Land Sakes

by Margaret A. Graham

  “How about driving a truck?”

  “Truck drivers are tough too.”

  “Percival, where’s your faith?”

  He didn’t answer me. I reached in my pocketbook and handed him a Gospel of John. “Try this.”

  Flipping open the pages, he mumbled, “My mother had a New Testament she used to read… I don’t know what happened to it. Thanks, Miss E.” He slipped the Gospel in his pocket. “What are we going to have for dessert?”

  “I’ll take whatever you order. Percival…” I was on the verge of asking him if he knew Mrs. Winchester loved Philip, but I thought better about it and didn’t ask. I probably should keep that to myself.

  Maybe if we get through tomorrow without any more excitement, we can settle down on the boat and then I’ll try to find some way to help her face the facts.

  21

  The next morning the telephone woke me up. It was Barbara. “Miss E., where have you been? I lost track of you—is everything okay?”

  “Yes, we’re okay. How are things at Priscilla Home?”

  “That’s what I wanted to tell you. That war horse of a director has left, and the board is looking for a replacement.”

  “I’m sorry she didn’t work out. Do you know if they have any prospects?”

  “No, I don’t know.”

  “This must be hard on Nancy.”

  “It is, but we’re all trying to do everything we can to make it easy for her. How is Mother?”

  “She’s doing okay. We leave tomorrow, you know.”

  “Yes, I know. You’ll enjoy that cruise. Did the dogs give Percival much trouble?”

  “At times they’ve been a handful.”

  “I guess Mother has dragged you to cemeteries all over the country.”

  “It’s not been bad. Today we’re going to Port Coquitlam to visit the grave of Terry Fox.”

  “For goodness sake, who’s he?”

  “Your mother told me a little bit about him last night. He was eighteen when he lost his right leg to cancer. Then after a couple of years he decided to run all the way across Canada to raise money for cancer research.”

  “That’s amazing.”

  “It is. Howsoever, the cancer came back on him and he couldn’t finish the race. In a few months he died, but people were so inspired by his courage they raised a lot of money in his honor—as much as three hundred million dollars, Mrs. Winchester said.”

  “That’s great. Well, have fun. Listen, I gotta get off the phone. Bon voyage! Take lots of pictures!”

  “I’ll send you a postcard. Give my love to everybody.”

  “I will. Bye, now.”

  After I hung up, Mrs. Winchester asked me who that was.

  “Barbara.”

  “Oh.”

  “Mrs. Winchester, you don’t have to answer this if you don’t want to, but does Barbara know you are not her real mother?”

  “Oh yes, she knows. You see, Philip’s mistress was married to another man when Barbara was born, so everything about the pregnancy and birth was kept secret. It was prearranged that when the baby was born, Philip was to have total custody. The woman is still his mistress, at least one of them, but since Barbara grew up calling me Mother, she still does.”

  “Then you raised Barbara?”

  “Heavens, no! I lived in Newport, and Philip brought her up in his West Palm Beach home and sent her to private schools. Our paths seldom crossed, but Philip had her call me Mother to make it appear to be on the up-and-up. When she was old enough, he told her the truth. Barbara felt bad about it and feels especially sorry for me.”

  “I see,” I said, but I really didn’t. How could any woman put up with such an arrangement? He is one low-down, mean, stinking, trashy, common man! But I knew better than to say anything; I’d say too much and be sorry. So I changed the subject. “Mrs. Winchester, it’s late and we better get dressed if we want to have that brunch today.”

  “Brunch? Good. That will give us an early start to Port Coquitlam.”

  Traffic was heavy, so it took us a while to get to Port Coquitlam. Once we were in the town we followed Shaughnessy Street, then turned onto Prairie Avenue. Percival turned again on Oxford, and the cemetery was on the right. Mrs. Winchester and I got out and walked to the lower section of the cemetery, where we found Terry Fox’s stone. It was black and about knee-high.

  Thinking about that young man dying so young made me sad. So many healthy young people seem to waste their lives, but when you come across one like Terry Fox, it makes you realize how wonderful some of them are. What courage he must have had. I hoped Mrs. Winchester’s poem would do him justice.

