Land Sakes

by Margaret A. Graham

  The dog beside her was gazing off into the distance, still ignoring me. That was fine—I’d sooner it ignore me as growl, bark, bare its teeth, or bite a plug out of me.

  Percival had put on white gloves and was wiping dust from the flying lady with a chamois. Well, he was wasting his time and mine, because once we hit the Old Turnpike there’d be dust enough to bury us. While he was polishing the chrome, the lights, and hubcaps, I was getting antsy.

  I decided to check my pocketbook again. I didn’t want to get on the road and find I had left something behind. I counted the bills in my wallet and found my Medicare and health insurance cards, driver’s license, and credit card. After rummaging in that bottomless pit, I didn’t miss anything, so I stuffed everything back in there, snapped it shut, and, with butterflies in my stomach, sat waiting for us to get going.

  At last, Percival changed his gloves to the black ones and climbed in behind the wheel. He did something or other that rolled up the glass partition between the front and back seats. Good, I thought. That takes care of number two terrorist.

  You’d think Nozzle Nose was getting ready for the Indy 500 the way he checked all the gadgets, adjusted his cap and gloves, then started the engine and got us moving. As we glided down the driveway, I couldn’t look back; my heart was too heavy. Leaving Priscilla Home for a world I knew nothing about was the hardest thing I had ever done in my life.

  4

  As we were going down the Old Turnpike, Mrs. Winchester spoke not a word. It was just as well; I didn’t feel like talking. My heart was heavy as lead. Closing the door on the people and work I held dear had me so full I could have busted out crying.

  Sitting in that fancy car beside that rich woman and those funny-looking dogs, I might as well have been leaving the planet for some other world. I felt out of place and uneasy. Never before in my life had I felt old, but now I was feeling old, too old to once again take the bull by the horns and do what I had to do.

  I think it was Mr. Splurgeon, but it might have been Pastor Osborne, who said, “The future is as bright as the promises of God.” In a better frame of mind I could have taken that at face value and got help from it, but I was feeling so low I’d have to stand on a soapbox to reach bottom.

  I knew Jesus don’t go to pity parties, so I tried to get this party over with as soon as possible. That don’t mean it was easy.

  I slipped a Gospel of John out of my pocketbook and looked up that verse the Lord seemed to have give me. “When he puts forth his own sheep, he goes before them.” That ought to be enough to settle my nerves.

  We were nearly at the end of the Old Turnpike. I saw a flock of turkeys down the hill. I would miss this road, these hills—so many memories. I leaned back, took off my glasses, wiped my eyes, and shut them.

  Running through my head were the words of that old hymn “Anywhere with Jesus”: “Anywhere with Jesus, I can safely go; anywhere he leads me in this world below. Anywhere without him dearest joys would fade; anywhere with Jesus I am not afraid.”

  No matter how many times in the past I had sung that song and meant it from my heart, I had never before put it to the test. This was the test; this was where the rubber met the road—either I was willing to go anywhere with Jesus or I wasn’t.

  As Percival was turning onto the paved highway, I took a gander at the dog on the other side of Mrs. Winchester. I had never seen a dog with as long a head as that one, and it had a topknot of long silky hair parted in the middle and falling down over its ears like a long-haired girl’s. The hair on the dog’s back was silky too, but short. I couldn’t see the feet, but it wouldn’t have surprised me to know its toenails were manicured. The way that dog held its head on that long, arched neck put me in mind of a fashion model posing for a camera.

  “What’s the dog’s name?” I asked.

  Out from under that hat came a small voice. “Lucy.”

  “Lucy?”

  “The one up front is Desi.”

  “I see,” I said, but for the life of me, I didn’t. Why in the world would anybody name dogs after Lucy and Desi Arnaz?

  We rode another mile or two, but then my curiosity got the better of me. “Did you say Lucy and Desi?”

  “Yes… Lucy is stagestruck, and Desi has been known to chase after female show dogs.”

  I didn’t know if I was supposed to laugh or what. “I see,” I said again, and the more I looked at Lucy, the more I could see that she might be stagestruck. The stuck-up way she held her head made her look like somebody who, if they ain’t a celebrity, wants to be one.

