Oily late summer light rolls thru the burnished walls in the old hotel. Eighteen beds, two suites with sitting rooms, make it the best hotel in northwestern Kansas, just shy of the Colorado border. North of the dust bowl proper, in a town kept alive by sugar beets and everyone's sweet tooth, even now, especially now, at the height of the Great Depression.

The paint is shiny smooth at hand height, above the bannister, where the colored man, with a message, a tray, a grip or valise or vanity case or portmonteau, has forever leaned in, dragging weary shoulder or hand, for balance. Out of habit, for so many long years; it is his reflective trail, up and down the pitiless stairs.

Old Sorts, his wife calls him, some legacy of slave days, perhaps, or some private habit. No one ever asked why, or else the answer was too much the darkie thing for regular comprehension. He is Leroy to the come-and-go kitchen staff, and Boy to the front desk. And to the implement salesmen, mourners, bank auditors, adulterers, and odd travelers who stay over at St. Francis, he is also Boy, or You There, or just Him. This is the flats, north of Goodland, south of nowhere, where a man like him can be a mystery no one needs to solve.

It was his hand that made the polished runner along the walls, his old legs that relentlessly climbed, his the voice that yesm'd and thankeesuh'd for the nickels dropped in pale palm. His eyes that never rose up.

He walks both flights, both stairwells about as often, but the front stairwell is for hotel business. Otherwise he is obliged  to use the back stairs, come back around the long way, if it is just him.

He usually sits in the straight back chair, his cap off, facing the side door, til Bertie at the desk rings that bell. Some days he wipes the sweat with his whole hand and slips it, palm down, under him, so the burgundy velvet soaks it up, again and again. The damn bell is always too loud.

She comes in. It's Tuesday, and no one comes in on Tuesday, except Christmas week, or during harvest time. He hears the clack of stumpy, sensible heels first, so he sits up, in stages, one ratcheted hip, then a knee tucked in, then an arm to press himself up. Gets ready. Then her voice, soft, sweet, the Okie rubbed away but not gone, and he knew from the careful tone she had a straight neck, a cautious eye. An education.

He was usually right, could tell without seeing, what came in the door. Always knew the who-was-who. The farm girls, ashamed. The early drinkers. The snobs. Just from the distraction in their step, or the rush to answer for the registry, or the cellophane gaiety. He knew from how they opened and closed their clutches the ones who wouldn't tip, the ones who couldn't tip. He knew babies, too, knew the difference between colic and slap-too-much.

He knew a pretty girl just from the rustle of her slip, the delay in her requests, the way Bertie cleared his throat. It passed the day, guessing right.

But this one. Miss Bankston, she says. There is nothing else, no edge, no features to her yet. She eludes him. He arranges his gaze to catch her sideways: the tight floral gauze of her dress, the impression of a prim pale hat with coral netting.

That damn bell. He is ten feet away but Bertie smacks it crisp, so he knows she is a looker. He stands, a swerve in his first step. So hot in here, in the tight red wool uniform. Says Yessuh for Bertie's sake. Makes his last step at the desk a smart stamp, for Berties' sake.

And stops wrong anyway, makes a quick step back, because he sees her wrist, the edges that join at the side of the hand, just shy of the too-small dove-grey glove. He is not supposed to look  so he covers his face, as if a sleepy Boy, forages a quick look at her calf, then her profile, steps wrong again, backwards, then stands straight to cover it up.

"Room 302."

He looks at Bertie, waits for him to send this high-yella to the Roundhouse, Miz Parkham's rooms to let, past the silos, where she belongs. But Bertie sorts the dollars, and turns the register around, aligns the pen, clears his throat. He looks at the girl again, pretending to squint at the street glare while his eyes zig-zag across the front of her dress.

"Well, go ahead. For goodness sake, step lively!"

He stares at her shoes while he picks up her bags and walks to the runner at the bottom of the stair. The girl struggles a bit to take the key Bertie slid to her, adds fingers, gets it, and steps over to him. Waits for him to go first.  "Thankeema'am".

He finishes the first half-flight slow, expecting her to pass him by, uses the landing to turn and shift both bags, continues up to the 2nd floor. He stops there and turns and hides a good long look as she comes up: slim, high cheekbones, her lipstick misapplied. Concentrating, so precise, her heels soundless on the thick runner. The straight on her nose looks white, from the front; the hat is pinned just so, with that cloud of lace, obscuring the tight dark waves pulled tight.

They take the next stairs almost side-by-side. She can't slow down enough to force him ahead. They climb, alone together in the quiet well, the columns of brilliant light a warmth that  presses against them, reflecting ponds along the floor, angling down from the picture glass on the chipped and thickly painted walls. He has a grin hovering on his lips.

At the top he leans into the wall, panting, looks at her full on now. She is too young, too afraid of herself to catch him looking. She pause with him. Two doors down, nearby, he gestures, barely able to lift the bag, so he adds his head to it, dropping his chin. Still she waits for him. Infuriating. They step together, her ankle bends, she grabs his sleeve, rights herself. He is unsteady to the door.

She stops, turns to him: "Thank you", pinching a coin in cotton fingers, slowly, outstretched, offered. She doesn't want him to step inside. He is certain now, he knows with his own eyes. He whistles one low flat note as she withdraws her hand, fumbles at the key, drops it. They both look down. He looks up.

"What are you playin' at, girl?"

She waits, eyes down. He just looks now, at her smooth forehead, the button end of her nose, the tailored dress, the blue collar with the small coffee stain. She waits, then she bends, her seams straight, knees close together, dips, the fabric taut around her hips, and with one pale gloved hand she claims the key.