  As soon as we were back in the car she took out her pen and the moleskin book and started scribbling. After she finished writing, she read what she had written, tore it up, and started writing another one.

  It took her quite a long time to finish. “Here,” she said, “what do you think of this one?”

  I read it to myself:

  Terry Fox was Canada’s proud answer,

  To those like him who fought leg cancer,

  With artificial leg he ran the race,

  In donors’ hearts he found a place.

  Great sums now in his name are raised

  A symbol of hope and courage praised.

  “That says it all, Mrs. Winchester. You have a great gift.”

  That pleased her, and I was glad it did. If ever a body needed a little recognition, it was Mrs. Winchester. From what she had told me, that husband of hers made a doormat out of her, and I doubt if he or anybody else had ever sung her praises about anything. I was stewing inside. All her life she’s lived in a narrow rut. It’s like she is dead while she is living, buried alive, you might say. Percival, too. He’s in a rut, and it’s like Splurgeon says, “The only difference between a rut and a grave is the depth.” I was beginning to really love them two, and I didn’t want to part company with them before I saw them out of their ruts and hopefully on the road to heaven.

  On the way back to the hotel, Percival stopped at a bookstore. Without explaining why, he got out and went inside.

  Mrs. Winchester looked at me and I looked at her. “That’s odd,” she said. “He always lets me out before he goes shopping. This must be something urgent.”

  “He likes to read, so he’s probably in there buying a book.”

  “Usually he gets books from the library.”

  We waited and we waited. Finally, he came out carrying a package.

  I think Mrs. Winchester was as curious as I was, but we didn’t say anything. Percival called back to us, asking if we’d like to see if the ship was in dock, and of course, we did.

  The port of Vancouver was quite some distance away, but Percival was an expert at getting through traffic. He had not got lost once on this entire trip. He managed to drive us close to the pier called the Canada Place, where the Amsterdam was docked. From there we could see not only the Amsterdam but also several other ships in dock.

  I tell you, it was a sight to see—big boats, little tugboats, and boxcars stacked one on top of the other. I saw another passenger liner, but it didn’t hold a candle to the Amsterdam—that was one big boat and was so well-kept it looked brand-new.

  “The Amsterdam is the flagship of the Holland American fleet,” he said. “Beautiful, isn’t she?”

  Mrs. Winchester was impressed too. “Percival, how big is she?”

  “She’s nearly eight hundred feet long, has ten passenger decks, and twelve elevators.”

  “Where will we be staying?”

  “You have the Penthouse Verandah Suite right up there with the captain. You’ll have your own verandah where you can have lunch and enjoy the scenery as you float by.”

  I asked him if he had been on this cruise.

  He smiled. “No, but I read everything about this ship and the cruise you’re taking. You’ll sail the Inside Passage to Ketchikan, Juneau, Glacier Bay, and Sitka.”

  As we turned to get back in the car, he
said, “Oh, by the way, I read that Gospel of John last night.”

  “You did?”

  “Yes, and today I bought myself a Bible. While you and Mrs. Winchuster are cruising, I plan to start reading it all the way through.”

  “That’s great, Percival!”

  Oh, I tell you, I was thrilled to hear that, and I promised myself I would pray for him every day.

  I climbed in the car behind Mrs. Winchester, and Percival shut the door. Just as he started the engine, I noticed a black car in back of us; it pulled out when we did and followed close behind. I kept looking out the back window, and that car followed us until we were on the freeway. Somehow a truck cut in between us, and after that I lost sight of the car. It might be nothing, but I didn’t like the looks of it.

  22

  The next day as we were boarding the ship, I kept a sharp lookout for anything suspicious. As far as I could tell, everything and everybody seemed to be on the up-and-up. White uniformed officers and crew welcomed us like we were royalty, and I breathed a sigh of relief now that we were safely aboard.

  A white-gloved, foreign-looking steward took us up on the elevator to the Penthouse Verandah Suite. When I walked in, the first thing I noticed were the windows; they went from the floor to the ceiling. What a view we would have once we were out of the harbor! I couldn’t wait to see those snow-capped mountains and green forests pictured in the brochure.

