Land Sakes

by Margaret A. Graham

  That thing stayed with me long after I went in my room to get ready for bed. I took a quick bath, packed a few things, and kept thinking about it. Love don’t make no sense a-tall. It’s pure nonsense. She won’t never get a life if she keeps holding a torch for him. Maybe sometime I can come up with some way to help her face the facts.

  By 10:00 the next morning we were on the road going west, but we had left in such a hurry that I forgot the jewelry I had put in the safe. We had to turn around and go back to the hotel, and I tell you, Nozzle Nose was spitting gumdrops! It took a few minutes for me to put the apron on under my skirt, so, all in all, we probably lost an hour.

  For the next seven days we traveled all the way to Salt Lake City, Utah, and to the Grand America Hotel. Once we got there and were settled in the Presidential Suite, I wrote Beatrice to tell her about the trip.

  Dear Beatrice,

  I don’t have time to write you all the details about why we had to leave Chicago in a hurry. Since we left we’ve been on the road so much I couldn’t write before now. Percival gave me a map so I could keep track of where we been. Remember that big orange geography book we had in fourth grade? Well, I’m glad we learned about the states and capitals now that I’m seeing some of them. Counting Illinoise, we been through four states, Ioway, Nebraska, and Whyoming to get to Utah. We stayed in hotels which were plenty fine but not like the one at Opryland or the Peninsula or this one. Can’t tell you how many wheat fields we’ve passed, how many bridges we crossed, how many mountains we traveled, and how many times we ate Kentucky Fried Chicken along the way. That’s right, KFC!

  Mrs. Winchester has really took to the Colonel’s chicken ever since she ate it for the first time. Percival didn’t want to drive the Rolls anywhere near a Kentucky Fried Chicken place so he’d park around the corner and get out and go get the chicken.

  While we were on the road I’ll bet Mrs. Winchester ate six pounds of them good chocolates she’s got, and I tell you, she might as well rub them on her hips because that’s right where they’re going. She got me to telling her stories about Live Oaks and it brought back memories of the good old days.

  One Sunday in Nebraska I got Mrs. Winchester to go to church with me. I was wishing we could go to a church in Lincoln, Neb. You know that’s where they broadcast Back to the Bible and I figured there’s good churches in that town, but she said she couldn’t go to any city church where somebody might know who she was. We found this nice little country church and the preacher preached the gospel, although he seemed worn out with doing it. I sat there thinking that if he knew somebody as needy as Mrs. Winchester was listening to him, he would get fired up again and preach his heart out.

  After we come out the ladies stood around trying not to stare but itching to know who we were. We didn’t hang around for them to find out.

  I didn’t ask Mrs. Winchester how she liked the sermon but she was probably disappointed that it wasn’t like the black church we went to where they sang “Dem Bones.” I guess I haven’t told you about that, but the praying and singing in that church really blessed my soul. I can’t get “Dem Bones” out of my head. Don’t worry, I don’t sing out loud. Ha! Ha! Now that we’re in Salt Lake City it did cross my mind that if I had a mind to do it, I could throw the Mormon Tabernacle Choir into a tizzy fit. All I’d have to do would be sneak in there and when the music got soft and they were holding those low notes with all the breath they got, I’d whoop out the way I sing, and land sakes they’d go all to pieces, faint dead away, or get historical. Ha! Ha!

  I tell you, this is one pretty place. There’s snow-capped mountains everywhere you look so I don’t have to tell you there’s ski slopes, bike trails, and places to ride horses. It tickles me to see all these hikers and bikers coming in from roughing it. What sissy-britches! They head straight for the steam room or sauna, get massages, and have themselves wrapped in a cocoa butter or green tea wrap. Then they come out still thinking they’re rugged as John Wayne.

  As for this Grand America Hotel, I never been in a art gallery but this must be the next best thing. As well as having marble in all the colors of the rainbow and polished brass, oak wood, and ironwork everywhere, they have got statues all over the place, none naked that I have saw, and heavy antique furniture with lots of gold decoration that’s sure to have come out of some palace in Europe. There’s big tapestries hanging on the walls. Remember that tapestry salesman who used to come through Live Oaks going door to door? Elmer’s wife went batty over them tapestries so Elmer bought her one. Well, she’d really have a fit over these they got here.

