A Country Rag
Whole Woman

"When it's over," she said, "we'll light the candle, the golden pear."

Karen died at 2:23 a.m. in her sleep. Darden found her. He solicited notes from everyone who'd ever known her.

The question for Dar was, "Who was Karen?" They lived together in their early sixties for over three years. That left decades and lives separate and unaccounted for.

She'd been ill the whole time he knew her. What was a healthy Karen? A young one?

Ken S. -- Karen was hot. I mean hot, man. It just exuded from her. It hit you across the street. Which is how I met her. Hips swaying and some lost look in her eye. You knew you should say, "Hi" -- take her home or somewhere like a puppy, feed and pet her, hold her, dance with her. I couldn't get enough of the feel of her.

Sarah D. -- Karen was my best friend for fifty years -- basically all our adult lives. I can't talk about her or tell you who she was. Not now anyway. You should know. You were taking care of her.

Jennie O. -- I met Karen when we worked at Crosby's. She managed housewares and I worked in accounting. She was excellent. And great fun. We went out a lot -- lunch, movies, drinks. Both of us were single then, and we picked up men just for kicks. Threw 'em back before it got serious. She was a knockout. I felt dowdy sometimes but her company was ... infectious. You couldn't feel bad about yourself long around her. She loved people. A people person. That's what made her a good manager. And a soft touch sometimes. She had a real naive streak, and sometimes I or my boss would have to swoop in. Save her from herself, so to speak. She wouldn't get it if someone was after her job, talking behind her back and being nice to her face. We missed her when Gregg combined housewares with personals and she moved to Marlborough. She didn't want that much pressure though. Her job was just a job. She did it well, professionally, but ... Karen liked the night life, as the saying goes.

Trevard W. -- Karen was a straight arrow. Simple, clean, said what she thought, didn't walk over anyone or let anyone walk over her. You couldn't get close to her though. There was always this distance she kept. We worked in pharmaceuticals together for seven years. She never dated that I knew and wouldn't hear of it from me either. I don't know. Maybe she was gay. She had a roommate but in all those years I never met her. Talked with her on the phone. Kind of gruff voice, now that I think of it. I liked Karen. Hell, everyone liked Karen. Can't believe she died like that. A blessing maybe.

Gary L. -- We went to co-ed summer camp and met when Karen got a spider bite on her lip sleeping in our tents. She was a good sport but scared about the swelling. She was young and afraid somehow a spider had scarred her face for life. It turned out to be one of those longterm irrational fears. She'd had nightmares about being cut or burned and thought she'd been delivered an omen that finally happened. A week later her clear, smooth skin and lips reappeared but she hated the tents. That led her to apply for and get a counselor's assistant job where she could stay in the cabin bunks. She was good with the kids but stand-offish with other workers. It must have been a bad summer for her. I've heard most people liked her but she had a lot of personality conflicts that year and was not invited back.

Cora C. -- Karen was picky. About her clothes, friends, jobs. She was nice about it. No one ever felt put down. She just distanced herself from what she didn't like. Smiled and said, "No, thank you," you know. And she kept her personal life completely separate from her professional one. It gave her space, breathing room she needed. We were roommates for awhile after I quit Gibbons, but no one there even knew it. Well, I didn't like those people anyway. What business was it of theirs?

Jeremy R. -- We flew to Bermuda together. That's our relationship, man. Funkiest chick I ever met. Walked over to me one day in housewares and said, "How about flying to the islands with me this weekend?" I thought ... you know. But she really meant it. No strings attached. Well, one. I couldn't tell anyone at Crosby's. She'd gotten an extra ticket somehow and just ... wanted a male escort, I guess. We stayed in the same suite. Right on the beach. Beautiful. Beautiful chick. Look but don't touch. I got her drunk, of course, and ... we never spoke of it. Not the next morning. Not ever. Not to anybody. It got to be a matter of honor with me. Weird, huh? She won't mind now though, will she? Man. I'm sorry, man.