  The penthouse had four rooms—a living room, dining room, bedroom, and dressing room, as well as a pantry, half bath, and a bathroom with whirlpool bath and shower. I was all agog as I walked around checking out everything. For Mrs. Winchester there was a king-size bed and for me a sofa bed. If they had put a stove in there, a body could set up housekeeping, because it had a refrigerator, a minibar, a VCR, and almost everything needed to keep house.

  I walked out on the terrace, where there were chairs and tables. I had read all the brochures about the cruise, and there was so much to see and do on that ship I was anxious to take it all in. Howsoever, I knew Mrs. Winchester would not take in much of it, because when we were in those fancy hotels she didn’t take advantage of the spa, the pool, or shops. As for me, I didn’t want to miss a thing.

  I got busy unpacking our things, and when I was done we went down to a promenade deck, looking for a place to eat.

  Before we found the Lido, our cruise was getting underway. It was nothing less than a thrill to feel that ship easing out in the water. Gliding out of the harbor, heading toward the big water really got me excited.

  I finally found the Lido, but we didn’t have time to eat before a whistle sounded and somebody came over the loudspeaker telling everybody to gather on a deck for a lifeboat drill. Because Mrs. Winchester is slow, we were the last to get where we were supposed to be. An officer in a crisp white uniform issued each of us a life jacket. It was a struggle, but I got mine on, then helped Mrs. Winchester.

  After the drill was over, Mrs. Winchester and I went back to the Lido. What a spread they had! Everything from soup to nuts. Seeing so much food, my eyes are always bigger than my stomach, so I tried to be careful. One of those little foreigners in a white jacket was in back of the buffet, and I told him, “It’s a wonder this ship don’t sink with all the food you have to bring on board.”

  “Excuse me, madam. I will get you that information.” And he disappeared into the kitchen. When he came out again he handed me a sheet listing the pounds of beef, lamb, fish, etc., brought on board.

  Once we were seated, I took a minute to glance over the list. “Mrs. Winchester, listen to this: 3,234 pounds of beef, 2,859 pounds of poultry, 1,014 pounds of pork, 2,859 pounds of fish. It goes on and on like that, and then they list hundreds of bottles of wine, beer, and soft drinks. I can’t get over this. Don’t you know a lot of this food is wasted, left on people’s plates or is left over and can’t be used? Think how many hungry people in the world could be fed with just what’s wasted!”

  “I never thought of that,” she said.

  I felt guilty eating as much as I did, because I really didn’t need it. But of course, there was no way I could send it overseas to starving people.

  After lunch, we took deck chairs and sat outside. Even though Mrs. Winchester was as usual wearing a hat and sunglasses, I could see that some people standing at the rail were recognizing her. One would tell another, and that one would look over her shoulder to stare at Mrs. Winchester. One of the women broke away from the huddle and brought her husband over to introduce themselves.

  “Mrs. Winchester, we are the Williamses of the department store chain. My hus—”

  “I am Mrs. Winchuster,” she said in a voice as cold as a cucumber.

  “Forgive me. To be sure, Mrs. Winchuster, we would like to have you join us later for cocktails.”

  “No, thank you,” Mrs. Winchester said and looked away from her.

  “Perhaps another time,” the woman said, and she and her husband walked away.

  I looked at Mrs. Winchester. “They look like nice people,” I said. “The Bible says if you want friends you have to be friendly.”

  “Miss E., people like that gravitate to someone like me for all the wrong reasons. They think they can get to Philip through me or they want to climb the social ladder by telling people they know the Winchusters. Women fawn all over me, but I know they talk about me behind my back.”

  I couldn’t deny that she was probably right. I was glad that for some reason she didn’t feel that way about me.

  “Wait until dinner and you’ll see,” she said. “We’ll be assigned to a table with other passengers. They’ll find out who I am and will fall all over themselves trying to make an impression.”

