“Yes, ma’am, I am,” Cal replied, confused at hearing her call his name. “How come you to know that? Lenny didn’t say my name.”
“He didn’t have to. Pearlie has spoken well of you. He considers you his special friend,” Kathleen said. She pointed to the low-crowned black hat Cal was wearing. “And he told me all about your silver hatband.”
Cal took his hat off and fingered the silver band. “Yes, ma’am, well, I loaned it to him is what I done, ’cause I know’d he would bring it back to me and that way, he wouldn’t stay gone forever. Course, I didn’t count on him windin’ up in jail or nothin’.”
“Ma, none of us have eaten yet, and we are very hungry,” Lenny said.
“Oh, forgive me for not asking you earlier. Please, please, sit down and I’ll have your lunch out here right away.”
“I want to thank you, Mrs. York, for taking such good care of Pearlie,” Sally said.
“Please, call me Kathleen.”
“Only if you call me Sally. Pearlie told us about the food you have been taking to him. From the way he described it, I am very much looking forward to the meal.”
“I hope you aren’t disappointed.”
“I’m sure we won’t be.”
“Did you make chicken and dumplin’s today?” Lenny asked.
“Yes, we did.”
“I figured you would, this being Wednesday. You always make chicken and dumplin’s on—” Lenny paused in mid-sentence, then said, “We?”
“What?”
“You said, yes,
“I’ve hired some help.”
“Really? Well, I’m real glad you did that. You work too hard. You don’t need to work as hard as you do.”
Kathleen smiled as she went into the kitchen. A moment later, she came out carrying a tray filled with plates. Behind her, also carrying a tray, was Mary Lou Culpepper.
“Mary Lou!” Lenny said, standing up quickly. “You’re workin’ here now?”
Smiling, Mary Lou nodded. “Your ma hired me,” she said.
“How—uh—how is it going?”
Kathleen put her arm around Mary Lou’s shoulders. “It’s going really well,” she said. “Mary Lou and I are getting along just famously, aren’t we, dear?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Mary Lou said.
“Kathleen, I see that this is a boardinghouse as well as a restaurant,” Sally said. “Is it for longtime borders only? Should we go to the hotel?”
“You don’t want to go to the hotel,” Kathleen said. “That is, unless you want to do business with Pogue Quentin. He owns the hotel. You can stay right here. I have two very nice rooms, one for you and Mr. Jensen, and one for Cal and Mr. Murchison. That is, if the two of you don’t mind sharing a room,” she added, looking toward Cal and Murchison. “And we have a very nice drawing room where you can relax,” she added.
“I don’t mind sharing a room if Cal doesn’t,” Murchison said.
After supper, Kathleen showed them to their rooms. As they passed through the drawing room, Sally saw an upright piano, similar to many of the instruments she had seen in private homes, schools, churches, and even saloons throughout the West. The only difference was this piano was obviously loved and very well cared for, because it was in much better condition than almost any other piano she had seen since she left New Hampshire. She walked over to it, then ran her hand across the smooth, polished surface.
“Oh, what a beautiful piano,” she said.
“You should hear Lenny play it,” Kathleen said, proudly. “It has a beautiful tone.
“Lenny, I would love to hear you play something. Would you play for us?” Sally asked.
“Oh, Mrs. Jensen, you don’t want to hear a saloon piano player,” Lenny said.
“No, and I don’t want to hear a saloon piano player either,” Kathleen said.
Sally looked at Kathleen in surprise, but before she could say anything, Kathleen continued.
“What I want to hear, and what I am sure these fine people would like to hear, is a pianist, not a saloon piano player. Play something, Lenny. Play something beautiful,” Kathleen said.
“You mean concert music?” Lenny asked.
“I mean something beautiful,” Kathleen said.
“All right,” Lenny said. He sat down, opened the lid over the keyboard, and for a few seconds, did nothing. Then the melodic phrasing of Beethoven’s Piano Sonata no. 14 poured forth from the piano, filling the parlor with its repeating theme and beautiful melody. This was not “Buffalo Gals,” or “Cowboy Joe,” or one of the other songs so often heard in saloons. This was something one might hear on the stage in New York, Boston, London, or Paris.
Lenny played through to the finale. Then he let his arms drop to his side as the last melodic notes hung in the air. Looking up, he saw tears in Mary Lou’s eyes.
