Land Sakes (6 page)

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:

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. Win
chus
ter!”

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 was 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.”