Stella T. -- I was locked up with Karen at Fettering for six months. She had a thing with numbers. I was "Girl Number Three." Warren was "Boy Number Five." She named us by the order she met us. Whatever medication they gave her zonked her out after that. She called me Stella by the time she left. Her story was she'd gone to finishing school. It was a joke we shared. "Do you miss finishing school?" she'd ask. "It was great," I'd say, "but I'm finished." Karen had a great sense of humor once you got to know her. People who didn't understand her thought some of what she said was offensive. I did at first. "Stella," I'd reply emphatically, and she'd go right on calling me "Girl Number Three." Fettering was "Institution Number Two." There was "Nurse Number Three" who'd never correct her. There was "Head Number One," and she called days after flowers. Mondays were Petunias, I think. Fridays were Pansies. Saturday was Lavender and Sunday Violet. Wednesday was Horehound. For "hump day." Karen was wild. Her room was covered with pictures and postcards. "Welcome to my mountain," she'd say. Nothing and nobody were what they were in her world. We enjoyed it once we caught on, most of us anyway. "Head Number One" took it very seriously of course until a room was a room and every thing and person had its right name. She whispered, "It's Lavender, isn't it?" the day she left and we laughed. Lavender. Saturday. What day did she die? Oh, Violet. Early Violet.

John D. -- Karen was like a kid. You couldn't keep her clothes on her or her out of bed. She lived in it, surrounded by books and magazines, piles of clothes, everything she owned. I used to tease her that she didn't want kids because she'd have to wear clothes at home. She was a hoot. Always into something. A lot of somethings. She started a garden club here and it still exists. Started Sisters of the Veil which was a sorority and a joke -- women who believed in nudity and if they wore anything it would be a veil. Of course, they did dress in the streets. She wouldn't say what their meetings were about or what they did. Those were the days of women's lib when they were exploring themselves -- and each other maybe. It was a turn on. "What are you doing, Karen?" I'd ask. "Put on a veil and I'll tell you," she'd say. The girls there -- boy, she'd hate that -- the women were good friends and they didn't let me in on their secrets. She drifted away. I think she liked women better than men. She tolerated men -- me anyway -- but didn't really like us that well. And she spent money like there was an endless supply. Her Daddy made her like that. She was Daddy's girl. When he left -- died -- she didn't know how to handle it.

Joan F. -- Aunt Karen? She was Aunt Karen to everyone here. We only knew her the last few years. She moved into Ludbough's old house. Fixed it up real nice. Gave everyone flowers from her gardens. She didn't seem like an older person. Real curious about everybody, but not intrusive you know. Just friendly. Remembered the cats' and dogs' and kids' names. Asked about them, petted them, made a fuss in a good way. She gave out candy. Always had a jar. On Fourth of July she gave the children little flags and her neighbors sprays of red, white and blue. She took an awful lot of pills every day. I don't know how she kept them straight.

Jane T. -- Karen was my least favorite neighbor. She was a snob and rarely even spoke to anyone outside her circle. Not even a "hello." I remember her walking head down, frowning, by our house. She wouldn't look over for anything. My little brother Jerry threw eggs and stuff at her, in her direction. He hated her too. Her whole family was a mess. No one really liked the Carmichaels. They were loud, noisy, except for Karen who was too quiet. They moved when she was in eighth grade across town, and she went to a different high school, so we didn't see her much after that, unless her school had some event with ours. She grew out of being super, almost sickly thin in eleventh grade or so. All of a sudden, haha, my little brother thought she was a hot item. But she hadn't changed inside and hadn't anything to do with him. I don't know. He went to their reunion and said they laughed about the eggs.

Mike R. -- When Karen got pregnant, I drove her to the clinic. They had protestors out there, you know. Ugly scene. She made it in and out. That was Crossonstown, right out of Dolboro. Nice suburb. She'd flown in from Marlborough the night before. Later, she was never sure. It bothered her. She'd have been happier if she'd found the right man and settled down to married life, I think. I don't know. She loved her freedom though and something scared her. Must have been some marriage she had when she was a kid. No one should go by that. She did though. And her parents divorced too. I'd have married her but she wanted to move around. Just when you thought she was settled, she moved again, got another job, another house or apartment. Sometimes I wanted to say, "What are you looking for?" but I never did. Somehow you knew some topics were off-bounds. If you didn't, you got a cold blank look and the subject changed or she found something to do. Once I asked something -- can't remember what -- she didn't like. Didn't hear from or see her for months. She could just disappear when she didn't want your company.