  We rode all the way to Highway 321 without saying another word. Most women have got tongue enough for two sets of teeth, but not Mrs. Winchester. She might just as well been a mummy sitting beside me. I felt myself lapsing into that pity party again. I forced myself to say something. “Barbara said your car is ten years old. Is this the one?”

  “It is.”

  Barbara had said her mother didn’t have a driver’s license, but just to see what she would say, I asked, “Mrs. Winchester, did you ever drive it?”

  “No, I don’t drive.”

  “You mean—”

  “I’ve never learned to drive.”

  “I see.” I couldn’t imagine any able-bodied woman her age not knowing how to drive. Maybe she was epileptic or something. Could that be what Barbara meant by her having spells?

  Anyway, I was going to keep talking whether Mrs. Winchester listened or not. “I use to drive around Live Oaks before I was old enough to get a license. Had to do it to get to work. My papa died when I was in the eighth grade, and I had to drop out of school and go to work. In the mill I worked on third shift and didn’t cotton to walking to and from the mill at night. Of course, there’s no danger in Live Oaks. It’s a small town, and the only calls the sheriff and his deputy get is when somebody locks their keys in the car, or a cat won’t come down out of a tree, or somebody reports hunters on posted land. Our officers of the law earn their keep writing traffic tickets on strangers coming through town. Live Oaks is not much more than a crossroads, and when a stranger comes barreling down the highway, he don’t hardly know he’s in a town before it’s too late.”

  The road alongside the river was one curve after another. That car we were in was heavy; it hugged its side of the road without the tires squealing. It would’ve been better if the tires had squealed, because here came a Bubba hot-rodding toward us in the middle of the road! He swerved to miss us and near ’bout went over the embankment on the other side. Whew-ee, if he had hit this Rolls, he’d of been creamed like roadkill!

  Even so, Percival did not slow down. I got a firm grip on a hand bar next to the door, and to keep my mind off it, I kept talking a mile a minute.

  “Live Oaks is where I met my husband. Hands down, Bud was the catch of the day, and I was the envy of every girl in town except Beatrice. She only had eyes for Percy Poteat, so she wasn’t jealous of me. Beatrice is my best friend. We grew up together, and she had to drop out of school the same as me. We went to work in the variety store before we got jobs in the mill. When the mill closed, there was no work in Live Oaks. Beatrice went to work in a convenience store in Mason County.”

  Well, this one-way conversation was getting nowhere. I shut up for a while and started to read the Gospel of John. My bottomless pit is heavy, and as I leaned over to set it on the floor, lo and behold, out from under that hat came a small voice. “And then?”

  I couldn’t believe my ears. I remembered where I left off, so I picked up from there and went right on telling her about Bud and me, about how he went to Vietnam and got wounded, and how me and Elijah nursed him until he died.

  Thinking about Bud, I got quiet. After all these years, it was still hard for me to think about him the way he was after he was wounded, the way he suffered all those years.

  “And then?” I heard her say.

  I come to. “Well, Mrs. Winchester, I had the best husband a body could ask, so I never looked for another.”


  It was true; I never looked for another husband. Of course, there was Albert, but it wouldn’t do to tell her about him.

  I hardly knew where to go from there, so I ventured to ask her, “Tell me about yourself.”

  She was so long in answering I didn’t think she was going to, but then she did. “I had a wonderful childhood.”

  I waited for her to say more. Seeing she wasn’t going to add anything, I decided not to let her off the hook easy. “When did you get married?”

  Again, it didn’t look like she was going to come down off her high horse and answer my question. I was about to let it go at that when she finally said, “After my coming-out party.”

  Since it was like pulling eye teeth to get anything out of her and I have not got the patience to humor anybody, I leaned back and took a breather.

  Looking at the back of Percival’s head with his ears sticking out like taxicab doors and that hound beside him with its nose sticking in the air put me in mind of rednecks who ride around in their pickups with their redbone coonhounds hanging their heads out the window. At least redbone coonhounds have got some personality, which was more than I could say for those fancy hounds. I bet those Afghans cost a pretty penny.

  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.