Where's Karen

by Greg Jolley

  She started up the path passing an avocado tree above a circle of soil. The soil was dry, the tree blocking the rain, and the dirt was finely raked. The brick path continued on leading to the tall green wall. She followed.

  The wall was overgrown ivy that rose to a few feet over her head. There was an opening centered in the tangled expanse and a curtain of heavy tan canvas. She turned around to the roof of lawn, tree, and mailbox, all indirectly illuminated by the high lamp on the other side of the wall. She parted the heavy curtain and stepped on through.

  A backyard of sorts was warmed by the old street lamp. She stared at the Doughboy swimming pool and the rear of a house beyond. She continued on, sweeping her hand in the pool water. It was heated. She heard the purr and hum of the pool sweep and water heater. Looking to the water, she saw what looked like a sea bottom of large and small rocks. There was a snorkel and mask on the poolside.

  “Okay,” she whispered, shaking her head, turning back to the house.

  She was standing in shin-deep ivy. The shiny leafed growth encircled the pool area. She followed the narrow footpath that led to the back porch of the house.

  The house was yellow stucco with a hem of brickwork across its lower length. On the patio, there was a doghouse, two ten-speed bicycles, a lawn mower, and a wood rack of yard tools. The doghouse was empty and had ‘Frisky’ roughly carved into the wood above the rounded entrance. There was a rusted charcoal barbecue and a picnic table with an oil lamp and cooking utensils. Paula studied the windows. The interior blinds were drawn—old, thin wood blinds. She stepped to the back door to the house and opened it.

  The room was dark save the blue glow from an old television. She tapped the light switch beside the door, and the back porch lit up. She tapped the second switch, and the lamps in the family room came on.

  A ratty, old, comfortable checkered couch was at her hip. The left wall had a fireplace. Across from the couch, the television was running with the sound turned off. To her right was an open door to a lit bathroom and the kitchen. The kitchen, like the family room, was early seventies vintage—yellow Formica, metal appliances, and a circular weaved rug before the sink on sienna-patterned linoleum. Another canvas curtain veiled the far end of the kitchen.

  Paula walked to it, parted the draping, and gasped, stepping back quickly—she was staring out over the edge of the roof, over treetops and bisecting telephone poles from the street below. Wind washed up along the building and pushed her back as rain patterned her skin. She spun, leaving the curtain parted and saw a narrow hallway to her right. The hall was dark. She walked the shag carpet slowly to where the hall turned. The bathroom door was open to her side, and she ignored it looking at the two bedroom doors at the end of the hall.

  Paula opened the left bedroom door, and the wind, rain, and a view of bare beams, joists, and unfinished flooring greeted her. Plastic sheets at the far end of the room were brushing back and forth. She closed the door and turned to the other.

  The second bedroom was furnished and had complete and painted walls. Paula tapped the light switch. A standard size room of a track home from decades prior. There was a yellow wood desk against the left wall covered with books, binders, and tossed clothing. An orange wood chair was draped with more clothing. There was a collage of photographs pinned and taped to the wall above the desk. At her hip was a couple-sized bed with a dull yellow sleeping bag on top of the nicely made bed. The sleeping bag was open, revealing red and black checkered fabric.

  Paula stepped alongside the small bed and placed her hand on the checkered fabric. She felt warmth from recent body heat while looking at the pillow without a case. Paula raised her hand slowly and turned away.

  At the desk, she pulled on a beaded chain and the lamp came on. On the wall were happy teenagers snapped in mid-antic, the boy’s hair long and the girl’s brushed straight. There was lots of irreverence and attitude.

  A community college history book on the desk offered a collage of events from the 1970s. A clear plastic bag edge stuck out from the center pages. Paula opened the book.

  Inside the bag was an eight-by-ten black and white photograph of a lovely young woman. The print wasn’t professional, and the white boarder showed tan age stains. The young woman was wearing a white sweatshirt and her hair was long and wild about her calm, lovely gaze. The young woman was looking straight at the camera. Her expression was in mid-stride to either speaking or a smile. Or laughter. Paula looked to the little bed behind herself, back to the image, and closed the book.

