Land Sakes (5 page)

We had long since passed the Tennessee welcome sign, and I was feeling nature's call. To keep my mind off it, and because I knew she wanted me to keep talking, I decided to tell Mrs. Winchester that story about how the preacher praying for Elijah's sick mule caused a ruckus in church. And how, when the mule died, me and the Willing Workers stood our ground to keep the city from selling the mule's carcass to the dog food plant.

When I finally finished, I'm not sure, but I thought I heard Mrs. Winchester giggle.

Already past Johnson City, Tennessee, we turned to
pick up Highway 81 heading for Knoxville. Once on the interstate, I tell you, that nozzle-nosed Percival pressed the pedal to the metal. We zoomed past everything on the road; we must've been going ninety miles an hour. The scenery went by so fast it looked blurry.
Good
, I thought.
The quicker we get to a pit stop, the better
.

Mrs. Winchester opened a box of candy and offered it to me. I picked a piece that didn't look like it was cream filled and, sure enough, it wasn't. I tell you, that was the best chocolate candy I ever put in my mouth. “Is this Hershey chocolate?”

“No. It comes from an island off the coast of Africa.” She plopped a whole piece in her mouth and with a fat thumb and finger picked another one and held it while waiting to finish the first piece. Diamonds in her rings caught the sun and bedazzled my eyes. The diamonds were as big as acorns with what might be emeralds on either side. I couldn't help but notice her fingernails—the polish was a perfect match for that peach-colored suit she was wearing.
Probably press-on nails
, I thought, but I couldn't be sure.

For a second time she was poking the box at me, but I said, “No, thank you.” I know my limit. Apparently, she didn't know hers, because as soon as she would finish one piece she'd gobble down another.
No wonder she's bigger than me
.

It wasn't long before we were pulling into a rest stop, and none too soon—I was about to have an accident! Before Percival could get out and open my door, I was outta there, running for the restroom.

What a relief
!

As I was washing my hands, I didn't hear anybody else in the johns. I thought sure Mrs. Winchester would be in there. When I came outside she was still sitting in the car.
I can't believe she don't have to go
.

Percival was guarding the Rolls from a bunch of teenagers who were circling around it and asking questions. One of them punk rockers asked him, “How much does this baby cost?”

Percival answered, “If you have to ask, you cannot afford it.”

The boy gave him one of those signs, the meaning of which I do not know and don't want to know.
Nozzle Nose, you better watch out; you're pressing your luck with those kids
.

They started peeking inside the car. “Who's that lady? She own this?” one of them asked.

“We travel incognito,” Percival said in that highfalutin way he has got.

They all laughed. “Anybody got a dictionary?”

One girl reached out her hand like she was going to handle the flying lady, and Percival screeched, “Do not
touch
the motorcar!”

The girl removed her hand, made a face at him, and said, “So long, Banana Nose!” As the teenagers were piling back in their van, I handed the girl a Gospel of John. “It's the best book you'll ever read,” I told her, and she thanked me.

As the kids rode past yelling obscenities, Percival opened the passenger door, let out Desi, and started putting a harness on him.

A big trucker came over, picking his teeth with a toothpick. “What kinda dog you got there?”

“Sir, this is an Afghan hound,” Percival said, fastening a long leash to the harness.

“Afghan, eh? Too fancy to hunt. Must be you buy 'em for their looks.”

Percival didn't like that one bit. “Sir, I will have you know that these are not merely beautiful animals, they are very useful. Afghans were bred for hunting antelope, leopard, wolves, and any other swift prey.”

The trucker grinned and, chewing the toothpick, remarked, “There's not many antelopes and such in these parts.”

I smiled. Percival didn't. “These are sighted dogs,” he said, his face flushed, his temper rising.

I asked him what that meant.

“It means, madam, that they are farsighted and can spot an animal at a great distance.” He handed me the leash. “Would you be so kind as to hold Desi while I get Lucy?”

