Oriel snorts. “Written up! She was mentioned for her nickname, ‘Nosie Rosie’ because she’s set a record for most nose bleeds in her class. Just look at that nose.” I notice that Rose’s nose does have a pronounced bump near the bridge.
Rose goes on the offensive, “I’m surprised she agreed to be away from the Tabard Inn for so long, as much as she micromanages. Oriel knows every little detail about the hotel and restaurant. At any given time, she probably knows how many bars of soap are in the storeroom and how many pieces of lettuce are on the salad bar!”
Hmm. The Tabard Inn happens to be where Chaucer’s Canterbury pilgrims begin their journey.
Before Oriel can respond, “Good Luck Charm” wafts. Oriel slips her phone out of her pin striped jacket pocket and says, “It’s the hotel. I have to take it,” and goes off to the side.
Rose says, “With Oriel on this trip, I wouldn’t want to be the tour leader. I’m sure Oriel will have a pointer or five before we even leave the station.” We stand in awkward silence for a moment. Then Rose asks a bit sheepishly, “Do you know where the bar is? I need something stronger than wine to drink.”
“I think it is that way,” and I point in the direction Adam went looking for Sandra towards the stairs to the Mezzanine Level.
As Rose shoulders her way through the intent commuters, I notice a woman enter quietly, gingerly making her way past the ropes, and look around. She finds a spot and tries to look inconspicuous, as if she were a wall stud behind the sheet rock. I approach her and say, “Welcome to the Graceland trip.”
“Thanks. Are you Theresa?”
“No, just another pilgrim. My name is Donna.”
“Hi, Donna. I’m Linda.” Her simple summer outfit of cotton slacks with a plain V-neck tee-shirt contrasts with the pendant that she wears. Her dark hair is closely cropped.
“What a lovely pendant! What does it say?”
Linda holds it away from her neck, “Amor vincit omnia.”
“Oh! Love conquers all!” I observe. “Just like Chaucer’s Prioress.”
“Yes. My fiancé gave it to me before he shipped off to the Gulf War. You see, we were sweethearts since middle school.”
“I love those kinds of romantic stories. Is he on the trip, too?”
She casts her eyes down and says, “No. He died in the Gulf War.”
“Oh, I am so sorry. What happened?”
“Tom fell on a grenade, saving two of his buddies. They were wounded, you see, but Tom, well. At least, I got a flag.”
“And you have this beautiful pendant,” I say. “Do you live near family or have some other support group?”
“Basically, I’m estranged from my parents,” Linda says. “We’ve mostly been out of touch for over fifteen years. Occasionally, one of us will send a card or something. They thought it was noble that Tom died at war, but I had trouble accepting his death, you see, so I threw myself into humanitarian work in Africa through my church and found community there. I grew up in North Louisiana but stay with friends in Florida when I’m in the States.”
“Oh, I grew up in Baton Rouge. You know, then, that I-10 is the accepted dividing line between north and south Louisiana, but I rarely ventured north of I-10 growing up.”
Linda smiles. “And I rarely ventured south when I was still there. Actually, my parents took me to hear Elvis in Baton Rouge in May, 1977, one of his last concerts. We had a flat tire in Bunkie and almost missed the concert. Elvis wasn’t at his best in that performance. So this trip is a nod to Elvis as well as a celebration of my good news.”
“What might that news be?”
“Two years ago when I was in the States on hiatus, you see, a routine mammogram found a malignant stage 1 tumor.”
“Did you reach out to your parents then?” I ask.
“No,” she says.
“Clearly, your work and church friends helped you through,” I say.
“Yes. I’m blessed.”
I hesitate and then say, “My mother died of breast cancer nearly thirty years ago, so I know some of what you have gone through. How did you treat the cancer?”
“I had a lumpectomy followed by radiation. I just got the medical OK to go back to Africa, so I’m taking this trip to celebrate.”
“Oh, my, what a story. Your situation reminds me of the line from Hamlet, ‘When sorrows come, they come not single spies but in battalions.’ You certainly have had your share of sorrows.”
