Yankee Doodle Dixie

by Lisa Patton

  With bourbon-fueled perfection, learned from years and years of having to be the backup singers, Mary Jule and I, along with Alice, dance right behind her, echoing “Chomp, chomp, chomp.”

  An even better sight is Elvwayne, who has moved up to the front of the stage and is gyrating right along with Virginia.

  When the song comes to an end, Virginia makes large loops with her right arm and adds one final ad-lib, “Sock a little poke salad to me.” She leans her head back as the music fades.

  The crowd loves her. Right away Elvwayne walks onto the stage and takes the mic. “Ann-Margrock, Ann-Margrock, Ann-Margrock,” he says as if it’s a chant and sweeps his arms in an effort to get the rest of the crowd to chant along with him. Pretty soon the entire entertainment tent is calling for me to sing “Viva Las Vegas.”

  Thank goodness for bourbon. I take the mic from Virginia. The words crawl across the screen and the two of us duet to “Viva Las Vegas.” At one point Alice can’t take it anymore and dances up to the front to sing along with the two of us, which leaves Mary Jule as the only Jordanaire. I look back at her during the song and she just shakes her head. At this age, she’s past the point of making an issue of Alice’s bossiness. Once our number is over, and after another round of hearty applause, we say good-bye to Elvwayne and thank him for his hospitality.

  By now it’s almost pitch dark outside, and a huge crowd of thousands is lined up in front of the gates of Graceland waiting on the vigil’s opening ceremony. “Dangit,” Virginia says when she takes in the crowd, “We’ll be here all night. We’ll have to think of a way to break in that line.”

  There must be ten thousand people waiting at the gates. Tonight there is no admission charge. Once the opening ceremony is over, fans are invited to walk up the driveway to Elvis’s gravesite, or the Meditation Garden as they call it, carrying their candles in quiet remembrance. The gates won’t close until the last person has paid her respects, no matter if it’s five o’clock tomorrow morning.

  I can’t help but wonder how many of these people have cashed in their life savings to attend Elvis Week, after all it’s certainly not cheap. One of the fans we talked with back at the Days Inn told us that she had sent a funeral spray to the Meditation Garden with over one hundred red roses. She told us that hers would be one of thousands.

  We have to walk around a sea of Elvis shrines scattered all over the boulevard. One fan has drawn a chalk rendering of Elvis on the asphalt underneath hundreds of votives in the shape of Elvis’s personal signature. Others have pictures, candles, and other paraphernalia, but all have set up lawn chairs next to their respective shrines. We stumble upon a candle table and we all pick up a free taper, each with a drip guard.

  When the ceremony begins, someone from Elvis Presley Enterprises stands at a podium in the distance, welcoming us and explaining the rules. He says it should be a solemn, quiet ceremony, and that we should keep our voices low. He further explains that the torches from the Meditation Garden will be brought to the front gates so each fan can light his candle. He reminds us that water stations have been set up throughout the property. It has to be ninety-two degrees outside and the sun went down over an hour ago. There’s a misting tent dubbed Kentucky Rain, after one of the King’s biggest hits, but we never saw it. There are more speeches by members of Elvis’s many international fan clubs, and finally the musical tribute starts with “Love Me Tender.”

  Over ten thousand Elvis fans start the long haul up the driveway to the Meditation Garden, where they will have time to pause for a moment and pay their respects before they are led back down the drive and out the gate. Virginia leads us as close to the front of the line as she can, but it still looks like five thousand other mourners are ahead of us. People are quiet and they are dead serious. Their heads are hung in grief. Many are crying.

  After an hour of standing in the same spot and never moving, we decide to move on ahead and squeeze in just behind the Elvis fan club from Denmark. The only way we know they are from Denmark is because their T-shirts say so in English. There are eight of them. All women. It goes without saying that they are decked out in Elvis garb, but none have gone to the lengths that we have. Not one of them is wearing a costume. Nonetheless, it’s obvious that their blood runs true-blue to the King.

