Land Sakes (8 page)

I sensed that whatever it was she was trying to tell me was not yet finished, but waiting for her to go on tried my patience. I was so tired I had just about had it for one day.

Finally, choking back tears, she told me, “There was another time...” She took a tissue and dabbed at that good eye. “There was another time when I heard a man on the radio... He was talking... talking about Jesus... I asked my nanny, ‘Who is that Jesus?'” Her voice was so soft and trembly, I had to strain to catch what she was saying. “My nanny... turned off the radio... She turned off the radio and told me, ‘You don't need to listen to that.'”

Again she left me waiting. I thought she would go on telling me what all this meant, but she didn't. I couldn't figure out any connection between her asking where babies come from and this thing about Jesus. I couldn't make head nor tails of it, but there was no doubt that it made sense to her and that it was so all-fired important I was obliged to listen.

Mrs. Winchester lay there very quiet and seemed absolutely lost in that other world. If I had not been so tired I would have been more curious, but if she wasn't going to explain things, I wished she'd just say good night so I could go to bed. When she didn't, I spoke up. “Mrs. Winchester, we've had a long day, and tomorrow will be another long day. If you don't mind, I would like to say good night.”

She kept fingering that sleeve and saying nothing.

I crawled off the couch. “Good night,” I said. “Good night,” she mumbled.

I propped a chair under the doorknob and turned out all the lights except night-lights. Before I went in my room, I told her to call me if she needed me during the night.

By the time my head hit the pillow I was asleep.

7

The next day we were going to Lynchburg, Tennessee, to visit Jack Daniel's grave. Mrs. Winchester slept late, and that gave me time to read my Bible and pray. I also wrote a letter to Beatrice.

Dear Beatrice,

This will come as a shock to you. I have retired from Priscilla Home. When we can talk I'll tell you more about that.

You would not believe what I have got myself into. I don't have time to tell you how I got into this mess, but to make a long story short I'm traveling across country with this rich lady to go on a cruise to Alaska. I was hired to be her companion, but they didn't tell me she was bad to drink but she is and that's why they hired me to keep an eye on her. Right now we're in Nashville staying in the Gaylord Opryland Hotel. It is out of this world!

I doubt you've heard of this woman, but she is rolling in dough. Her name is Mrs. Winifred Winchester and she's about our age or a little younger. She is a good poet but nothing to look at. Has got a glass eye and must be a size 20. At first I thought she was stuck up, but the truth is she is very shy. According to Percival, he's the showfer (sp.) who drives the car, she keeps to herself like a hermit. On the other hand she does goofy things that draw attention to herself. I can't figure that out.

By the way the car is a Rolls-Royce. Carl can tell you what them cars is like. Mrs. Winchester has two fancy dogs—one rides on the seat beside Percival and the other one is on the backseat with her and me. She calls them Lucy and Desi. Ain't that a hoot.

This Percival is so high and mighty you'd think he owned the Rolls and everything that goes with it. He looks down his nose on nearly everybody. I might add that it is some long nose he has got—I call him Nozzle Nose but not to his face. And he is one Jehu driver! On the interstates I'd say he goes a hundred miles an hour. Land sakes, Beatrice, it's a wonder we have not all been killed.

This Mrs. Winchester don't talk hardly at all, but you know me, I'm not going to put up with that even if I have to do all the talking. I started telling her about Live Oaks and she can't get enough of me telling her about things that have happened there and the people we know. Still, the only time
she says much of anything is after she has got a few drinks under her belt and then she don't make a lot of sense.

It's safe to say she don't never darken the door of a church so you can see I have got my work cut out for me. As you know this lifestyle rich people has got is nothing I'm use to. When a body is rolling in dough, it's like Splurgeon says, “When the barn is full, man can live without God.” Well, anyway I'll do what I can. Again, it's like Splurgeon says, “We must sow the seed on stony ground, too.”

Thanks for praying for me.

Yours very truly,

Esmeralda

P.S. This is the verse the Lord used to show me that taking this job was the right thing for me to do. John 10:4.

It was after lunch before we were ready and waiting for Percival to bring the car around. Mrs. Winchester was wearing a blonde wig and was really gussied up. The top she was wearing was made out of all different colors of shaggy-looking cloth scraps. It was matched with a long denim skirt that was dark and banded with the same colors as the top. As stout as she was, you wouldn't think she could wear something like that, but she looked great.

“Mrs. Winchester,” I said, “that is one good-looking outfit you have got on.”

“This old thing?” She plucked at the sleeve. “It looks like they made this top out of rayon and cotton rags.”

For her to be sober and talking was a welcome change.

“They call this denim a ‘broom skirt,' and it does look like something they sweep with.”

“Oh, I like it! Where'd you get them shoes?” They looked like leather moccasins, but the fancy stitching made me know they cost a pretty penny.

“These shoes? I think they came from Italy.” A timid little smile told me she was tickled about something. “Most of those Italian shoes have spike heels and pointed toes... You would have to have only one toe to fit in them.”

I laughed, and, unless I miss my guess, that pleased her a lot. “You'd never find that outfit or them shoes in the discounts,” I told her.

“I wouldn't know,” she said.