“Or, as the Elvis song goes, ‘When it rains, it really pours.’ I appreciate your kind words, Donna,” she says, with a twinkle in her eye.
I take Linda’s hand. “Perhaps, we will talk again later.”
I think of my own life and marvel at Linda’s resilience. It has been hard for me to come to terms with my mother’s death, but imagine how difficult it must be to live life with the reality of a mother who is alive but not there to share life’s joys and sorrows!
While Linda and I talk, the caterers begin setting up a table with cold appetizers—fruits, vegetables, dips, cheese—the usual fare, along with a table for serving wine and soft beverages. Theresa has been overseeing the whole process. Once the caterers finish setting up, she picks up a glass and clinks the side with a knife to get our attention.
“Greetings all!” She waits a moment for us to quiet down. “It looks like, um, most of us are here. As you can see, the appetizers and drinks are ready to serve. Materials for name tags are on the table over there, so, um, please make a name tag.” She pauses as people look around. “I see many of you have, um, already begun to get to know one another. Excellent! Enjoy some food, and I’ll make an announcement, um, when it’s time for us to walk our blue suede shoes onto the train.”
A few people clap and the buzz of conversation picks up again. As I move towards the table to make myself a name tag, a young man jostles me.
“Excuse me, ma’am,” he says. “I’m so sorry.”
“Please, do not worry about it,” I say. “Obviously, you are on the Graceland trip.”
“Yes, my name is,” he writes “Sean” on a name tag and slaps it on his chest, “and I’m traveling with Hubert,” he nods towards a portly man, dressed in a black turtle neck and black jeans, cradling a glass of wine and holding court with Theresa.
“How did Hubert manage to get a glass of wine already?” I ask.
“Hubert is very particular about which wines he drinks. He travels with several bottles from his personal cellar.”
“What does Hubert do that allows him the privilege of traveling in such a fashion—if I may be so bold as to ask.”
“Oh. Well,” Sean leans towards me and almost whispers, “Between us please, Hubert is actually a Catholic bishop.”
“Well, good for him,” I whisper in return. “But why is he not wearing a clerical collar?”
“With all of the publicity the Catholic Church is getting these days, Hubert is trying to keep a low profile on this trip.”
“Then why take the trip, at all?”
“He’s been very busy for a while dealing with issues regarding the Church and having to make some difficult decisions. These recent years have been quite tumultuous, to say the least, for the Catholic Church—decisions about closing churches and schools, declining attendance—not to mention the sex abuse scandals. He needs to get away and catch his breath before the next round of—um, issues—breaks out, so here we are, under the radar, we hope.”
“And why are you on this trip?”
“Actually, I’m a Catholic deacon and I work under Hubert. I carry his instruments of leisure—his wine, his golf clubs—and run interference for him when necessary. On the golf course, I serve as his caddy. He hears some surprising confessions in the privacy of the golf course, and I am invisible. For whatever reason, many parishioners treat the golf course as an open-air confessional of sorts.”
“What better source of distraction than Death Week at Graceland,” I deadpan.
Sean gives me an inscrutable look, finishes Hub
ert’s name tag, and looks over at his boss. Now deep in conversation with Linda, he is admiring her pendant. “I’ve enjoyed the chat, but I must get back to Hubert.” As he leaves, Sean winks at me. “Please do keep our secret.”
I make a gesture as if I am locking my lips. “Your secret is safe with me. Good luck. Or rather God bless.”
As I finish my name tag, the person on my other side makes a tag that reads “Rene/e.” Outwardly, Rene/e could pass as male or female, sporting a dark brown Dutch boy haircut, but I assume female because of the spelling of the name.
“What an interesting spelling,” I say. “It is similar to that star who renamed himself with a symbol.”
“I never thought of that,” Rene/e says, with a Cajun accent.
“How do you pronounce it?”
“Just as you would pronounce ‘Renee’ without the slash. The slash is silent,” Rene/e grins.
“Then what is the significance of the slash?”