  Virgy accidentally loses her footing and falls into one of them, which doesn’t set well from the start. Even though Virginia says she’s sorry, the woman does not seem to accept the apology. Instead she waves her hand in Virginia’s face and utters something in Danish. From then on, any time one of us makes a sound, even a sneeze or a clearing of the throat, the ladies from Denmark turn around and glare at us. One woman in the group actually has the nerve to turn around and give us a loud “shush.”

  It’s honestly not as easy as it seems to be totally quiet. Alcohol certainly has not helped the situation either. Not only has it turned the four of us into blabbermouths, but it’s kindled our saucy streaks. As hard as we try, we can’t keep ourselves from whispering. Silence has never been any of our strong suits.

  “Please be quiet,” one of the women says and jerks her head right back around. At least one of them speaks English.

  “I had no idea it was this serious,” Virgy whispers, and I can tell she’s on the verge of a laughing attack, which naturally sparks the same in the rest of us. Another minute goes by and Mary Jule has already forgotten she’s supposed to be close-mouthed. “How long do you think it’s gonna take for this line to even move,” she says, much louder than she should. “I sure don’t want to be here all night.”

  You’d have thought she’d damned the King himself by the way each woman in the Denmark fan club whips her head around. If looks could kill, all four of us would be lying out back in the Meditation Garden between Elvis Aaron and Jesse Garon (Elvis’s twin).

  Of course, this gets us all going, and it’s a much worse situation than laughing in church. Much, much worse. At this point all of us completely lose it. Our shoulders start shaking and there’s not a thing we can do about it. I’m afraid to catch Virginia’s eye for fear I’ll wet my pants. Pretty soon we are holding our stomachs and nothing can make us stop. Virgy hands her candle over to Alice and collapses on the ground.

  When we see two of the fan club members storm off toward an Elvis Week official, we decide to break and run. Even if we found another place in line, the hours it will take, and the amount of perspiration it will require to actually make it to the Meditation Garden is simply not worth it.

  Once we’re back at Alice’s car and we’re pulling out of the McDonalds, Virgy leans over and lays on Alice’s horn. She rolls down her window and screams, “Goodnight Elvis! See you next year.”

  * * *

  While driving home from Virginia’s the next day, I veer off through the historic part of town to stop at the Germantown Commissary for barbecue. I had called Kissie before leaving and told her not to cook and that I was treating her to her favorite food. She had spent the night at my house, yet again. When I told her our plans for the evening, she told me to just spend the night at Virginia’s house. “I know you girls,” she said. “No point in driving home that late by yourself.”

  As I’m leaving the restaurant with the yummy aroma of pit barbecue wafting through my car, I can’t resist looping around over to West Street. I love all the town’s history, especially the old buildings and homes. As I’m making a right onto Old Poplar Pike and crossing the railroad tracks, I notice a for-sale sign in a yard up ahead, so I slow my car down to a roll and stop in front of the cutest house I’ve ever seen.

  I can’t resist pulling in the driveway on the off chance this might be our ticket into a nicer home. After staring through my windshield at the blue Victorian with gingerbread on the screen door, gables, and the porch railing, I step out of my car and walk toward the house through a path of mature boxwoods. A wide set of steps leads up to a large front porch, which wraps around to the side.

  The house appears to be empty so I run up o
n the porch and peek in the front window. Although there are no lights on, I can see through to the inside and make out a gorgeous, intricately carved old staircase in the entry hall and large rooms with fireplaces off to each side. The front door seems to be original and still has its charming, old turn-style bell. Just for fun, I turn the lever but no one answers the door.

  Running around back, I almost trip over a hose that’s been left out in the yard. There’s another small porch and a parking lot just off the rear of the home. When peeking in the back door I instinctively place my hand on the doorknob and to my surprise the door swings open. After glancing around to see if anyone is watching, I steal inside to a small utility room. “Hello,” I call out. “Anybody here?” I say, while walking into an outdated kitchen. It’s large, but it’s old and would need a total overhaul. From the kitchen there’s another door that leads into a large dining room with a fireplace and as I walk on through my eyes are fixated on the high ceilings. I figure they must be twelve feet tall. The wide-board oak floors are original, too, it’s obvious by the way they softly creak under my tiptoeing feet; and I can tell by a few old cracks that the walls must be plaster. The more I look around, the more I’m falling in love—it’s absolutely charming.