  She turned off the desk lamp and left the room.

  Sitting on the ratty couch before the silent glowing television, Paula took out Uncle Tim’s cell and taped Call Back.

  “Timmy?” Israel answered.

  “No, it’s Paula.”

  “Found him?”

  “No. I think he left with Brian.”

  “Makes sense. I reached Brian.”

  “And?”

  “And he said he was coming here and was gonna bring Tim. Now he’s not answering—the big boy’s probably sitting on his phone.”

  “Israel? Where’s here?”

  “Saint Clare. The beach town.”

  “Give me the address.”

  He did and asked why.

  “I’m coming.”

  “Okay. Why?”

  “Because Karen is all he has.”

  “Yes.”

  “Israel? Have you ever been up on the roof here?”

  “No. Why would I go up there?”

  “Israel? Who was she?”

  “She who?”

  “Uncle Tim’s ... no. Karen’s mom?”

  “She departed.”

  “Departed?”

  “Swept away—”

  “Israel?”

  “God took her home.”

  Paula stood from the couch. A retro seventies commercial was airing on the silent television.

  “I’m going to try Brian again,” Israel told her.

  “Okay, I’ve gotta find Uncle Tim’s car keys.”

  “Yes.”

  They hung up.

  Paula found the keys on a hook at the front door of the house, which she opened—to a wind and rain-washed view of the roof.

  She jogged past the swimming pool and through the curtain in the garden wall, pocketing the keys and Uncle Tim’s cell before starting down the ladder to the opera house.

  Brian was driving, his big frame pushed close to the steering wheel gripped in his large hands. He was frowning and staring into the funnel that the headlights were carving in the rain.

  Uncle Tim watched Brian drive through another intersection without pausing for the stop sign. He buckled his seatbelt.

  “You know the way?” he asked.

  Brian kept his frown aimed forward. He nodded his head, his chin nearly decking the steering wheel.

  “Yep. Pretty much.”

  It was Uncle Tim’s turn to frown, and he did.

  He looked away from Brian’s driving and dug inside his pants pocket, feeling again for his cell, which he already knew was missing.

  “Give me your cell,” he asked, adding, “Pull over and get it out.”

  Brian’s right hand released the steering wheel and he scrunched to his left raising his hip off the bench seat. “I can get it.”

  The truck turned with Brian’s efforts. They were wandering across the yellow line. The road was clear—no traffic. Uncle Tim took the wheel and corrected the steering while Brian struggled out his cell and handed it to him.

  “It’s almost dead,” Brian said.

  Uncle Tim tapped the power button while watching their headlights center in the correct lane.

  “Got a charger?” he asked, knowing the answer with a glance at the old and rusted dashboard. The only electronics was the AM radio. He turned his attention to Brian’s cell, a beat-up looking flip phone.

  “This have GPS or mapping?”

  Brian answered by nodding to the top of the dash where there was a stack of
open Thomas Guides.

  Uncle Tim looked over the cell’s primitive menu as the truck slowed and turned tightly.

  “We’re on fumes,” Brian said.

  The truck was rolling in under the white lights of a gas station.

  “Jeez, Brian ...” Uncle Tim grumbled at the view and with the delay. He watched Brian climb out, open his wallet, and start across to the cashier window. Uncle Tim shook his head at the rain and the absence of traffic.

  “DANG, WE’RE LOST,” BRIAN said as they approached a four-way intersection. Uncle Tim was listening to the cell ring and ring. Karen’s number showed as the last bar of battery life blinked. He left another voicemail and wished, again, that he had Israel’s number memorized.

  Brian pulled over to the curb. They were in a residential neighborhood of predawn bungalows. While Brian opened one of the four Thomas Guides, Uncle Tim watched the cell die. Brian was flipping through paper pages.