“Well,” says Rene/e, “It signifies the beginning of a new life for me. Let’s grab a glass of wine and I’ll explain. What will you have?”
“Pinot grigio. Thanks, cher.”
Rene/e smiles. “De rien. Do you speak Cajun?”
“Not really. My mother was born and raised in Morgan City, so I can talk a little Cajun,” I explain. “At one time, I could understand it well but speak it un peu. I left South Louisiana many years ago, so about all I can do anymore is cook Cajun.”
“Okra or filé gumbo?”
“Okra, pour sur!”
After Rene/e returns and hands me the wine, I ask, “So what is your big occasion? Graduation? New job? A new relationship?”
“No, nothing so simple, cher.” Rene/e smiles and begins, “My birth name was R-E-N-E, ‘Rene,’ the male form of the name, because I was born with a boy’s body. I’m taking this trip to celebrate the end of the long and difficult process of transitioning. I think of the slash as signifying the loss of a certain body part and the added ‘e’ signifying my rebirth as a female.”
“After all, the name ‘Renee’ does mean ‘rebirth’ or ‘reborn,’” I note. “How long has the process taken?”
“Of course, I’ve known since I was a bébé that I was a girl trapped in a boy’s body. I never liked the word ‘sissy’ because it carries with it a sense of weakness or vulnerability that I never felt. While I never liked the rough and tumble world of the neighborhood boys, I could hold my own when I had to. Still, the neighborhood kids knew I was different and, of course, taunted me mercilessly.”
“The cruelty of kids is a mystery,” I commiserate.
“And many adults, too, cher. I talked to my guidance counselor at school a little bit. Thankfully, she was sympathetic. I waited until I was out of my parents’ house and on my own to start the process formally. Once I was on my own, I went into counseling with the specific purpose of starting a hormonal transition. At the time, I wasn’t sure I wanted to do the gender reassignment surgery. I did know, though, that I wanted to be able to go to sleep at night knowing I would wake up in a girl’s body instead of waking up from dreaming that I had a girl’s body. So to finally answer your question, it’s taken me roughly four years from when I left home until now. Now I’m officially recovered from my reassignment surgery, and I’m looking for a husband!” She breaks into a broad smile.
“Maybe the spirit of Elvis will help you find one,” I grin.
“With that thought, I’ve enjoyed the conversation, Donna, but I’m going to mix a bit. I want to get a jump on potential husband material here!” Rene/e winks, surveys the area, and forges away.
“Laissez-les bons temps rouler,” I say to her back. What balls!
As Rene/e moves away, I notice an Asian man standing alone, off near a pillar. The noise level of conversation and footsteps echoing in the Great Hall make conversation a bit more challenging, so I decide to stand by this man, hoping it will be quieter there. As I approach, I see “Jack” written on his name tag with Asian-looking characters written below.
“Hi, Jack,” I begin. ”It is a bit crowded out there. Do you mind if I enjoy the quiet spot with you for a bit?”
Jack, avoiding eye contact, says, “No.” He’s dressed in jeans and a V-neck tee that have the gently used look of clothes bought in a second-hand shop.
We stand awkwardly for a few minutes. “There sure are a lot of people on the benches out there,” I comment. Jack looks at me and then away. “I sat out there for a while this afternoon. It’s fun to people watch.” This time, Jack looks towards the benches. Maybe he doesn’t speak English well. Finally, I ask, “What do the characters beneath the name ‘Jack’ mean?”
He answers, “My Chinese name, Jie.”
“Jie is a nice name. Did I pronounce it correctly?”
“Almost,” he answers. “A little more ‘AH’ after the ‘jee’—‘jee AH!’” I try again.
“Better,” he says.
“How did you choose ‘Jack’ for your American name?” I question, relieved that he has finally said something.
“I wanted something easy to say and spell. Also, ‘Jack’ is like ‘Jie.’ My parents chose the name ‘Jie’ because in Chinese it means ‘outstanding.’ Like all Chinese parents, they hope big for me.”