  I can’t resist running upstairs for a brief run-through. It’s equally as beautiful with three bedrooms and a bathroom out in the hall. The sound of my stomach growling reminds me of our lunch in the car and I run back down the stairs and out the back door, but not before imagining Sarah and Issie’s little clothes hung in the closets and the sounds of cooking coming from the kitchen.

  As I’m walking down the front porch steps, I turn around and look back at the house. Instead of blue, I see weathered peach with a shiny ivory trim. The more I stare at it, the more focused it becomes. I can’t quite put my finger on what I’m feeling—it’s like that moment when you take an old tired dress from its hanger and slip it on, and suddenly it fits in all the right places—transforming both the dress and you. But this isn’t just the novelty of having found something new and pretty. I have an odd sensation that I’m coming home. Ever since leaving the house I shared with Baker—moving to Vermont, and now renting a temporary home—I haven’t felt a sense of belonging.

  I can feel the back of my head heat as the sun barrels through the trees, letting loose the deep summer rays. I’m sure to start perspiring through my T-shirt soon, and my hair is no doubt triple its normal size thanks to Memphis humidity. But I just can’t seem to tear my eyes away. It’s part cottage, part dollhouse—it practically oozes family and porch swings and peach daiquiris and a dog house in the backyard. Turning to the car, I take a final look and there it is—the Peach Blossom Inn sign.

  Of course it’s not really there, I tell myself. But I can just see it now, hanging there with the two peaches for the Os in the middle of “Blossom.” I try wiping away the mental picture but each time I do it floods right back. I think back to my beautiful sign lying on top of the garbage heap behind my Vermont inn, exactly where Helga had thrown it, ready to be burned in the next trash fire. Now it’s sitting in the garage with a few straggling boxes that were never unpacked after our return from the North.

  What would Frances Folk say? More importantly, I ask myself, what would Frances Folk do? Ignoring all sense of rationality, I sink to the ground underneath the large pecan tree in the front lawn. Resting on its protruding roots, I stare into the layers of overhanging leaves, letting my eyes adjust to the incoming sun. When I shut my eyelids, I can still see the silhouette of the stems and branches and I turn off my mind to everything but the images.

  When was I happy last? I mean, really happy—not just giggling with the girls, or bending over laughing with Kissie. I thought for so long it was when I was with Baker; sitting on our porch after we put the girls to sleep. My happiness was what I saw in his eyes—but now I’ve learned that was just a reflection, not the truth. So when was I really content? It comes to me more quickly than I thought. It was the night I opened the mail in Vermont, to find John Bergmann’s review of the newly opened Peach Blossom Inn. It was a clipping from Food and Wine and he said: “Superb cuisine. Warm ambiance with real Southern charm. Call well in advance for a fireside table.” It was the first acknowledgment that I had done something well, on my own.

  It’s all too clear. I’m so caught up in the possibilities that my mind is a hundred yards down the road by the time I open my car door. I’m picturing the grand-opening party. All of my friends will be there, Sarah and Issie will be dressed in beautiful hand-smocked dresses from the Women’s Exchange and they’ll greet our guests at the door. We’ll be toasting with expensive champagne and photographers from The Commercial Appeal and The Germantown News will be there to snap our picture, which will end up on the front page of the living section. Kissie will be wearing her most beautiful Sunday suit, the one she wore to my going-away luncheon, and she’ll accept accolades for her yeast rolls and other Southern delicacies she’s added to the menu.

  I imagine tables out on the porch for diners. And the linen tablecloths, and the dripless candles and the flowers and the … Have I lost my ever-loving mind? But the more I think about it the more I know that I was not half bad at it. Despite all the hard times I endured in Vermont with Baker and Helga, I learned how to run a business. I handled the staff, the scheduling, the payroll, the bills and taxes and I turned out to be a grand martini mixer after all.

  All I need to do is to find another Peter.

  Chapter Fifteen

  CHEF NEEDED Peach Blossom Inn—small, gourmet restaurant in mint condition. Must have nice attitude, pleasing personality, GOOD HYGIENE, and expertise in classic and nouvelle cuisine. Historic Germantown, 462 Old Poplar Pike, Memphis, Tennessee 38108. Call 901-555-8912 or apply in person.