  Well, Beatrice, nice as this trip is, a body gets tired of living in presidential suites and eating high on the hog. What I wouldn’t give for some stew beef and rice, collard greens, cornbread, and buttermilk. I better knock it off and go mail this.

  Yours very truly,

  Esmeralda

  P.S. That cruise will last seven days. If you’re still in Seattle when we’re coming home, maybe I’ll get to see you.

  When I dropped the letter in the mail slot and came back to the suite, I picked up the newspaper they leave at the door every morning. The maids were busy in the living room, polishing the furniture and arranging fresh flowers; Mrs. Winchester was still sleeping, so I took the paper in my room and glanced at it. I knew better than to start reading it because I’d waste the time I had for devotions.

  It was the middle of the afternoon when two hairdressers, one of them a very sissy man, came from the salon to do Mrs. Winchester’s hair. That’s when I picked up that paper again and went out on the balcony to read. Little did I know I was in for the surprise of my life!

  14

  When I read a newspaper I usually don’t pay much attention to the movie ads and such because I’m too busy to take in shows even if they are fit to watch. But for some reason I did take a look-see at what was happening in the entertainment department. There was this big ad about a symphony at the Abravanel Hall, and I thanked my lucky stars I didn’t have to sit through a concert like that, listening to highbrow music. Albert and Lenora live and breathe that classical stuff.

  However, in that ad there was this name—Dora Todd! The blood rushed to my head. Could that be our Dora? It had to be! Dora had played her harmonica in Carnegie Hall—I saw it on TV. And didn’t Albert tell me she was going to be in Lincoln Center in the fall? My heart was beating a mile a minute.

  Dora was at Priscilla Home when I was housemother there, and, as she put it, the Lord lit a stub of a candle inside her; her life was changed. As Splurgeon says, “Candles lit by God, the devil cannot blow out.” She was a mountain girl, poor as Job’s turkey, but she liked that highbrow music so much that after she went back home she learned to play it on the harmonica. None of us knew anything about that until she started sending big donations to Priscilla Home. Since we thought she was dirt poor, we wondered where she got the money to send us. Then, that night when we saw Dora on TV, it explained everything—she was making big money in the recording business.

  Alongside the ad in the newspaper was a write-up about the program, and sure enough, there was a paragraph about Dora Todd, the guest soloist. It described her as “a renowned Appalachian virtuoso, a brilliant performer, a pioneer in giving the harmonica a classical voice.”

  I jumped up and ran back inside. “Where’s the Abravanel Hall?”

  The man fixing Mrs. Winchester’s hair looked at me as much as to say, “The Abravanel is not for people like you,” but I couldn’t care less what he thought.

  The lady hairdresser answered, “Madam, you would need a cab.”

  “Or the rail,” the man added, smirking.

  Mrs. Winchester, her head wrapped in a towel, asked, “Why, Esmeralda? Is there something there you would like to see?”

  I was so excited I was about to jump out of my skin. “Mrs. Winchester, it’s Dora! She’s performing tonight with the Utah Symphony. Our very own Dora, who was at Priscilla Home when I was housemother there, she’s gonna play h
er harmonica.”

  “Oh, you must go, Esmeralda. By all means, you must go. Call down to the desk. They’ll get you a ticket. Percival will drive you there.”

  That prissy man smirked. “When I called, they were sold out.”

  Well, I reckon that because my call came from Mrs. Winchester’s suite, they were not sold out. The desk clerk called back to tell me a ticket was reserved for me at the Abravanel box office.

  When I called Percival he was anything but pleased that he had to drive me to the hall, but he said he’d have the car in front when I was ready to go.

  So far, so good. Now what should I wear? I figured my suit would be okay. After I put it on, it needed a little something, so I added a big pin at the neck. Then I fixed my hair and face.

  “You look nice,” Mrs. Winchester said but added, “If you’d rather wear a dress, I have several you could wear for an evening like this.”