“In English, ‘Jack’ means ‘God is gracious,’” I tell him.
“Oh, I need some grace,” says Jack.
I grin, “You’re headed in the right direction with this trip to Graceland.”
“Yes,” he says seriously. “Elvis came from humble beginnings. I am having difficulty in America. I hoped for success here so I could bring family over, but I ran into problems. I hope to get some guidance from Elvis.”
“Ah, What Would Elvis Do?” I observe. “What brought you to America in the first place?”
“I came with my uncle to start a business. We start an all-for-a-dollar shop. We had money from the sale of a family home in China. We are finding that big chain discount stores get good cheap stuff before we can get it, so we end up with the stuff that no one wants. It is not at all what we hoped.”
“So you have fallen between the cracks in your search for the American Dream.”
“We need to bring more family here to work in the business. We live above the shop. The shop is open every day from nine to nine. We have been able to hire some part-time help, but it is not enough,” says Jack glumly. “We work hard. I take Business English class at nighttime.” This conversation has taken such a sad turn that I decide to brave the noise of another area.
“May you find your saving grace at Graceland,” I say. I head towards a woman talking animatedly with a Hispanic man who looks like a small boy forced to do his chores when he really just wants to go play outside. He keeps edging away, but she keeps grabbing his elbow.
“Excuse me,” I interrupt, “but I thought I heard you mentioning something about music in social structure,” I say to the woman. Her name tag reads “Bella” and his “Hector.”
I continue, “As a medievalist, I especially appreciate how the Middle English lyrics reflect social structure in that time. Of course, in medieval times there were only three classes: a small upper class, the clergy, and a rather large lower class, but the lyrics reflect all three of them. The Old English riddles do, too, but they are technically not in the realm of music.”
“Oh, yes,” she turns towards me, releasing Hector’s elbow. “I’ve been interested in music in social structure for years and have written extensively about it and presented papers at both national and international conferences. My full name is Isabella Espinoza. Perhaps, you’ve heard of me or my work?”
“No, I am sorry, I cannot say that I have,” I say.
“No worries. You have heard of me now!” she smiles. “I received the Ph. D. in socio-musicology from the University of Minnesota—Twin Cities. My dissertation treats music practices in contemporary industrialized societies—a far cry from your medieval interests, don’t you think? It was quite well-received! Are
you sure you haven’t heard of me?”
As I answer, I notice Hector quietly slipping around a pillar. “No, I am certain that I have not. What have you been doing since you graduated? Are you teaching or working with some music organization or other non-profit?”
“I’ve been teaching at a small liberal arts college. However, I really would love to teach at the University of Texas at Austin. They have an awesome Latin American music program. I’m taking this trip hoping to gather information and inspiration for a book project in order to strengthen my resume and perhaps get UT to look at me.”
“Considering how Elvis shook up the music world, you should have no problem finding a topic,” I say, as Hector disappears.
“He was such a diverse man with diverse interests, don’t you think? It’s hard to narrow down the options,” Bella says.
“If you change that ‘was’ to an ‘is,’ you could research Elvis sightings. You could research music venues in places where Elvis has been seen.” Bella looks at me as if she sees Elvis behind me. I plunge on. “How about something related to Elvis and his songs about pets or dogs?” I pause. “That scene from Ed Sullivan where Elvis sang to a basset hound is classic! Do you think Elvis lovers are more likely to live with basset hounds? What about pet owners who sing Elvis songs to their pets or stream Elvis music for their pets when they are out of the house?”
“Hey,” Bella says, “That’s not a bad idea! You may be on to something.”
“How about Latin American Elvis impersonators?”
“I’m considering that idea. I would have to refine the topic somehow. By the way, Hector is an Elvis impersonator.” She turns to where Hector had been standing to find him gone. She stamps her foot. “Damn! Where’d he go?”
I shrug. She says, “Excuse me,” and starts looking around. The name “Isabella” may mean “devoted to God,” but her nickname “Bella” is much more appropriate, as in “bellicose.”
The Graceland Tales Page 2