  “Would you like the radio on?” Brian asked.

  Uncle Tim answered through clenched teeth, “Nope.”

  More pages turned. “I feel really bad, Uncle Tim. I am sorry.”

  “Just figure out where we are and get us to the studio.”

  ENTERING THE STUDIO, ZACK saw familiar people in the hall still searching the rooms.

  “Cluster fuck,” she said, locating Israel in the recording room. He was gripping a ringing cell and looked like he was about to throw the phone and throw it hard. She stopped one of the engineers and asked, “Where did Karen go last?”

  “Restroom.”

  Zack went there. She inspected the stalls, saw the smashed lock, and found a half bar of surf wax. She breathed from the white paste holding the bar by the edge of the clear plastic wrap.

  “Coconut.”

  Back in the recording room, she held the bar right up to Israel’s nose.

  “Take a whiff,” she said.

  Israel looked at Zack as if she was deranged but complied and breathed from the half round bar.

  “Fuck,” he was looking her straight in the eyes.

  “What’s it say?”

  “Karen. But she hasn’t been surfing since the sessions started.”

  Zack lowered the surf wax in her two pinched fingers and asked the room, “Any zip-locks in this place?”

  One of the engineers said, “Yes, in the kitchen,” and left the room.

  Sounding regretful, Zack said, “We need to bring in the police.”

  Paula climbed up into the Expedition and steered the big vehicle out to the street. She stopped and lowered all of the windows. Fresh air swept the offensive smell of ripe wetsuits and, more repulsive, coconut. That scent placed her right back in the fragmented nightmare and strange details that led to a blackness and then her coming to in a brightly lit ER.

  LEONARDO KNEW THAT WHAT he was doing was eating the clock, was against his plans, but was unable to stop himself. Karen lay face down on his table. He adjusted her blanket and added a comforter. Covering the canvas helped him find his restraint. He climbed out of the boat and got back in the car.

  Sniffing from one of the white bars on the dash, he rubbed the paste into his hands. He smeared the steering wheel, releasing more coconut fragrance, and rubbed his sticky hands inside his shirt and up and down on his chest. He breathed deeply and closed his eyes.

  PAULA WAS STRUGGLING. THE address numbers were difficult to read in the rain with trees and hedges often in the way. It was a maze of low-connected buildings, a business park with narrow streets and unlit doorways. She locked up the brakes and squinted. The street numbers weren’t changing; instead, letters had been added. She drove on up another narrow long street.

  Turning down a side street, her headlights rinsed and filled an occupied car—some guy sitting alone in the darkness. The dimwit was sitting there in the dark eating a candy bar—no, more like sniffing a bar of soap. Paula braked the Expedition in mid-turn.

  The guy started his car, and Paula saw that he was parked in front of a boat now red in taillight glow. The car pulled away from the curve, and Paula gawked as the boat followed.

  She completed the turn and drove up the narrow lane all the way to the next intersection. She turned into a barren parking lot and stopped. The sailboat disturbed her, causing a clammy, sickening fear. She didn’t know why, didn’t see a link. She stared at the water swept by the wipers.

  “Scented surf wax?” she asked through tight lips. She made a quick turn and with the car back on the street, rammed her foot down on the accelerator.

  At the next intersection, she looked left and right, her hair sweeping the sides of her face and her narrowed eyes. The streets in both directions were empty.

  “Crap shoot.” Paula chose left, spinning the wheel, and punching her boot on the gas pedal. The big car roared up the street right through two stop signs, slowing only so she could scan for taillights. A mile up the road she made a screeching U-turn in the middle of the intersection.

  “No clue,” she spat, the Expedition picking up speed. There was an intersection with an actual traffic light a few blocks away. She slowed slightly at the next stop sign, looking out her window and the passenger side. The streets were asleep in both directions. A speed bump just past the stop sign bucked the Expedition and sent Paula harshly up off the seat. She cursed as she landed back and saw a blue tourist sign on the side of the road. It had an arrow, a profile of a boat, and white letters that read “Marina”.

