And, if you must know,
I was tickled pink about going backstage. Not just because
we were meeting Mary's daughter, but also because I'd
never been backstage before, anywhere. I felt so cool. So
hip. Like those people who wear black Armani suits and
sunglasses indoors. (Okay, I'm tragic. But I think we knew
that already.)
Jacques knocked on the dressing-room door, the one
with the star on it, just like in the movies, and announced,
"It's Jacques. May we come in?"
A few moments later, the door opened and Patsy was
standing before us in a robe. Her makeup was mostly gone
and her hair was pinned up where the wig had once been.
The aura had sadly gone with it. She was no longer the Patsy
of my dreams. Without the makeup and clothes, she barely
resembled the legend. Sadly, the thrill of backstage life was
ebbing fast.
"Yes?" she asked, staring at Jacques and then the three
of us.
"My friends would love to meet you. Would you mind a
little company?" he asked.
"No sweat, sugar. Ya'll come on in." Well, she might not
have looked like Patsy anymore, but she sure as shootin'
sounded like her. My spirits were once again lifted.
"You were amazing, Miss Cline. What an incredible
voice. Thank you so much," I gushed. Thank goodness
it wasn't a Barbra or a Bette impersonator; I might have
fainted dead away.
"Please, darlin', call me Honey. Miss Cline's been gone
and buried for years now. But I surely thank you for the
compliment. Where you boys from?"
"San Francisco," the three of us answered.
"Ah, I see," she said knowingly.
Justin leaned in to Jacques and whispered something in
his ear. Then he leaned in to me and whispered, "I told him
I had a headache and asked if he'd walk me to our room for an aspirin. