The Eighty Eighth Key Ch 51

There came a time, and maybe it was about six months after the Jeanie Post thing, when Frank decided Harry Callahan had simply had enough -- of women, of dating -- all of it. He'd turned into a helicopter flying monk and if it didn't have to do with flying -- and CAT, Callahan just wasn't interested.

Cathy had asked him once if he wanted to proceed with the little teahouse and Callahan had thought for a moment, then he'd told her yes.

"I'm just curious, but why?"

"I think," Harry told her, "it might just be a fitting monument to the futility of love."

And it wasn't what he'd said that rattled Cathy, it was the way he said it. Maybe a little self-deprecating -- and why not? -- yet it was the certainty, the finality she felt in him that shook her up. And it dovetailed so nicely with what Frank had described. Callahan didn't look at anyone with any interest at all -- unless they were wearing a flight suit.

When DD announced that she and Doc Watson were engaged, Callahan took them to dinner and couldn't have been happier, but Cathy's keen eye saw right through the searing irony within his spontaneous gaiety -- because she just didn't buy into the whole macho bravado thing anymore.

"It'll happen, Harry. She's out there, just you wait and see."

"She might be, Cathy, but right now I could care less. I'd walk on by and never know."

"Kind of a self-fulfilling deal, don't you think?"

"No, not really," he'd said as he watched DD and the Doc dancing. "I'm comfortable with who I am right now, Cathy. Just me. But I know what you mean. When I think of you or Frank I think of you two as a matched pair, as two people who belong together. Indistinguishable one from the other, ya know?"

"That's what I want for you," Cathy said. "If anyone ever deserved that kind of happiness, it's you."

"You know, of all the things I picked up in Japan I think Karma hit me hardest -- and deepest. There's a real basic truth in that one, Cathy. Maybe 'what goes around comes around' comes close, or even 'you reap what you sow,' but something about Karma seems so resonant to me now."

"You loved Fujiko, didn't you? I mean, really really loved her?"

"I thought so once-upon-a-time, but I'll tell you something weird. You know how people say that the opposite of Love is Hate?"

"Yes, sure."

"I never felt Hate, Cathy. Never once with her. Doesn't that mean something, like I didn't really love her?"

'Or maybe it means you still love her, you dumb-ass!' she thought about saying to him -- but she pulled back from that precipice and had simply smiled at him.

The Doc had grown close to Frank and Cathy after that party, and even a little to Harry, so when he learned of Frank's cancer and remission he took a serious interest in Frank -- from a professional point of view. Not long after, at a dinner party Cathy put on for the newlyweds, Frank got a little toasted and mentioned the whole piano and Callahan thing, and the Doc had, at the time, filed that one away deep inside the Drunken Innuendo filing cabinet.

Then one day the Doc mentioned it in passing to Cathy -- and she had instantly grown cold and distant. "Let me ask you, Cathy?" he tried. "Is it true...what Frank said?"

But Cathy had only a cold, blank stare to offer him, and he'd opted not to press the matter further.

Then one Saturday afternoon he'd been running on the beach and he looked up at one point and saw Callahan on his back porch. What was he up to? Lighting a fire, getting ready to grill some steaks? He found the cut in the rocks that led up to Callahan's house and he ambled over to the grill as Callahan was adding more wood to the fire.

"Getting the fire ready, I see."

"Oh, hey Doc. Out for another run?"

"Yeah, but it's beginning to take a toll on my knees."

"Time to get a bicycle, I reckon."

"Probably true. Say, Cathy tells me you're a helluva pianist. That true?"

"I can make it through chopsticks okay, if that's what you mean. Why?"

"Oh, nothing. Just curious, as I'd never heard anyone mention that before. Do you still play much?"

And Callahan had simply shaken his head. "No, not that much; what about you?"

"I used to play a little, but for some reason, I just quit. Didn't have the time for it anymore. Now I kind of regret that decision."

"So," Callahan sighed, "why don't you go pick up a new one. I can get you a good deal if you're serious."

"Oh?"

"Yeah. For some reason I ended up the sole owner of the Rosenthal Company..."

"That Danish outfit? You? That must be quite a tale. What kind of piano is that up in the house?"

"Oh, it's a Bösendorfer."

"Are you fucking serious? Man, I've never even laid eyes on one of those."

"Cathy designed that one for the house."

"She what?"

"Yeah. Part of a custom program they have. She did the design, and she even shipped some rock and slate they were using inside the house to them. They incorporated everything. Really a work of art."

"Alright, Callahan...you've got to show me this thing!"

They walked up and Watson was impressed enough with the house, then he saw the piano and how Cathy's design for the entire house had started at the piano and worked out from there.

"Dear God, Harry. I've never seen anything like this before in my life," Watson said as he walked over to the instrument. He stood behind the bench and assayed the surroundings, taking in the view of the sea ahead and the rocky cliffs almost directly below. "This view is simply staggering! You can see the surf hit the rocks...everything...!"

"Go ahead, take a seat and let me know what you think of her."

"How do you keep her in tune...with all this humidity?"

"Ducted central dehumidifiers throughout the house. And I have a tuner from the shop come out once a month."

"You really don't mind if I play a little?"

"No, no -- fire away."

Watson sat and positioned himself and began butchering Clair de lune for a few minutes, then he quit, shaking his head as he stood. "As I said, it's been a few years. How often do you play these days...?"

Callahan shrugged. "When I come out here to the house I try to spend some time with her."

"Oh, I'm sorry...you were about to light a fire. Are you cooking out tonight?"

"Thinking about it, yeah," Callahan replied, wondering where this was going.

"You know, I'm sorry. I feel like I've bulled my way in here..."

"Not at all. How's married life treating you?"

Watson shook his head. "She's clairvoyant, you know? Either that or she's the smartest woman alive."

"I figured that one out a few years ago, Doc. She's both."

"She really loves working for you guys, you know?"

"I doubt we'd survive long without her. She's the brains behind the outfit, that's for sure."

"Say, we've got some steaks at the house. Why don't you come down and grab some chow with us?"

Callahan looked outback. "I've already got the fire going. Why don't you go grab DD and come over here? We can make a night of it?"

"Sounds like a plan. Be back in a flash."

Callahan went to the 'fridge and pulled out his steak and some foil-wrapped veggies and carried them down to the grill, then he stoked the charcoal and brushed off the steel cooking grates. He bent down, took a Coke from the little built-in fridge, and popped the top, and then he heard DD and the Doc coming through the yard a few minutes later. And she was carrying bowls of -- he assumed -- salads and fruit, because, of course, she'd already figured out what was going down before either he or the doc had.

And, of course, DD already knew where everything was in Harry's house so she was off like a whirling dervish grabbing plates and silverware and a bottle of sangria she'd placed there for just such an emergency -- et voilà, instant party -- DD style.

And, Watson noticed, Callahan was in desperate need of blowing off steam. He'd been working fires in the wilderness east of Yosemite for two weeks with hardly any time off, and he was a ragged mess emotionally. And starving, too, judging by the time it took Callahan to wolf down a sixteen-ounce ribeye. Even so, Callahan stuck to Coke and managed to eat just about half the salad DD had prepared.

"You know, Harry showed me that piano of his and it got me thinking," the Doc said to Mrs. Doc. "I used to play and I think I want to get back to it. What do you think?"

"Really? Well sure, why not? Harry, what do you think?"

"I told him no problem getting a good price at the shop, so just let me know when you two are going shopping..."

"Oh, well," DD said, "I'd want you there for that, Harry."

"Oh?" the Doc said. "Why's that?"

"Have you not heard him play?"

"No? What has that got to do with...?"

"When you hear him you'll know why."

"Okay, Callahan," the Doc snarled, "what's the deal here? You gonna show me, or do I have to just guess at this...?"

"Well," Harry sighed, "if I play, you get to do the dishes."

"You're on!" the Doc smiled. "Now, would either of you two mind if I finish this sangria?"

They all pitched in and carried the dishes up to the kitchen, leaving Callahan to settle in behind his Bösendorfer. He looked at the keys for a while then went into Debussy's Prelude to the Afternoon of a Faun, then, without pause he took them into Clair de lune, drawing out the key passages in shades of exquisite longing, in effect bringing the room to the moonlight...

And when he looked up, when he was finished, both DD and the Doc were in tears.

"Sorry," Harry said, "but that's all you get for doing the dishes."

"I'd simply forgotten music has such power over the imagination," Watson said. "For a moment I felt like I was sitting beside a faun in the sun, not a care in the world, but Harry, I've never, ever heard the Clair de lune played so...evocatively. Why in God's name aren't you playing professionally?"

"You can't love two women at the same time, Doc. And it just so happens that I love flying more than playing."

"Sorry, I can't buy that," Watson said. "You have a gift, and maybe you should consider that the returns on investment are skewing all wrong."

"I don't get you."

"How many lifetimes have you practiced to get where you are, to get where fewer than an infinitesimally small number of pianists ever get. People practice like that, Harry, for a reason. To share not just their talent and devotion, but to share their vision of the music. Debussy never wrote Clair de lune the way you just interpreted it, and as many times as I've heard that piece I've never heard it finessed like this. You turned it into something new, something, well, that needs to be shared, to be experienced, and I hate to say this, but I think your expression of Debussy's music is transformative."

"Yeah? Too bad I like helicopters so much."

Watson nodded. "Yes. It is."

"You know what, Doc. I've said this a thousand times if I've said it once, but piano players are a dime a dozen. I can't tell you how many brilliant pianists I've run across who were literally starving to death, barely earning enough to put a roof over their head..."

"Don't you think I know that?"

"I don't know. Maybe. But I think I'm contributing more doing what I do than sitting in some nightclub banging away night after night, waiting for the last call..."

"Have you ever thought of composing?"

"No."

Watson saw the glacial expression set in and retreated a little. "Am I missing something, Harry?"

"My mother...she was a composer."

"Oh? What's her name?"

"Imogen Schwarzwald."

Watson was genuinely shocked. "Your mother," he stammered, "was Imogen Schwarzwald?"

Callahan nodded.

"Then your not playing is a crime against humanity," Watson said, yet now even DD seemed shocked at the benevolent vehemence in her husband's voice. "I mean it, Harry. I really do."

Callahan simply shrugged. "I'm sorry you feel that way, Doc. But something's troubling me right now."

"Oh?"

"There's a big pile of dishes in the sink, and so far I ain't seen one of 'em wash itself."

Watson held up his hands. "Okay, you win. The world loses, but never let it be said that I..."

"Y'all take off. Go home and make babies, look at piano catalogs...doin' dishes comes second nature to me..."

"Nope, a deal is a deal..."

"Alright, but I'm not sure there's room at the sink for the three of us."

_________________________________

But Watson's words had an effect.

Callahan started spending more time at the house, more time on the piano. Then he started going by the shop -- as he called the Rosenthal Music Company -- on his days off, spending time with 'his' other employees. Most were Danes from Copenhagen, coming over to spend a few months immersed in the California vibe, and all were pretty serious musicians.

"You know," one of them said on a Saturday afternoon, "we should expand. There are really exciting things happening with synths and electronic keyboards, and we should hop on that bandwagon."

"Synths?" Callahan wondered. "You mean, like the Moog, stuff like that."

"Yes, very much like that. Have you ever heard Switched-On Bach?"

"That the one by Walter Carlos?"

"Yes, but it's Wendy Carlos now."

"What? You mean...?"

"Yes, but that is unimportant. How about Gershon Kingsley?"

"Nope, never heard of -- a him, I take it?"

"Yes, a him. We have the LP here; you should take it home and listen. Switched On Gershwin. No, I kid you not. He did that name satirically I think, but it too is quite interesting. Weird, but interesting. His Porgy and Bess is really demonstrative of what the Moog can do."

"You know, I don't think I even have a stereo at the house."

"You what?"

Callahan shrugged sheepishly. "What do you recommend?"

"It depends on the room, I guess."

"I'll have to talk to my architect before I do anything weird to the house."

"Really? What about your unit in the condo?"

"Full of pilots right now."

"So you're commuting to Sea Ranch?"

"As of this week, I am, yeah."

"Well, I can come up tonight and take a look around, but you'd have to give me a ride. No way can we afford cars over here. The insurance rates are impossible."

"Don't I know it. Yeah. Let me call Cathy, see if she can meet us at the house, and if I can't get you back in I'll have someone drop by and pick you up."

"Really! Well, what fun. I have of course heard a lot about this house of yours, and I would love to see it. And this friend of yours, the doctor?"

"Watson?"

"Yes, that's the one. He is looking at a Yamaha, one of the new Clavinova series."

Callahan shrugged.

"He mentioned you told him you could get him a special price?"

"Yeah, make it good."

"Like what? Ten percent over cost? That's a steal, by the way."

"Make sure he leaves feeling happy about the price, okay?"

"Could we start stocking synthesizers? Please?"

"Why are you asking me? If the things sell, then by all means, stock them!"

"Really?"

"Yes, but keep in mind the origins and roots of the company. Still, it seems to me we have to evolve with the times, and I'd like us to be taken seriously by serious performers."

"You knew Saul, didn't you?"

"Yes?"

"He is kind of a legend around here."

"For me, too. He holds a very special place in my heart."

"I understand he used to speak about focusing on performers, too. San Francisco is home to so many great bands -- wouldn't it be great if we had a few of them as customers."

"I agree, that's something worth going after. If you think you can get the job done, why not go for it. Now, show me this thing that Doc Watson is looking at..."

___________________________________

Callahan was sitting in his cubicle in the Cathouse, reading some promotional material on a new instrument panel Sikorsky would soon offer as an option on the S-76 when his desk phone rang.

"Yo."

"Harry," one of their new receptionists said, "there are two men from the Army here to talk to you, and they look like serious types."

"Take 'em to the large conference room and get 'em something to drink. I'll be there in a little bit."

He'd been dreading this, but he knew it was coming. He went to the WC and washed up, then went to CATs main conference room.

There they were in full dress uniform, one sergeant and one captain, both with 101st Airborne insignia. They stood when he came into the room, and they waited for him to take a seat before they did.

"Okay, gentlemen. The floor is yours," Callahan told them.

"Mr. Callahan, we're sure you're aware of the situation in Kuwait," the sergeant began. "The President has decided to form a coalition, and we're planning a major action in the region this winter."

"Yes, I'd assumed as much. How many of my pilots are you going to take?"

"We're not here to talk about that, Mr. Callahan. We're here to talk about you."

"Me? Are you serious? I'm forty-four years old? You can't be serious?"

Then the captain stood and began pacing the room. "I understand this is a bit of a shock, but actually, you are the only rated pilot left who has the relevant training."

"Relevant? To what?"

"As you may have heard, this Hussein character has stashed weapons of mass destruction all around Iraq, and our intel assessment is that he may well have nuclear capability right now, or will very soon. We'd like to send in radiologic assessment teams ahead of the initial assault, but we only have two Hueys with the necessary equipment right now, and no rated pilots. Worse, we're short on instructors."

"Uh, guys, maybe it escaped your notice, but I opted out of the reserves when I came back in sixty-nine."

"Mr. Callahan," the captain said, taking great care with each word spoken now, "your work for Colonel Goodman didn't escape our notice, and not to make too fine a point about the matter, but you did so without the permission of either the United States Army or the federal government."

"Okay," Callahan said, "so what's your offer?"

"Return to active duty for a period to last no more than 12 months, but which may be curtailed to coincide with the cessation of in-theater combat operations."

"Keep talking," Callahan said, now waiting for the real bait and switch.

"You'll move from NCO status to commissioned officer, with the rank of Captain. And at the end of your tour, you will be commissioned Full Colonel, retired."

"With no further call ups?" Callahan asked.

"That's right, Mr. Callahan. No more active duty, the slate wiped clean. And Israel never happened -- in writing."

"Well then, I reckon you better start calling me Captain Callahan. "Who else are you taking from my outfit?"

"We'd like Rooney and Pattison."

"Choose one, and I'd prefer Pattison stayed here."

"Done," the captain said. "We'd like you to train Lieutenant Rooney to use the second Huey."

"Captain Rooney," Callahan added, until discharge, then a Full Bird on retirement."

"Agreed," the captain sighed.

"When and where do we report?"

"We'll take you to Travis in the morning. Report here at 0600. You can fly us up, and you'll be off to Frankfurt from there. Both of the Hueys are there now."

After the two Army types left he had Rooney and Pattison called in, and he asked Frank and DD to drop by as well. When everyone was in the conference room Callahan began.

"Mickey, it seems the United States Army would like the pleasure of our company beginning tomorrow morning at 0600. You're no longer an NCO, you'll no doubt enjoy learning that..."

"Second Looey?"

"Nope, Captain. Same with me, by the way. Frank, you and Pattison will be nominally in charge of day-to-day operations. Pattison? You'll take helo operations. Frank, day to day operation of the airline. DD? I'll remain CEO in name only until my return; effective tomorrow you are CATs de facto CEO. You and I can talk about pay before I leave."

She seemed shocked. "The will I drafted?"