  I have to give therapy a lot of credit. Well, I guess I have to give Frances Folk a lot of credit. Most people come to their senses when they seek professional psychological help. Me? I went utterly insane. In the ten weeks since I lost my mind, I fell in love with an old house, changed my life’s direction (again), decided to open a Memphis location of the Peach Blossom Inn, and tackled everything from antebellum restoration to liquor permits. Still, I’ve yet to find a chef. The applications have flooded my mailbox and I’ve had a slew of people show up at my door. Why in the world I would include “apply in person” in my ad is beyond me. Every time I get in the middle of something important here comes somebody else looking for a job. And many of them, it seems, haven’t even bothered to take the ad seriously. I’ve had more bad attitudes and stinky people show up here than I can shake a stick at.

  Thinking back to when I was searching for a chef in Vermont, and happened upon Peter, reminds me that there could be another jewel in my large pile of resumes. After narrowing it down to six, three women and three men, I contact all of them to meet me at the restaurant the day after tomorrow.

  The very first thing I did, after signing the closing papers, was hang my sign in the yard, right beside the old pecan tree. As soon as I knew my offer had been accepted, I ordered a large ivory post to hang the Peach Blossom Inn sign—my way of advertising the restaurant’s opening. It was as much a sign of my personal comeback as anything else, my own way of telling the Tootie Shootwells of Memphis that I was more than just Baker Satterfield’s ex-wife. The second thing I did was hire a designer to convert the old kitchen into a commercial one. I knew the girls would help me decorate out front but hiring someone who knew about installing the correct appliances, and to code, was mandatory. In just ten weeks, the kitchen is now ready and the drab blue Victorian home with cracked blue trim is now a gleaming peach painted lady with ivory spindles, spandrels, and gingerbread eaves. The inside is picture perfect, too, with both of the front rooms serving as dining areas. Porch seating will have to wait till the spring, when it warms up again, but as for the winter, I’m excited to have the fireplaces in the two front rooms to give the place a warm and cozy glow.

  Cashing in a good chu
nk of my savings was one of the riskiest things I’ve ever done—but Frances tells me that no reward comes without some amount of personal skydiving. So, I’ve ordered tables and chairs and all the necessary table adornments such as salt-and-pepper shakers, flower vases, and sugar holders. Alice found a restaurant in Mississippi that was going out of business and we drove down in a Ryder truck and purchased their entire inventory. All the cutlery, china, glassware, and even the pots and pans. They even had a brand-new Viking stove and a walk-in refrigerator. I figured out that all of it combined gave me a savings of 50 percent. Although I’m happy for my gain, I can’t help but feel bittersweet for the people who lost their business.

  There have been lots of kettle corn moments these days—that’s what Mama used to say when things are both happy and sad at the same time, like salty popcorn covered in burnt sugar. I can’t help but pinch myself every time I really sit (not that there’s time to actually sit) and think about starting another Peach Blossom Inn. As excited as I am, it’s hard to be decorating a house, setting up a life, hanging our family pictures when it’s just the three of us. Plus Roberta. And Kissie, of course. My entire definition of family has changed since last year.

  I close my laptop after confirming an interview with the last potential chef. It’s balanced on three boxes of linen napkins that I’ve stacked up to make a makeshift desk. I wipe my hands on my jeans and stare around at the half-filled spaces, freshly painted walls, and various mountains of tablecloths, utensils, and unpacked UPS boxes. Despite the melee of shipments, things have gone surprisingly well. I think it’s a sign this was simply meant to be. Kissie’s explanation is more spiritual. “When the Lawd wants somethin’ to happen, there ain’t no devil in hell that can stop it,” she says. I can tell she’s dying to take over the kitchen. I keep telling her she needs to be enjoying her golden years and no longer working but she tells me that if she ever really sits down she might as well die. Seeing as how that’s the last thing I want to happen, I tell her there’s plenty for her to do. Like supplying us with her yeast rolls, at least until a new chef learns how to make them.