AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“I’m here, Gil. In the sitting room.”
Gil darted through the kitchen and found Roald at the end of the settee with his injured leg on the cushioned seat. “How’d you get yourself in here?”
Roald pointed to the crutches leaning against the side table. “It feels mighty good to be out of bed.”
Gil folded his arms. “Dr. Graves advised as little moving around as possible, and always with someone nearby, for the first two weeks. It hasn’t even been one week yet, Mr. Willems. I think you should have stayed put.”
The man made a sour face. “Ach, doctors. They’re like women. They fuss too much. I’m fine here.”
For the first time, Gil noticed the calico cat curled next to Roald’s hip. The animal’s presence probably contributed to Roald’s desire to remain on the settee. “You look pretty comfortable there.”
Roald nodded. “That I am. But I’ll get up and come to the table when lunch is ready.” He raised one eyebrow. “When will lunch be ready?”
Gil laughed. “I’ll heat the stew now. But we’ll eat in here—no coming to the table. And after we eat, you’re going back to your bed.”
Roald rolled his eyes. “You hiss more than a nervous cat. But I’ll eat here if it makes you feel better.”
While the pot heated, Gil selected bowls and silverware from the shelf in Roald’s kitchen and answered questions about the morning’s sermon, which was about the prodigal son. Gil had always liked that story—proof of a father’s deep, unconditional love for his child. This morning, though, it had made him a little sad. Like the prodigal son, he’d left home and gone to a big city. Unlike the boy in the story, he hadn’t engaged in carousing or wicked living. Even so, he hadn’t received a loving welcome from his aunt and uncle. He was thankful for the warm reception given by members of the community. He comforted himself with their acts of kindness.
He couldn’t resist sharing with Roald how many boys wanted to join the band. “Our first practice is tomorrow evening, so I need to have music ready. I hope the boys can all read notes.”
“Don’t worry about such a thing. They can read music.”
Roald’s voice held so much confidence, Gil poked his head from the doorway and gave a quizzical look.
The cat now reclined on the man’s chest, and he rhythmically stroked her while he spoke. “Many of them took lessons from Mr. Goertz. Some for a little while, others for years, the way you did. They’ve sung from the church hymnals since they were small. Now, whether they all know how to find the right note on an instrument, I can’t say for sure. But I think you’llfind, as a whole, they aresea klüak.” He tapped his temple. “Very smart.”
The pan lid rattled, and Gil hurried to the stove. He hooked the lid’s handle with a large fork and set it aside. The stew was bubbling around the edges. He stirred it, and a savory aroma arose. His stomach growled in response.
Laughter came from the sitting room. “I heard that. And so did old mama cat—she just dove under the settee.”
Gil chuckled. “Well, let’s hope she stays there while we eat. You’ll need to put a bowl on her perch.”
More laughter rang.
A good feeling flooded Gil—a feeling of belonging. He might not be in Falke for much longer, but he’d hang on to this feeling and enjoy it for as long as it would last.
Chapter Thirteen
Gil
After assigning each of theboys a seat, Gil inwardly groaned. Why hadn’t he taken the time yesterday after church and made note of more than the boys’ names and ages? Had he been given fair warning that half the band would be made up of baritones, he would’ve prepared for it—if a director could prepare for such an unusual situation.
Three boys had come in toting drums—Ralph, the preacher’s oldest boy, lugged a bass drum, and two younger boys carried snares. An adequate rhythm section, considering the band’s size. But the remainder of the instruments were all brass. Eleven baritones, three trumpets, one trombone, one French horn, and Timmy’s tuba. Gil scanned the sea of gold-toned instruments. This band would have a very different sound than the men’s band with its mix of brass and woodwinds.
He screeched a chair to the front of the group and sat facing them, forcing a smile he didn’t feel. “Welcome, boys. It’s good to see you all here on time and with your instruments in hand.” A wry chuckle formed in his throat, and he couldn’t hold it back. “I see that a number of you play the baritone. Was there”—he coughed into his hand—“a sale on baritones at the general store?”
One of the older boys raised his hand, and Gil nodded at him. He stood, cradling his baritone against his rib cage. “Do you remember Mr. Goertz?”
How well Gil remembered the dear man. “I do.”
The boy waved his hand, indicating the group as a whole. “Lots of us took lessons from him. Mr. Goertz said baritones can play treble clef or bass clef. They’re good…good…” He glanced at the boy sitting next to him.
The boy popped up out of his chair like a hungry baby bird poking its head up from a nest. “Fillers.” He sat again as quickly as he’d stood.
The first boy nodded. “That’s it. Fillers. Mr. Goertz said baritones can fill in wherever they’re needed. So they’re a good instrument to learn.” He sat.
Of course. Gil should have realized it himself. Baritones weren’t common in an orchestra. Only four brass instruments—tuba, trumpet, trombone, and French horn—made up the horn section. But in a band, especially a small band like this one, having so many baritones could end up being a boon.
