Land Sakes

by Margaret A. Graham

  Holding tongs with his pinkie poking straight out, Percival lifted an ice cube and placed it in the glass and then put in another before pouring what looked like water.

  After serving us, Percival served himself and, carrying the wine with him, left to sit at one of the picnic tables under a tree.

  I looked at that plate set before me, and the only thing I recognized was a lettuce leaf. “What’s this?”

  With a forkful halfway to her mouth, Mrs. Winchester answered, “Caviar and avocado.”

  “Caviar?”

  I hesitated, but I was hungry, so I prayed and took a taste of it. All I tasted was cream cheese with lemon. Then I forked a bigger bite. That didn’t taste like nothing I had ever ate before. I took a sip of the Perrier. It was some kind of soda, but even though it had a fizz, the only thing I could say for it was it was wet and I was thirsty.

  I finished that plate in no time flat and could have eaten more, but if that salad was as rich as I thought it was, it would hold me until supper time. Caviar! Wait till I tell Beatrice!

  Percival wasted little time eating, but he kept turning up that bottle until he drank every drop. When he came back to the car, he cleared our tables, put the dishes and everything back in the cabinet, folded back the tables, and asked, “Is there anything else, madam?”

  She said no. Taking a towel and what looked like grooming brushes and stuff, he went back to wait for the dogs.

  “Do you think they’ll come back?” I asked Mrs. Winchester.

  “They always do.”

  And in a few minutes, they did. With heads held high and prancing like royalty, they emerged from the woods, trotting toward the picnic area, their leashes dragging behind them. Percival, frazzled and hot, stood up to take charge, and I decided to get out and help him.

  Nozzle Nose must have appreciated my help, because he didn’t put on airs so much and didn’t call me “madam.” “They have a mind of their own,” he repeated. “They only return when they’re good and ready.”

  I held the hounds while Percival went in the men’s room. He came out with a mop bucket full of water and started washing Desi’s muzzle. Lucy, standing by my side like the Duchess of Dogs, looked ready to go again should Desi bolt and take off.

  “Percival,” I said, “Mrs. Winchester keeps having me talk about my hometown and everything else I can think of. What’s with her?”

  He stood up, took off his glasses, and wiped his face on his sleeve. “Madam has lived all her days in a cocoon. She is a voyeur. What she knows about life she knows only as a spectator. She has never lived life.”

  Land sakes, that woman was in her sixties. What did he mean that she had never lived life?

  Percival finished washing Desi’s feet, gave him a hit-and-miss brush; then it was Lucy’s turn.

  Despite all the time it was taking us to get the dogs cleaned up, Mrs. Winchester did not get her body out of that car and go to the bathroom. I thought either her bladder got better mileage than mine or she had a potty in that Rolls.

  Well, she didn’t have a potty. When we got back on the road and were bypassing Knoxville, she told Percival to stop at one of the motels. In a few minutes he pulled into one of the better ones, got out, and opened the door on my side. I had to get out before Mrs. Winchester could, and, after she went inside, I stood there watching as she went past the desk. So that’s how she does it—uses a motel restroom for her pit stop.

  I got back in the car and sat there, going over in my mind what Percival had told me about her. He made her sound like a hermit, but she was too well-dressed to be one of them. Well, in my opinion, if not living life, as he put it, a body would have to be in a coma, in jail, or hiding out from the law.

  After Mrs. Winchester was back inside the car and we were on I-40, Nozzle Nose fairly flew. I reckon the wine inspired him to break the NASCAR speed record. As if I didn’t have enough to worry about, now we had a wino behind the wheel! Even Lucy looked alarmed, like any minute her hair would be standing on end. I held on to the armrest so tight my knuckles were white, but Mrs. Winchester had turned on the TV and was so glued to a soap opera she didn’t notice we were racing to break that record or our necks, one.

  Well, at least she wasn’t asking me for more stories. Every time a commercial came on, she plopped another chocolate in her mouth and offered the box to me. I wouldn’t let go the armrest to take a piece, but I was tempted. That was some good candy!