  Reaching the intersection with the traffic light, she ignored the red and didn’t slow—she power slid the Expedition right, crossing into the opposite lane before she could straighten out the skid. Beach cottages and bungalows lined the street. She ignored them as well as the side streets, searching for another marina sign.

  “Fuckin’ aye,” Paula yelped. There was another blue sign.

  She followed the signs for another two miles before swinging onto the ramp down to the marina.

  The parking lot was filled with trucks, cars, and boat trailers. Beyond were white lit docks and fishing boats. To her right, there were rows of pleasure craft under golden arc lamps. She saw some people among the fishing craft, the gift shop, and bait store.

  She parked in the first open spot and climbed out. The rain had slowed and there was cold and fog. The front of the building was a darkened restaurant and gift shop. She heard loud voices from the fishing boats and jogged that way.

  Standing at a white crusty railing overlooking the boats, she heard a woman call out to someone, “Some idiot’s left his trailer and car on the ramp.”

  Paula turned to her right and looked past the ice and supplies side of the building to the gold lamps over the day boats. She heard the woman grumble loudly:

  “Excuse me, but fucking tourists.”

  Paula ran past a guy pushing a dolly of plastic crates.

  She wasn’t sure if it was his car and boat trailer low on the ramp and the water. She put her hand on the hood of the car and felt warmth. The interior of the car was lit from the dome light. The inside was immaculate. Except for a greasy crust of white on the steering wheel. She turned to the black water of the harbor.

  In the distance to her left, the harbor emptied into the sea, just past the seawall of concrete boulders. She ran in that direction.

  Hurrying along the walkway to the docks, she saw a brightly lit and active fishing boat trolling out to sea. She heard its horn call shrill and loud. She watched a spotlight from high up sweep the water as the boat turned aggressively.

  “Running lights, you moron!” The sound carried from a loud speaker.

  As if in response, a small green running light appeared on the water. The light faintly revealed the shape of a sailboat resting still on the water. Paula ran to the end of the dock. Halfway to the water’s edge she stopped long enough to remove her boots.

  Moron?” Leonardo bristled.

  He turned from Karen who was prone on the table. Prone, but not yet posed. He struggled through the cameras and tripod lamps and
climbed up on deck to search the helm for the running light switch. The big boat with the idiots and searchlight passed by, and the only sound was the slight gurgle of his trolling motor set in neutral.

  He knew he should get the boat out of the harbor and into open water, but the attraction of the Karen canvas was magnetic. There she really was. Asleep under the stage lights with the cameras at the ready.

  Like forgetting to park the car and trailer, he knew he was making an impulsive decision, perhaps mistakes. With the mast light turned on, he decided to paint in the calm harbor waters. He checked to see that the sailboat was to the side of the stream to the harbor mouth. He tossed out the anchor. Another fishing boat passed—no horns, no spotlights, and no insults. He headed down below.

  PAULA WAS GOING TO dive when she reached the end of the dock but instead lowered herself into the icy black. The water stunned her with cold, and she was glad that she hadn’t dived and submerged her head. She started to swim, keeping her chin up, keeping the sailboat in sight.

  The boat was sixty yards out. Her teeth were chattering. Her entire body began chattering as she stroked and kicked.

  There was no ladder, no swimming platform at the stern. She struggled up beside the idling motor after seeing that the prop was not turning. There was an unfolded plastic sheet on the deck and she opened it and draped herself. The tarp was stiff and noisy. A box marked Emergency was at the base of the helm and large wheel.

  She tried to be quiet, but her movements were shaky, her body quaking. She opened the box and dug through it. Her quaking hand came out with an orange plastic gun. Finding the safety switch, she turned it.

  The only light was a faint green glow from the mast above. Extending her shaking hands from inside the plastic, she aimed the wavering flare gun at the salon door.