Land Sakes

by Margaret A. Graham

  After we hung up, it took me a minute to get back to where I was at. I looked around at that Presidential Suite and I tell you, it would put the White House to shame! I was in the dining room, and there was a table and chairs in there that would seat twelve people, plus a fireplace and piano and couches and chairs and with so many fresh flowers a body might wonder who died. There was even a bar on one side of the room.

  I went back in Mrs. Winchester’s room and saw that the maid had managed by herself to get Mrs. Winchester ready for bed and had her propped up on big pillows. The maid was already unpacking and putting things away.

  I started to ask Mrs. Winchester what we would do for supper but was stopped dead in my tracks. Without her hat and dark glasses, what I saw was a shocker. Mrs. Winchester had a glass eye.

  6

  To recover from that shock, I went in the dressing room to be by myself. Mrs. Winchester’s glass eye matched the other eye pretty well, but at a certain angle there was no hiding the fact it wasn’t real. The glass eye explained the big hat and dark glasses, and it was probably a part of the reason why she didn’t, as Percival put it, “live life.” Even so, there’s a lot worse things a body has to put up with than a bad eye.

  I heard the maid ask Mrs. Winchester if she wanted to deposit her jewelry in the hotel safe.

  “No, put it wherever you like.”

  The maid came in the dressing room to show me what was in that jewelry case—ropes of necklaces, gold and silver chains, pearls, broaches, bracelets, watches, and no telling what else. Rolling her eyes at me, she whispered, “She never leaves them in the safe—has me put what she’s not wearing in a drawer or any old place.”

  That was a fine how-de-do! Maybe Mrs. Winchester didn’t care if her jewelry was stolen, but I did! If ever anything was missing, I’d be the prime suspect. I tell you, this situation was getting harder and harder to deal with.

  I followed the maid back to the bedroom and saw that she put the jewelry in a dresser drawer. “I’m Hazel,” she told me. “There are three of us assigned to Mrs. Winchuster. Mary will be here in the morning. Grace comes twice every day to clean.”

  That was a relief. With three maids to help me, I ought to be able to manage.

  I was starved, but I didn’t see any way I could leave Mrs. Winchester to go eat. I’d heard about room service but wasn’t sure how to order it. There were menus on the desk; I picked one up and, as I always do, read it from right to left. You would not believe those prices! For the price of one meal I could have fed a house full of people.

  “Would you like me to order dinner?” Hazel asked. “Would you?”

  “I’d be glad to. What would you like?”

  “I’ll take whatever chicken they have and decaf coffee. I’m tired and I’d like to take a bath if you—”

  “Yes, I’ll stay with her.”

  “Thanks.”

  My gown, robe, and slippers were laid out for me in my room, and the bed was turned down. As swell as that place was, I was too uptight to enjoy it. While I was undressing I tried to think of some way I could persuade Mrs. Winchester to stash her Fort Knox in a safe. Land sakes, these maids, the bellhop, and who knows who else has got keys to this suite. What could make that woman so careless? Maybe whatever caused her to have a glass eye also knocked her off her rocker.

  Whatever her reason, to protect myself I had to do something about those valuables.

  I was so preoccupied I didn’t pay much attention to the luxury in the bathroom. It was big as a boxcar, and the marble was real—cream colored with dark veins running through it. As well as having big, thick towels with monograms, the room had any appliance you might need, plus bottles of lotions, bath oils, shampoo, and the like, enough to stock a drugstore. To top it all off, a vase of yellow rosebuds sat on a table. I touched them to make sure they were real.

  I filled the tub with hot water and poured in some bubble bath. After all I’d been through with Barbara’s mother, Nozzle Nose, and them dogs, I felt I was owed a good, long soak. The water was so deep my legs and arms floated like one of them astronauts in space. I wished my worries would float like that. This thing of dealing with a drunk was bad enough, but those jewels lying about gave me the heebie-jeebies.

  After a while I heard Hazel letting someone in the door and figured it was room service. I finished bathing and got out of the tub. Once I got dried off and was putting on my gown, I heard her tapping on the door. “Dinner is served.”

  “Coming.” I tied on my robe and went in the dining room. The silver food warmers, crystal goblets, and heavy silverware—enough forks to furnish ten people—were spread out as fancy as anything you might see in a magazine.

  I took a look-see in Mrs. Winchester’s room and saw that her supper was on a bed tray. Lifting one of them dome lids, Hazel told her, “Beef Wellington.” All around the meat were ripe tomatoes topped with globs of whipped cream. Hazel was telling her, “Tomatoes with horseradish cream, asparagus salad, and charlotte russe for dessert.”

  Mrs. Winchester did not so much as look at the tray. “Will that be all?”

  Mrs. Winchester nodded.

  I followed Hazel to the door, thanked her, and locked the door behind her.