  By late afternoon, by the grace of God and the help of however many angels he sent, we were coming into Nashville, and Percival slowed down. Exiting the interstate for a parkway, we were soon rolling through the Opryland Complex. I can’t tell you how fabulous that place was—gardens and streams all over the place. It looked like acres and acres of trees and flowers, fountains, waterfalls, shops, eating places, all the like of that.

  When the Rolls came to a stop before the hotel entrance, a man in a uniform that would have done a palace guard proud opened the car door. I climbed out and Mrs. Winchester followed, leaving Lucy alone on the backseat.

  Percival proceeded to supervise the unloading of our luggage, and I followed Mrs. Winchester into the lobby. I couldn’t believe my eyes! That lobby was as big as all get out, a lot of red carpet with settees and chairs, a grand piano, palm trees, a crystal chandelier hanging from the ceiling, cut flowers everywhere you looked. I just stood there gawking! A staircase wound up to an open floor, and it was easy to imagine Scarlett O’Hara coming down those steps and making a grand entrance.

  I tell you, that lobby was out of this world. I picked up a brochure at the desk to find out more about the place.

  Mrs. Winchester did not stop at the desk—she just told a bellhop to take our luggage to the Presidential Suite. He knew her name, so I figured she was well-known in Opryland. Did I hear her right? Presidential Suite? She beckoned for me to follow. “Come on, it’s 5:00.”

  I followed in the wake of that wide load making her way through the crowd, hurrying as fast as she could hurry.

  We landed in the Jack Daniel’s Saloon. The walls all had pictures and stuff about Jack Daniel—not the whiskey, the man who made the whiskey. Being inside that saloon was like being inside a barrel—it was pitch dark. Mrs. Winchester told the waiter, “In the corner.” I followed her groping along behind him. With her wearing dark glasses, she might as well have been blind.

  As soon as he got us seated, the man handed us a wine and liquor list. Mrs. Winchester didn’t bother to look at hers, just told him to bring her a dry martini straight up. He turned to me. “And you, madam?”

  “Sweet tea with a slice of lemon and lots of ice.” Mrs. Winchester’s mouth fell open. “You don’t drink?”

  “Never have except for a toddy now and then when I’ve been sick. Mama used to make syllabub at Christmastime, and one time I tasted beer, but other than that, I’ve been a teetotaler all my life.”

  The way her mouth hung open you’d think I had escaped from the funny farm.

  While we were waiting, I read that brochure and looked at the pictures. The whole complex was under glass with tropical gardens, a river, and pathways. I saw where they had a forty-four-foot waterfall and a light and laser show. Sure hope we get to see that, I thought. They even had showboat cruises. All my life I’d wanted to go on one of them paddle-wheel boats. And then there was the Grand Ole Opry Theater. I used never to miss the Grand Ole Opry on radio, with stars like Roy Acuff, Chet Atkins, and Minnie Pearl. Some of them had died, but a few were still around. If the price was right, I would’ve liked to see a Grand Ole Opry show.

  I offered the brochure to Mrs. Winchester, but she didn’t care to see it.

  The bar was filling up with mostly men come for the happy hour, but I only saw one table where the men and women seemed happy; they were laughing. Perched on the bar stools, the others weren’t talking much, just drinking. Humped over their booze, they looked like so many crows side by side on a telephone wire.

  I wasn’t comfortable sitting in
there with people guzzling demon rum and the like, waiting for the devil’s joy juice to kick in, and with my lungs breathing in their smoke.

  I thought about something Splurgeon wrote: “Shun the company that shuns God, and keep the company God keeps.” Well, I would do that if I could, but I had signed on to this job and I had to see it through.

  To make conversation I said, “Can you believe—they’ve got pictures of Jack Daniel on the back of every one of these chairs.”

  “Yes, I see. While we’re in Nashville, we’ll visit his grave.”

  “Jack Daniel’s grave?”

  She nodded.

  Land sakes! With everything there is to see and do in Opryland, it looks like she could forget dead people for a while.

  The waiter served us our drinks. Mine had a lemon slice, and hers was served in a V-shaped stem glass with an olive stuffed with something. “I thought you said you wanted a dry martini.”

  “I did.”

