and turn that infernal music off.”
“Why were you listening to it, anyway? I thought you hated Sibelius.”
“Can’t stand the stuff. It ain’t Bach, that’s for sure.”
“Why do you listen to it, then?”
“I figure he knew what he was doin’ when he wrote it, and everybody else thinks it’s good. Reason tells me if I listen to it over and over, I’ll discover what I’m missin’. I hope I have time enough left.”
“Ha! You’ll kill me with work twenty years before you pass on.”
“Oh, stop your belly-achin’. I know you put up with me only because of my cookin’.”
“Right. Well, I’ll turn it off, then I’m out of here for the night. Try not to leave too big a mess this time.” She turned to Walt and me. We’d been listening to their apparent daily banter with wide grins. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Willard. You, too, Mr. Erikson. I hope you both have strong stomachs for him and big ones for his food.”
The music soon ceased, and momentarily, we heard the car drive off. I made a mental note to tell Walt that Hettie Keeler would be a good subject for some of his late-night fishing.
“That gal’s got one smart-ass mouth,” Koontz said. “Build yourselves another one, boys. I ‘spect the rib’ll be done in ‘bout half an hour, time enough for me to give you the two-dollar tour. Poor old Erikson here ain’t shot one single picture yet.”
I bit my lip . Wake up, Walt. Take the cue, for chrissake, before his mind starts working faster .
The aromatic tour through Ezekiel Koontz’s house was like a walk through American history. Each room was full of valuable period pieces that had been painstakingly collected over many years. A few rugs were scattered here and there over hardwood floors that gleamed like the brass on my boat, and it was patently obvious Koontz was a bachelor. No woman would have ever arranged furniture in such asymmetrical fashion. The Judge was particularly proud of what he called his “music room”, which boasted an eighteenth century square grand piano that was musically useless, and a harpsichord which was kept in fine tune, and upon which he massacred Bach for an hour every day. He couldn’t resist giving us a fast rendition of a Two-Part Invention, while Walt, thank God, shot picture after picture.
From wall to ceiling were stacks and shelves neatly packed and labeled with old 33rpm records and more up to date CD’s; enough to be the envy of any critic or musicologist, but the turntable and player were nowhere in sight. Must be in another room. Remembering the Sibelius, I glanced at the “S” shelf: Saint Saens, C., Shostakovitch, D., Sibelius, J. ( Finlandia, En Saga , Symphonies 1-10, Violin Concerto ) this jacket was missing. I also had the weird feeling that something was wrong here, but before I could figure it out, the Judge jumped up and said, “Let me show you my favorite room. My kitchen.”
Which was the only room out of sync with the rest of the house. Its burnished, stainless steel practicality and its size would have delighted the chef of any four-star establishment. “All right ,” he proclaimed. “Looks like this steer’s ready to eat.”
Then it hit me. Koontz was stalling. Doing everything he could to keep us distracted from why we had come. “You boys go on in and sit down. I’ll carve this sucker and be right with you…”
We ate, and I knew I would never again order prime rib in any restaurant. But throughout the fabulous meal, Judge Koontz still hadn’t alluded to our interview. “And I made a banana puddin’ that’ll melt in your mouth.”
Good as it all was, I was careful not to consume too much of it, nor of the beautiful Cabernet he kept pouring. Walt, on the other hand, ate and drank like he had never had a meal! By the time we had finished, it was nearly nine. I decided to push things along. “Judge, you have any more of those cigars left?”
“ ’Course I do, and Cognac to marry up with ’em. In the
“Why were you listening to it, anyway? I thought you hated Sibelius.”
“Can’t stand the stuff. It ain’t Bach, that’s for sure.”
“Why do you listen to it, then?”
“I figure he knew what he was doin’ when he wrote it, and everybody else thinks it’s good. Reason tells me if I listen to it over and over, I’ll discover what I’m missin’. I hope I have time enough left.”
“Ha! You’ll kill me with work twenty years before you pass on.”
“Oh, stop your belly-achin’. I know you put up with me only because of my cookin’.”
“Right. Well, I’ll turn it off, then I’m out of here for the night. Try not to leave too big a mess this time.” She turned to Walt and me. We’d been listening to their apparent daily banter with wide grins. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Willard. You, too, Mr. Erikson. I hope you both have strong stomachs for him and big ones for his food.”
The music soon ceased, and momentarily, we heard the car drive off. I made a mental note to tell Walt that Hettie Keeler would be a good subject for some of his late-night fishing.
“That gal’s got one smart-ass mouth,” Koontz said. “Build yourselves another one, boys. I ‘spect the rib’ll be done in ‘bout half an hour, time enough for me to give you the two-dollar tour. Poor old Erikson here ain’t shot one single picture yet.”
I bit my lip . Wake up, Walt. Take the cue, for chrissake, before his mind starts working faster .
The aromatic tour through Ezekiel Koontz’s house was like a walk through American history. Each room was full of valuable period pieces that had been painstakingly collected over many years. A few rugs were scattered here and there over hardwood floors that gleamed like the brass on my boat, and it was patently obvious Koontz was a bachelor. No woman would have ever arranged furniture in such asymmetrical fashion. The Judge was particularly proud of what he called his “music room”, which boasted an eighteenth century square grand piano that was musically useless, and a harpsichord which was kept in fine tune, and upon which he massacred Bach for an hour every day. He couldn’t resist giving us a fast rendition of a Two-Part Invention, while Walt, thank God, shot picture after picture.
From wall to ceiling were stacks and shelves neatly packed and labeled with old 33rpm records and more up to date CD’s; enough to be the envy of any critic or musicologist, but the turntable and player were nowhere in sight. Must be in another room. Remembering the Sibelius, I glanced at the “S” shelf: Saint Saens, C., Shostakovitch, D., Sibelius, J. ( Finlandia, En Saga , Symphonies 1-10, Violin Concerto ) this jacket was missing. I also had the weird feeling that something was wrong here, but before I could figure it out, the Judge jumped up and said, “Let me show you my favorite room. My kitchen.”
Which was the only room out of sync with the rest of the house. Its burnished, stainless steel practicality and its size would have delighted the chef of any four-star establishment. “All right ,” he proclaimed. “Looks like this steer’s ready to eat.”
Then it hit me. Koontz was stalling. Doing everything he could to keep us distracted from why we had come. “You boys go on in and sit down. I’ll carve this sucker and be right with you…”
We ate, and I knew I would never again order prime rib in any restaurant. But throughout the fabulous meal, Judge Koontz still hadn’t alluded to our interview. “And I made a banana puddin’ that’ll melt in your mouth.”
Good as it all was, I was careful not to consume too much of it, nor of the beautiful Cabernet he kept pouring. Walt, on the other hand, ate and drank like he had never had a meal! By the time we had finished, it was nearly nine. I decided to push things along. “Judge, you have any more of those cigars left?”
“ ’Course I do, and Cognac to marry up with ’em. In the
Similar Books