  I thanked her but said no. What makes her think I’m a size 20? It was 5:00, time for happy hour, and I was praying Mrs. Winchester would not get so loaded I’d have to stay home with her.

  She chose Earl’s Lounge and had only two drinks before we went to dinner. I really believe she was limiting herself on my account. I was too excited to eat and, for whatever reason, she hardly ate anything either.

  We got back to the suite in plenty of time for me to get to the concert, so I made a pit stop, messed with my hair a bit, and put on fresh lipstick.

  Since I was going out in that jungle, I stashed the jewelry in the safe where it would be safer than around my waist. I took everything out of my pocketbook except a few dollars and enough identification in case I got mugged.

  Percival was so cross about having to take me to the hall he did not speak all the way there. Once we got through the traffic and had eased up in front of the theater door, he snapped, “Madam, after the concert, you will find me here. Should you be detained, I will wait for you but only until quarter past eleven. Do you understand?”

  “Percival, I am not deef and dumb!” Then I gave him his comeuppance. “See if you can make your way through this crowd to the box office and bring me my ticket.” Aggravated, he got out and slammed the door behind him.

  Expensive-looking cars were bumper-to-bumper behind the Rolls, and people—men in tuxes and ladies in evening clothes wearing jewels and fur stoles—were getting out and making their way inside the theater. I was glad to see that there were a few women who were not so dressed up. For sure, they were real music lovers willing to brave the social set.

  As I sat in the Rolls waiting, I was so excited I thought I’d better make a pit stop once inside. I felt so nervous, wondering how I would let Dora know I was there. I could write her a note, but would she get it?

  Percival came back with the ticket. I thanked him and got out of the car.

  There was such a mob that I practically had to elbow my way into the lobby; I didn’t want to risk losing my place, so I didn’t go to the restroom. Then I waited for a while before it was my turn to be ushered in.

  My seat was near the front, the third from the aisle. I sat down and started rummaging around in my bottomless pit for something to write with. I found a ballpoint pen and a note pad I got at the Peninsula. Land sakes, them musicians onstage were making such a hullabaloo tuning up their instruments I could hardly think. Looks like they would get that over with before they come on stage. I decided I’d just write Dora that I was there, third seat, fifth row, and ask her not to leave before we got together. But when I tried to write, I discovered that ballpoint was bone dry. Frantically, I was trying to find another pen or pencil—mad at myself for not making sure I had it before I came—when here comes a couple claiming the seats between me and the aisle. I could smell his liquor and her perfume before they sat down, which told me they were not very classy. He was fat and about three sheets to the wind. While the usher waited, they fumbled around getting seated.

  I said, “Psst!” to get the usher’s attention. “Next time you come this way, I got a message for you.”

  Once the lady got seated next to me, I asked her, “Excuse me, do you have a pen?” She didn’t answer, just mumbled something to the man beside her. He passed me his gold-plated fountain pen. I scribbled the note, passed the pen back to him with a thank-you, and waited for the usher to show up.

  I was so nervous! And it was so noisy in there that when the usher did come back, I had to reach over the couple and nearly yell for him to hear me. “It’s for Dora Todd,” I said, poking the note toward him. “Please give it to her as soon as you can.”

  He read the note by his flashlight and frowned. “I’m not allowed to go backstage.”

  “Oh, but you must—how can I… she’s a friend of mine—”

  “Okay, after the concert, go to the stage entrance in back of the hall. All the artists come out that door. You can’t miss her.”

  “Are you sure you can’t give her my note?”

  “No, ma’am. I’m not allowed.”

  “Well, who is? Is there a manager here?”

  Something was happening to the lights. The usher left, and then the conductor came out on stage—his long white hair all bushy and uncombed. Everybody was clapping. The concert was about to begin.

  The audience got quiet, but I was nervous and uneasy about finding Dora. I started talking a mile a minute to that lady beside me. “Dora is a wonderful girl—comes from the mountains of Tennessee—born in a holler and lived in that holler all her life. That girl can do anything—skin a deer… butcher it—”

  The conductor bowed, stepped up on the podium, and raised his arms.