  “What you got there looks wet to me.”

  A smile creased her fat face. “Dry means it’s all vodka… Absolut vodka with maybe a drop or two of vermouth added.”

  That didn’t make a bit of sense to me.

  I took a sip of what passed for tea. It tasted like dishwater; must’ve come out of a can.

  After that, we didn’t talk, and once she had swilled down the drink, she ordered another one.

  While she waited, fidgeting with her napkin, I stirred my tea and watched the bartender wiping glasses.

  After downing the second martini, Mrs. Winchester must have been feeling some effect. “I feel sorry for people who don’t drink,” she said, “because when they wake up in the morning, that is as good as they’re going to feel all day.”

  She was nuts if she thought that was going to get a rise out of me. Mrs. Winchester ordered a third drink, and I wondered how many it would take before I would have a fall-down drunk on my hands. It was beginning to dawn on me that a fall-down drunk might very well be what Barbara meant by telling me her mother had spells of light-headedness. Well, light-headed she may be, but the rest of her was all heavyweight, and I do mean heavy! If she fell down, I’d have a mischief of a time getting her up.

  The martini was served, and Mrs. Winchester swirled it around once or twice, fished out the olive, and forked it over at me.

  That olive had a cheese filling and was so delicious I could have eaten a jar full. Right after I swallowed it, I began to sense the bartender was watching me. I could just feel his eyes looking my way, and it made me uncomfortable. He was probably grinning—watching this country bumpkin sitting in a saloon for the first time. Or was it because he wanted to see what I would do when Mrs. Winchester fell out the chair? If that was it, I did not see one thing funny about it.

  Out of the blue, Mrs. Winchester told me, “I’m a poet,” and started fumbling around in her purse.

  “Oh?”

  Finding a slip of paper, she held it to the light of a little lamp on the table, trying to read it. “Here’s one I wrote… I wrote it the other day. I had Percival…” Frowning and holding the paper this way and that, she kept trying to read it. “I had Percival drive me to the… to the… cemetery in Smithfield… That’s where… where Ava Gardner’s buried…”

  If she’d take off them dark glasses, maybe she could read whatever it was she was trying to read.

  “She’s buried beside her father… with a granite marker… Ava Lavinia Gardner.” She gave up trying to read what was on the paper. “Smithfield was her hometown… Did you know that? Did you know Ava Gardner was from… from North Carolina?… Brought up on a tobacco farm? She was brought up on a tobacco farm… Do you remember the men… she married?”

  I didn’t remember.

  “She married Mickey Rooney… then she married… Artie Shaw… then she married Frank Sinatra. Don’t you remember?”

  “I think I remember her marrying Frank Sinatra.”

  “Good,” she said, like I had passed a test or something. “Here, read my poem.”

  I took the paper and read to myself:

  Here lies Ava, thrice married,

  Her choices were certainly varied,

  She got a Mickey, became one of Artie Shaw’s eight,

  Marriage with Frank was her belated fate.

  I was surprised; she really was a poet! “How do you do that? How do you make all them lines rhyme like that?”

  As she played with her glass, holding it in both hands and rolling the last swallow around in the bottom, she looked pleased with herself. “It’s a gift… That’s what it is… it’s a gift… just comes to me…”

  “Must be,” I said, impressed. I handed the poem back to her. “That’s the only kind of poem I like—the kind that rhyme. Do you write a lot of them?”

  “Oh, sure. Tomorrow…” She beckoned the waiter again.

  Uh-oh. One more drink and I’ll have to call the rescue squad. I looked around, hoping to see Nozzle Nose. He was probably in his room in the hotel. “Where’s Percival?”

  Something tickled her. “Probably taking Desi and Lucy to the pet hotel… or polishing… that precious motorcar. Or he’s reading… he’s a bookworm.” She drank that last swallow and looked around for the waiter but didn’t see him.

  Turning back to me, she went on about Nozzle Nose. “Percival… Percival’s in love with the Rolls.” That got her giggling. “It’s his mistress… Nothing is too good for her… The gas he fills her tank with… the gas… has to have the highest octane money can buy.”