Sheila T. -- Karen's been my best friend for over two decades. We were both in management, at least until she got sick. She had so much energy and expertise. We worked in different cities most of the time, but conferences brought us together. And vacations. She loved the beach. Islands. We went to Bimini and some others. I'll talk more about it when I'm used to that she's gone. It's a shock, friend. A real shock.

Crystal D. -- Karen was always in a hurry. She was the busiest kid I ever knew -- joined every school group, nearly, volunteered for every event. You couldn't catch up with her. She exuded life and wanted life to exude from her. "Why don't you come with us?" That's what I remember her saying most. It didn't have to do with a trip necessarily. Anything. "Why don't you come with us?" She was very thin growing up, very serious. Maybe because of her parents. They were legendary. Even stray dogs knew to stay away from the Fighting Carmichaels. Her brother took the mother's side when they separated. Karen was her father's pet, "Little Karen," all his life. He died, of course, years ago. She, her mother and brother were never close. The archetypical "house divided against itself" that finally couldn't stand. I suppose her "busyness" helped her to forget, get away from it, and she excelled. Left home as soon as she could to marry Hugh. And that was a disaster. Almost repeating the family pattern. Fights and tears and leavings and reconcilings until one night she just stayed at Ned's. Never went back. Other people got what they could of her stuff for her. It was sad at the time but she got that good job at Crosby's in Irionville. We missed her. I didn't recognize her -- or a lot of others really -- at the reunion. She'd gained weight over the years and her hair was different. Red. What got into her to dye it red in her sixties? It stood out, that's for sure. Well, she liked doing things for a kick. Set people talking, brighten things up. Nothing harmful, of course. Except maybe to her hair. Never thought, occurred to me, she'd get that kind of ill. She seemed indestructible when we were kids. And I couldn't see behind the red hair, of course, to what was going on inside. Karen was close-mouthed about personal things. She never talked about her parents -- her brother and mother particularly. You just couldn't bring up the subject and get anywhere about her family. I don't really know what happened with Hugh either. Must have been bad that she never married again. He just swore about her, used a lot of names. I never liked the guy anyway. He didn't make the reunion. Someone said he'd got cancer and died out in Utah a few years ago.

Jess T. -- When Karen fell cleaning the eaves, I took her to the hospital. She came around the corner with her right arm at this weird angle, crying and holding her elbow. It healed really well but she couldn't work for awhile of course. She hated not working. Bitched and moaned. Drove everyone half nuts. We tried to keep her busy, took care of her. She was grateful but bitchy. No one did anything right. Including her. She blamed herself. It was just an accident. She leaned too far over and the ladder kicked. Then she had falling nightmares. Woke me up in the middle of the night just to talk, she said. Finally she talked about the 'mares. Falling from towers, planes, roofs, anything. She'd wake herself up, she said, before she hit ground or -- here's an old wives' tale -- she'd die in her sleep. Then she had to talk until she dared to go back to sleep. I miss her. Booty, that's what we called her. She brought booty -- good stuff -- to the 'hood.