  I rattled on. “If she likes you she’ll do anything under the sun for you, but if she don’t like you, you might as well hang it up. It’s a miracle I’m here—we been traveling. No idea I’d see her here. Dora use to wear an old hunting coat, never took it off—”

  The woman turned to the man, her husband, I guess, and they started whispering back and forth. Somebody behind me went “Shhh,” so I shut up.

  The conductor, with his arms raised over his head and holding that little stick, looked over the players from right to left, I guess to see if anybody was missing or else warning every last one of them not to miss a note. Once he commenced waving that stick this way and that, the racket commenced.

  Well, to be fair, the music did start out slow and easy, but it wasn’t long before every part was sounding off at once, a racket loud enough to wake the dead.

  Yet when that number ended, the people clapped and shouted “Bravo!” like they enjoyed it. Land sakes, I bet half the people sitting there didn’t like it any better than me but clapped because that was the thing to do. Three-sheets-to-the-wind didn’t go for it; he fell asleep during the music and slept right through the clapping.

  I suffered through one number after another, each one as bad as the one before, with no time to recover in between, but that would be a small price to pay if I got to see Dora.

  Finally, it dawned on me to look at the program to see when she would come on. Before I counted down to where she was scheduled to play, a man walked out onstage and started introducing her. “And now, ladies and gentlemen, here is the one we’ve all been waiting for, Miss Dora Todd, Appalachian recording star and harmonica virtuoso.”

  When I saw Dora walk out on that stage wearing that old hunting coat, I could not help myself—I jumped to my feet and commenced clapping as hard as I could. Seeing me on my feet, the rest of that crowd started getting up out of their seats and clapping. Three-sheets-to-the-wind came to and looked around.

  Finally, the clapping quieted down, and we all sat down again. The conductor took his time getting the music started, but once it began, it was slow and sweet. Even so, for me it went on too long before Dora lifted the harmonica to her lips. A hush fell over the place; she began playing softly a melody that went right to my heart. I don’t know what she was playing, but it was the prettiest music I had ever heard in my whole life. It just seemed to float i
n the air like melodies from heaven, and I am not ashamed to say, my eyes brimmed over and tears spilled down my cheeks. I could have listened to Dora playing all night.

  When she got done, the applause sounded like thunder and kept on while she bowed a lot. She tried to get offstage, but the crowd wouldn’t hear to it. “Encore! Encore!” they shouted.

  So she came out again and played a number that was real snappy. The crowd started clapping in time with the music, and even Three-sheets-to-the-wind sat up and took notice. I don’t know when I’ve ever been so happy!

  That was a night I will never forget as long as I live. I couldn’t wait to tell Albert and Lenora I had seen Dora onstage in person. I sat through the intermission and put up with a bunch more orchestra specials, hoping each one would be the last. I couldn’t wait to get out of there and get to that back entrance.

  15

  After the concert ended, that couple kept sitting, waiting for everybody else to get out before they would move. I looked at the other way out, but that long row of people was hardly moving at all. I saw what I had to do. I said, “Excuse me,” and crawled over them two, blocking traffic, and squeezed into the jam-packed aisle.

  Moving like cold molasses toward the lobby, I was as nervous as could be about having to find that stage entrance and getting there before Dora was out the door and gone. Pushing and shoving my way, I got past a few of them snail-paced people, but it didn’t help much. I was among the last to get outside into the cool night air.

  Frantic, I ran around the building. Two musicians carrying their instrument cases were coming out a door. That’s it; that’s the stage door! I hurried down there, praying I hadn’t missed her. I took up a position about twenty or thirty feet from the door with my back to the wall so no mugger could come at me from behind, and watched for her, praying every minute. The two musicians were standing on the sidewalk, trying to hail a cab. Just as I was about to ask them musicians where Dora was, they piled into a cab and were whisked away.

  Nobody else came out that door; the sidewalk was deserted. My heart was sinking; I must have missed her. I was on the verge of going inside to ask somebody if she had left when a big car full of men pulled alongside the curb. One man got out, and the car sped away. I wondered about asking him but then saw he was coming straight toward me. What’s this? It don’t look good! He was a big man, dressed in a suit and tie. Before I knew what was happening, he braced his arms on either side of me, his hands flat against the wall.