  The gulls were circling all over the ship, mewing and swooping down to pluck things from the water. It was breezy out there, and I needed a jacket, but I knew if we went back to the penthouse Mrs. Winchester wouldn’t want to go out again. I was beginning to smell what I hoped was sea air, so I asked her if it was sea air.

  “Not yet, but tonight we’ll be out in the ocean for a while. After that we’ll be on the Inside Passage.”

  A steward was coming on deck bringing blankets. I took one and thanked him, and after he left I said to her, “All these stewards look foreign.”

  “They are; the stewards and dining room employees are Indonesian.”

  I sat there wondering where Indonesia was… I knew we sent missionaries to Indonesia. Now look here—I have got that mission field brought to me on board this ship. I wonder if these Indonesians speak English?

  Here came another couple heading our way. Lo and behold, they stopped too. The woman was about as homely as a mud fence, but diamonds were dripping from her ears and fingers, and she spoke in a highfalutin, cultivated voice. “Mrs. Winchuster? I believe we met in Stockholm, didn’t we?”

  Mrs. Winchester didn’t give her the time of day, but the woman persisted. “Perhaps you remember? We are the Baileys from Bailey and Scholl, the New York brokerage firm.”

  “Never heard of it,” Mrs. Winchester snapped. Talk about a cold shoulder!

  “But you do remember us from Stockholm?”

  “No, I don’t remember you.”

  That woman would not give up. Looking at the chair between Mrs. Winchester and me, she asked, “Is this chair taken?”

  “Yes, it is,” Mrs. Winchester said.

  “I see.” Finally miffed, she took her husband’s arm. “Excuse me, Mrs. Winchuster, we must hurry on; we’re meeting the Rothschilds for tea.”

  After they left, I asked, “Who are the Rothschilds?”

  “About the richest people in the world. Believe me, there are no Rothschilds on board this ship. They keep to themselves in Europe.”

  I laughed. “No Rothschilds, eh? What about this deck chair between us—you said it was taken.”

  “It’s where our pocketbooks are, isn’t it?” That tickled her. “Give that pushy woman a chair and we’d be stuck with her the rest of the afternoon.”


  I was enjoying watching the people strolling around on deck. There were women on that boat who looked like Miss Americas, and there were other women who looked like something the cat drug in, but there was one man who was the funniest-looking thing on board. Wearing shorts and as duck-legged as they come, he must have thought we were going to Hawaii, because the shorts were orange polka dot, and the shirt that bulged over his paunch was purple with flowers like a tropical garden. Ruby red in the face, he was trying to jog around the deck. The woman he was with made no effort to keep up; she was dressed all in black, the nearest thing to widow’s weeds, and had a cigarette in a long holder. Puffing away, she was looking for a place to sit down. Seeing the chair between me and Mrs. Winchester, she aimed for it, uninvited. I scrambled to snatch our pocketbooks before she flopped down on them. Making herself comfortable in the chair, she held the cigarette to her mouth with one hand and dangled her other hand beside the chair. The breeze carried a whiff of alcohol my way.

  “It’s a bore,” she said looking out over the water. “These cruises are all alike. There’s nothing to do but sit and wait for them to open the casino. I prefer Atlantic City.”

  Mrs. Winchester ignored her. The woman went on talking, as foulmouthed as a sewer, cursing her husband and criticizing the food, the crew, and everything she could think of. When she had said all she could think of about them, she lit in to telling one dirty joke after the other and laughing so loud you could have heard her all the way to Alaska. It didn’t take long for me to have a bellyful of that. I reached in my pocketbook and took out a Gospel of John. “Here, would you like to have a Gospel of John?”

  She looked at the book in my hand and, taken aback, swore. “What are you, a Jehovah’s Witness? I have my own religion, thank you!” She was about to pop out of that chair when Mrs. Winchester spoke up.

  “I am Mrs. Winchuster,” she announced in a voice as commanding as some general. “And this is my friend Esmeralda.”

  “Winchester?” the woman repeated. “You don’t mean—”

  “The name is Winchuster.”

  “You’re not related to Philip Winchuster, are you?”

  “I am his wife.”

  “His wife?”