"The Piano Lesson"
I was craving a respite from my feature-length commentary, post-True Grit, and decided a bit of fluff is always fun. I also wanted to experiment with different writing styles. Enjoy!
Much had passed through the old boarding house. I have seen many of people, from all walks of life live in and through this place, walk through its doors, eaten at its table. Many people have been from the east, seeking adventure or love or riches to the West- others, having had their full share of all the west's promises and sorrows, had stopped by our little Monarch house to bid adieu to the wild free life and announced plans to return back to the place where they had come from. It was in the little river town of Fort Smith, Arkansas where it all took place. Our town was hallowed as the terrible hanging grounds, but there was much more to it than that. We were not all animals.
On this night, the inn was full and dinner had just concluded. I took a seat by the front window and knit a scarf for my youngest great-niece, Caroline. My deceased husband, bless him, had helped me run the inn until his calling to the Lord over twelve years ago- now I ran the inn, with a neighbor and business partner and his family. I was the old hen of the coop.
I was Elizabeth Michaels-Braughn, the lady of the house. At fifty-six, it was a title I wore well.
That particular night, there was a small deal of commotion; it was so thick, I could sense it hanging in the air. It was winter, and too cold to stand around outside- some of the tenants, mountain men from the Ozarks, sat down in the parlor and played a round of gin rummy. A young honeymoon couple admired the ornate heirloom glass pieces in the hallway. A young drifter by the name of Ralph Beaux helped the owner family clean up after dinner. Our cook, Martha, handed me a cup of hot chamomile tea and I sipped it carefully. Watching.
In the corner, our newest tenant, the Texan Officer LaBoeuf sat admiring something afar. The front door in the foyer opened and a young woman emerged, which quickly took his attention. This little lady, Mattie Ross, had shown up on our doorstep only a little while earlier- her father had been shot down right in front of the house, only a week or two previous. It was quite the scandal, and continued to bring us customers from there on out. I should have shaken her hand, except this was not proper mourning fashion.
The young woman Mattie was plain but kind, mature and unassuming. I wondered what her business in Fort Smith was. I assumed she would stay the first night in order to see her father's body brought back to her little town. I remained surprised when she stayed another day, then another, coming in later every night. It wasn't necessarily my business where she was or what she was doing- but I wondered all the same.
She approached me with a face that was masked by grief. She was very good at hiding it.
"Mrs. Braughn, would you mind if I played a tune?" She threw a glance to the old Wultzizer piano in the corner, covered completely by dust. Mr. LaBoeuf watched us from the other side of the room. I thought for a moment.
"Of course you may, dear. But nothing caddy. This isn't a saloon."
She nodded with a pleasant look and sat down at the thing to play. In seconds, a beautiful hymn resounded from the keys- it was a shocking thing to behold. Where and how she had learned to play escaped me entirely. All the guests of the inn turned to watch the young girl as she played out a quiet, humble tune of the keys. The last time that thing had been doted on must have been while Earl was alive, perhaps even before the Great war. I reminisced faintly, remembering those times- when there was only a street or two, and prairie that stretched for miles and miles across the great empty land.
She stopped abruptly, apparently puzzled by something. I set down my yarn work and lurched forward in my chaise chair.
"Mattie, please continue." I said. "It is beautiful, just beautiful."
She obliged.
The ranger sat back, admiring the scene- he smiled as well. Our eyes caught one another's, and I nodded to him courteously.
"She is quite talented, isn't she?"
He nodded and stood, taking quiet steps to her until he stood directly behind as the young woman let all loose on the keys- the song winded into something entirely different and unique, it morphed and looped through many vacant melodies, all strung together mysteriously by the same chords. It was a beautiful thing, and I never looked at the piano the same again.
She was surprised to see the ranger behind her, but quickly recovered and saved him a seat beside her. I wondered what exactly she was doing- until an awkward rang of keys played out and I smiled to myself.
"What's she doin?" The cook questioned, wiping off the tables with a rag. I smiled, not taking my eyes off the sight.
"She's teaching him, Martha."
"A little girl, teaching a ranger like that?"
"Why, yes. She is quite talented."
The two continued to play- she taught him a simple melody, one that he could keep up with. In moments, they played a duet that penetrated every room in the boarding house, from the kitchen to the high attic. Some of our guests gathered around the old thing as they played, one beautiful harmony composed between two strangers, two almost strangers.
When it was all done and the guests had gone up to bed, the two remained. I blew out the last of the candles, watching them intently.
"Get some sleep, now." I instructed. "Mattie, you will be sharing with Grannie tonight, if that is good."
The young woman nodded.
As I headed up the stairs to bed, I watched them say goodnight. He escorted her down the hall, where she thanked him warmly. Her grief-stricken face had faded to that of contentedness. I was happy for the girl. The Officer was handsome, I suddenly realized. He took her hand and kissed it. She offered him a witty line and they both shared a laugh. It lifted my heart.
What lovely things I saw, being in the heart of that Monarch board house.