovering and exploring one changing groove after another within each lengthy song. All of them were grinning, sweating, and nodding to one another. Karen was swapping between violin and dobro during the first four songs. She got a wave of applause when she sat down on her kitchen chair beside the piano player and began to chord a banjo in unison within the melody.