  That struck her very funny. I’d heard of drunks who feel good at first, then after a while get mean or start blubbering, so I figured I better do something right away. “Mrs. Winchester, I think we better go.”

  “Must we?”

  “Yes, we must, or I’ll have to pick you up off the floor.”

  She giggled again, and I got up and walked around the table to help her out of the chair. “Want me to get the check?”

  She waved that aside like I shouldn’t bother.

  Well now, I wasn’t walking out of that joint without paying. I looked around but couldn’t find a waiter. Nobody was in sight but the bartender, so I glanced his way; he gave me the high sign that it was taken care of and winked. That man must have a tic!

  I took Mrs. Winchester’s arm, and with her leaning on me, we made our way out of that den of iniquity back to the lobby. Seeing the two of us, people smiled and got out of our way. A bellhop ducked out of sight. I tell you, it was embarrassing.

  Fortunately, no one was in the elevator. I propped Mrs. Winchester in a corner and started to press the button. “What floor?”

  “Top… top floor,” she managed to say.

  I punched the highest number. The door slid shut, and when the elevator started moving up, I grabbed on to her so she wouldn’t fall. “You got the key?”

  She shook her head.

  Well, how in blue blazes did she expect us to get in that Presidential Suite? I didn’t even know the number. “Do you know the room number?”

  With a wave of her little fat hand she let me know it was no concern of hers.

  This was a pretty kettle of fish! What would I do with her while I went back downstairs to the desk for a key? I sure as shooting didn’t want to go through the ordeal of taking her back down there.

  Reaching the top floor, the elevator door rolled open, and I pressed the button to hold it open until I could get her out.

  I got her out, but the trick was holding her up while I reached around to release the door. I was fit to be tied. A maid in the hallway scooping a cigarette butt from a waste thing saw us, dropped what she was doing, and hurried to help me. “Mrs. Winchuster!”

  Of course, the maid had the key, opened the door for us, and helped me get Mrs. Winchester inside. “Your luggage arrived,” the maid said. The phone was ringing, so I let her take care of Mrs. Winchester while I answered it.

  “Hello?”

  “Miss E.? It’s me, Barbara.”

  I wa
s surprised. “How did you know where to call us?”

  “The secretary gave me your itinerary. Mother always stays at the Gaylord Opryland Hotel. How are things going?”

  “Things could be better.”

  “I’m sorry. She’s drunk, isn’t she?”

  “Not pie-eyed drunk, but not too far from it. Is this what you meant when you said your mother has spells of light-headedness?”

  “Miss E., you’ll have to forgive me for tricking you into this, but I had to do it. If anybody in the whole wide world can help her, it’s you.”

  “Well, this is a lot more than I bargained for. You should have played fair with me, Barbara. I don’t know how you think I can help her. The way it stands now, if I could I’d be outta here on the next bus!”

  “You’re mad at me?”

  “No, Barbara, I guess I can’t be mad at you, because for some reason the Lord led me to take this job. That means I’m in for the long haul… But you could have told me.”

  “I’m sorry; I hope you can forgive me. We’re all praying for you, Miss E.”

  “You better. How are things going at Priscilla Home?”

  She groaned. “Oh, Miss E., you wouldn’t believe this director! Now that you’re gone, she’s worse. She walks around here like she’s the warden.”

  “Come now, she’s new. Give her a break… Remember, it’s like Splurgeon says, ‘No case is hopeless while Jesus lives’… Barbara, don’t you want to talk to your mother?”

  “No, not really. We never talk.” She was quiet a minute. “Miss E., things aren’t the same here without you. Everybody misses you.”

  “Well, Barbara, hang in there and keep praying. How’s Nancy?”

  “Has her hands full.”

  We talked on about ten or fifteen minutes—maybe longer. Barbara said all the Opryland staff knew her mother and looked out for her. “It’s the same in all those other hotels she visits. They all look out for her.”

  “Well, it looks like I can use all the help I can get.”

  “All the girls send their love.”

  “You give them mine, Barbara.”

  I could hear their bell ringing.

  “There goes the bell for dinner, Miss E., so I’ll have to hang up. We love you. We’ll be praying.”