  Sitting down at that dining room table, I felt like the queen bee. I gave thanks, then lifted the lid from the main dish. A delicious smell greeted me. That chicken was in a sauce, with brown rice and mixed vegetables. I checked out the fruit salad, buttered a roll, and was about to pour myself a cup of coffee when Mrs. Winchester called me. “Please… bring your dinner… in here.”

  I had a mischief of a time hauling all that stuff into her room and setting up at a table in there. When I got done, everything looked thrown together, but I didn’t want it to get cold, so I sat down, spread the napkin on my lap, and dived in.

  As I was enjoying the chicken, Mrs. Winchester wasn’t touching her food. Since she was more than pleasingly plump, you would expect her to gobble down any food in sight. Chances were, she got big-bellied on chocolate candy and booze. It surprised me that she was in a talking mood; I could hardly eat for her talking to me. Not once but three times she told me, “Miss E., I had a wonderful childhood.” It was the first time she had called me by my name.

  I can’t talk and eat at the same time, so to humor her I hurried to get through. The dessert was a lemon chess tart, just the right thing to top off the meal. Wish I could get that recipe.

  I stacked my dishes on the serving cart, and still she had not touched her food. “Mrs. Winchester, taste those tomatoes with the cream; they look delicious!”

  With a wave of her hand, she told me to take the food away. “I want to tell you… tell you…” and her voice trailed off so soft I couldn’t hear her.

  I rolled the cart into the hall and left it there, then locked the door again. I was about to prop a chair under the doorknob when Mrs. Winchester asked me to pull the chaise lounge closer to her bed. I was so tired I was ready to hit the hay, but I did as she asked, put my feet up, and hoped she wouldn’t talk long.

  That woman was no beauty, but she had a peaches-and-cream complexion. A single tear coursed down her cheek, and, looking off in the distance in a dreamy kind of way, she mumbled, “Miss E., I had a… I had a wonderful childhood… It was wonderful…” She fingered the sleeve of her robe, lost in never-never land.

  I thought if I heard that one more time I would have to ask her, “If it was so wonderful, why them tears?”

  “In my grandfather’s house there were forty rooms. My nannies, my maids, my tutors… we all lived on the third floor—” Suddenly, as if remembering something, she stopped and asked me to bring her a little “picker-upper” from the bar.

  A picker-upper? Should she pass out on me, I’m the one who will need a picker-upper! Now, I tell you, a bartender I am not, and I felt like telling her so, but she looked so sad I didn’t have the heart. Maybe she’ll settle for coffee. “Regular or decaf?” I asked.

  “A martini, please.”


  I tried to get a smile out of her. “Wet or dry?”

  “Dry,” she said without a smile.

  I got up from the couch, praying there wouldn’t be any liquor in that bar.

  Well, there was—big bottles and little bottles of all kinds of wine and liquor. While I was putting ice in the glass I could still hear her talking. “It took two rooms… to hold my toys… two rooms… one for dolls… stuffed animals… books…”

  I found the vodka and sniffed it. I didn’t know the first thing about mixing a martini. There were olives and slices of lemon and lime, but where was that… that vermouth she mentioned? Ice—do they put ice in a martini?

  I didn’t feel right about serving her a drink. The more I thought about it, the more I realized I couldn’t do it. I dumped the ice in the sink, dried the glass, and put all the stuff back where I’d found it.

  Going back in her room, I asked her, “Mrs. Winchester, wouldn’t you rather have ginger ale? There’s ginger ale in there.”

  She shook her head.

  Well, there was no use beating around the bush. I told her point-blank, “Mrs. Winchester, if I served you a martini I would be disobeying God, and I’m not going to do that.”

  “What?”

  “Somewhere in the Bible it says, ‘Woe unto him that gives his neighbor drink.’ I can’t do it. If that’s what this job requires, you’ll have to get yourself another companion.”

  Her mouth fell open. “You read the Bible?”

  “Don’t you?” I asked. “Don’t you read the Bible?”

  She stared at me for a minute and, looking downright pitiful, answered, “Sometimes I read my horoscope,” as much as to say, Will that do?

  I fluffed up her pillows. “Please, let me bring you something—a soft drink, fruit juice, whatever you like.”

  She turned her face away from me and gazed across the room, fingering that sleeve. I guessed she was mad at me.

  “Mrs. Winchester?”

  She kept looking away from me, probably wondering what kind of an oddball I was. But when she finally did speak, her voice quivered. “Miss E., let me tell you something.”

  I wanted to tell her, weepy as she was, that she didn’t have to say anything, but she seemed determined, as if it was something she just had to tell me. “When I was a little girl… not more than six… maybe five years old, I asked my nanny, ‘Where do babies come from?’… She told me… she told me, ‘From heaven.’”

  Then, right in the middle of what she was trying to tell me, she stopped talking. I waited. Tears trickled down one side of her face. I handed her tissues and waited. A clock was ticking.

  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. Winchuster,” 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.