“Where do you shop, Mrs. Winchester?”

“I don't. I don't shop. I have personal shoppers at Neiman Marcus and Bergdorf Goodman. They have my sizes and send me all my clothes.”

“They must be swanky stores.”

“Swanky? I guess so, but some women only buy from high-fashion places in Europe like Escada. I buy American.”

American? Those shoes came from Italy, and I'd bet that outfit she was wearing came from Paris, France. The phone rang, and the maid answered it.

“Excuse me, Mrs. Win
chus
ter,” she said. “Your car is waiting.”

The maid fetched Mrs. Winchester's hat, a broad-brimmed straw one. I couldn't help but compliment her on that hat too—it was not only stylish, but it would also keep the sun out of her eyes—well, I mean her eye, her good eye.

“I like it too,” she said. “It's a panama—you know, the kind they make out of jipijapa leaves.”

We were almost at the door when I remembered the jewelry.

“Mrs. Winchester, since we're leaving the suite, don't you think it would be a good idea to put your jewelry in the safe?”

“Never mind. If it's stolen, I'll buy more.”

I didn't like that one bit, but there was nothing I could do about it.

We took the elevator downstairs and found Percival waiting outside with Lucy and Desi in the car. Mrs. Winchester asked him how far it was to Lynchburg, and he said it was about seventy-five miles. She reminded him that she had to be back by 5:00.

“Yes, madam.”

On the way, Mrs. Winchester surprised me by talking—telling me all about Jack Daniel. “His real name was Jasper Newton Daniel,” she told me, “but everyone called him Jack. When he was only seven years old he went to work for a Lutheran minister who had a still.”

“A Lutheran minister had a still?”

“Yes, that was back in the 1800s. After a few years his
congregation objected, and he sold the still to Jack. Jack was only thirteen years old when he took over.”

She went on for a long time, telling me Jack Daniel's history and how he made whiskey by seeping it through charcoal, aging it in barrels and so forth. “That's what makes it Tennessee whiskey and not bourbon,” she said.

I didn't have the foggiest notion what the difference was and was not the least bit interested in finding out. To me, all booze is rotgut, but Mrs. Winchester was enjoying talking about booze almost as much as she liked drinking it.

“Jack Daniel's whiskey became world famous. In competition with whiskeys from all over the world, his whiskey won the gold medal at the 1904 World's Fair.”

Finally, I had to say something. “Well, I'll tell you, Mrs. Winchester, the Lord don't look with favor on bootleggers.”

“Oh, Jack Daniel was no bootlegger. He was the first in the country to register his distillery. First to put whiskey in square bottles too.”

Unlike her, I was not the least bit excited about Jack Daniel's contribution to the liquor industry. I had seen too much heartache come out of a liquor bottle, round or square. But I had to be polite and keep up my end of the conversation. “Since Jack Daniel is dead, do you know how he died?”

“Oh, that's a funny story.” She giggled. “Early one morning he came to work and wanted to get something out of his safe, but he couldn't remember the combination. He lost his temper, kicked the safe, and broke his
toe. An infection set in he could not get rid of, and six years later he died from blood poisoning.”

Serves him right
, I thought but didn't say so. “How do you find out so much about dead people?”

“It's very easy. My secretary goes on the Internet for information, and when she can't find enough there, she makes phone calls, goes to the library, or orders books for me.”

Percival was slowing down to pull off the interstate onto a county road, and Mrs. Winchester told me we would be going to the gravesite before we went to the museum.

We turned again, this time on Elm Street. Driving slowly straight into the cemetery, Percival came to an intersection and stopped the car.

There it was, a big, square-looking tombstone resting on two stone blocks. On the top block,
Daniel
was spelled out in raised letters.

Percival opened our door, and we both got out. The Daniel tombstone was different than the others. Along one side of the tombstone face and along the top, the rock was unfinished except for oak leaves. Maybe that rough part was supposed to be a oak tree; I couldn't make it out. The rest of it was finished stone with Jack Daniel's name and dates on a plaque.

“I see he was only sixty-one years old when he died,” I said. And, seeing there was no room on the stone for the name of his wife, I asked, “Wasn't he married?”

“No. Never was. Left his business to a nephew.”

After she got done with the gravesite, we got back in the car to drive to the museum. Mrs. Winchester pulled
out a little black book and was jotting down notes. Well, I guess if you're a poet, you get excited about stuff nobody else cares a hoot about.

At the museum, Percival let us out and started putting on the harnesses to take Lucy and Desi for a walk. Soon as me and Mrs. Winchester got out, tourists started gathering around the car, asking questions. Them Afghans and the Rolls attracted so much attention that we had the museum to ourselves.

There were all kinds of exhibits in there and a tour guide telling about the history of the still and how they made whiskey. There was this one picture of Jack Daniel, and, land sakes, he looked funny. He appeared to be about five feet tall and was dressed in a swallowtail coat that was too big for him—the sleeves hung down over his hands. He didn't look like he grew much after he was thirteen and took over the still. I reckon not. With all whiskey can do to a body, it's likely it stunted his growth.

Once the tourists started piling in the door, we left and went back to the car. We saw Percival and the dogs on the road coming back from their walk.