I laughed. “I don't do dogs,” I said, but I took the leash and held it.

Still grinning, the trucker pointed at Desi's big feet. “All that hair makes him look like he's got feathers.”

With Lucy in hand, Percival closed the back door. “This animal might as well have feathers; Afghans run faster than birds can fly over any kind of terrain—rocky, hilly, or desert dunes.”

Getting under Percival's skin was giving the trucker a big kick. “The way that female's belly is tucked up
between her flanks, she must be kin to the greyhound painted on the side o' one o' them buses.”

“Sir, these animals are far superior to any greyhound; they are multitalented. As well as hunting, they excel at herding sheep, tracking, and racing, and are the best guard dogs money can buy.”

“Some guard dogs,” the trucker remarked. “They didn't so much as raise a hair when I come up.”

“Sir, these hounds have a mind of their own. They are standoffish around strangers but not because of fear; they are simply not interested in anything unworthy of their attention.”

The trucker spit out the toothpick. “Unworthy, huh?”

Uh-oh
, I thought.
Now you've done it—you've gone too far with a Bubba twice your size
!

Unaware of what he had done, Percival went right on fueling the fire. “Style is important to these regal animals. The Afghan is not called the king of dogs without reason.”

Bubba wasn't grinning any longer; I had to do something before he punched Percival in the nose. I motioned toward Lucy. “Look at the end of her tail. Curved like that, it reminds me of a spit curl from the twenties.”

That did the trick—turned Bubba's attention from Percival to Lucy. “I'd say she's a flapper, all right.”

I thought Nozzle Nose was going to blow a gasket! The idea of calling Lucy a flapper! Fortunately he didn't say anything. Once the harness and leash were fitted on Lucy, he reached for the leash I was holding and away the three of them went across the grass.

At first those hounds strutted, trotting at a fast pace, pulling the leashes taut with Percival leaning backward holding down their speed. It wasn't to last. Desi and Lucy speeded up, pulling Nozzle Nose head first. He couldn't keep up; he fell sprawling, and those hounds took off like streaks of lightning.

Percival must've been dazed; he wasn't getting up. “Come on, let's help him,” I said to Bubba, and the two of us ran across to where he lay.

Bubba got Percival to his feet while I fetched his glasses and cap. Can you imagine—that cap had the Rolls insignia on the front and was lined with silk. With his nose skinned and bleeding, blood and grass stains on the front of his uniform, Nozzle Nose looked a mess. The trucker handed him a bandana. “Here, we gotta get you cleaned up.” The two men headed for the restroom.

The dogs were out of sight.

5

After Nozzle Nose cleaned himself up, there was nothing to do but wait for the dogs to come back. Fast as they were, they could have been back home in Afghanistan or who knows where. I left him at the picnic tables and sat in the car.

In a few minutes, Percival gave up calling the dogs and came back to speak to Mrs. Winchester. “As you know, madam, Lucy and Desi have minds of their own. A romp like this will last half an hour or more. Shall I serve lunch?” She nodded that he should.

He folded down two tables for us, found silverware, napkins, and glasses in a cabinet, then, with a flourish, gave a fancy fold to the napkins and set our tables. From the refrigerator he brought out two plates of salad, unwrapped them, and set them on the tables. Whipping out a wine bottle and wrapping it in a towel, he opened it, poured a glassful for Mrs. Winchester, and, with the bottle poised above my glass, asked, “Madam?”

“Sweet tea if you got it,” I told him.

He peered down at me like I was a crawling cockroach. “Madam, we have Perrier.”

“That'll do,” I said, although I didn't have the foggiest notion what Perrier was.

This thing of him calling me “madam” was getting under my skin. In my book,
madam
means only one thing, the likes of which I am not, never have been, never will be. Of course, he didn't mean it thataway, but somebody like that Bubba might not know the difference and think I was in that kind of business.

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.