Hugh S. -- I was crazy about Karen. Always asked about her after she moved away, hoped she'd come back. But she was never satisfied. I gave her everything I could. Took care of her and that blasted little foreign car she loved. We fought over her keeping it. It wasn't safe, buddy, but you couldn't convince her. Everything was a plot to deprive her of what she really wanted. I didn't want her to work. "Stay home, Karen," I'd say. "Enjoy yourself and the house." But she was full of vinegar. Didn't like sex either. At least you practically had to wrestle her into the bed. Then she'd laugh, say, "You got me again." But she'd hop right up, even in the middle of the night, take a shower and start on a project. She laid new wood floors in the house. Mostly at 3 a.m. I wanted her to calm down, be a normal wife, have some kids. We got dogs and cats instead. They had to have everything. Hell, we couldn't afford kids when she got through collecting and caring for them all. Sugar was her favorite. One day Sugar disappeared and Karen looked for days. Sugar never showed up -- he was a full-breed blue tick -- and Karen searched and mourned for weeks, months maybe. She cared way more for those animals than she did me, or anyone else. She left them behind though. We fought about that too. She fell for some bum -- Ned was his name, I think. Gave up everything and then left him too.

Judy R. -- We lived out in the country together in a rented house for awhile during college. Karen wasn't real thrilled about country and complained about all the bugs constantly. She was afraid of spiders. Shrieked at critters that appeared suddenly, like roaches in our cabinets. She thought it was disgusting and swore to have a bug-free city apartment fourteen stories up from all the horrors on the ground. She got it too. Worked her way into a big city job finally. We kept in touch, at Christmas mostly, over the years. You know how it is. We wrote often at first and then less. To begin with we couldn't afford to visit. Years later she flew back, rented a car and wanted to see our old haunts including Roach Ranch. "Roaches are funnier in retrospect," she said, while we walked around the overgrown weeds. That house had been abandoned and left to fall down. All broken windows and vandalized of nearly everything inside. She remembered some good times there -- parties, staying up all night talking and studying together -- and asked about old friends who'd moved on too. I didn't know it'd be the last time I saw her of course. She could be fun when she let go, let down her hair so to speak. Mostly she was very intent on her goals, including leaving any roach ranch behind permanently. One of the things I remember physically about her is her hair. She fussed about it constantly -- putting it up, taking it down, braiding it, curling it, straightening it, coloring it, and worrying it to death. It was nice hair. Light brown with natural soft curls, but she didn't like the look. Didn't want to be seen as vulnerable. Sometimes she pulled it so straight and tight it nearly seemed her eyes would pull back too. She was very modest back then. Later she actually went to a nudist farm for a retreat. Said she hated it though. It was an effort to free herself from something -- her separateness and the self-conscious way she'd built a public image. Everyone saw her as strong, busy, but I saw her cryings and insecurities. Roommates do. People terrified her. She'd have stayed in a small office adding numbers if she could. That was her college job -- bookkeeper for the Phys Ed Department. They loved her because she was totally reliable. Never missed a day or a figure. Well, maybe a few but ... compared to most people, students particularly then, she was almost a little old lady. Couldn't have cared less about dating, partying, and had to be dragged into it. She'd say she had a good time and then still say she hated it. Her marriage between high school and college must have been hell on earth. Had a real bad effect. She just wanted to stay in that little office, study and go to class. Actually she didn't even like class because she wasn't comfortable with people. She barely tolerated me and others that lived off and on at the Roach Ranch. Except those rare times when she actually got into a party. Her family life had been as abysmal as her marriage to hear her tell it. If it weren't for bugs, she'd say, I'd live on top of my own mountain and keep the world forever away. It made her a good worker and student though. She graduated way up there in the stratosphere while I was struggling along in the middle. She never acted smarter though. Just quiet and reserved, you know. And she was fooling with her hair right to the end -- dying it red and putting it up with those chopstick kind of things. How dramatic she must have looked. Well, people change over that many years. I heard off and on she even became "a party girl." I'll always remember her though with soft curling brown hair sitting in that little office bent over books of numbers and totally absorbed.

Josh R. -- She was a kinky broad, bro'. One of my best friends for many many years. We used to bar-hop after school. Ended up working in the same town for awhile. She'd talk with bartenders for hours. You never ....

Steven found the manuscript -- all 578 pages -- in that carton box with a tin of ashes, old concert and airline tickets, some magazines with Karen's graphic art, letters, the remains of a wide yellow candle.

Dar's inscription read: "I wanted to know Karen, every woman, Karen, every woman, Karen before I died."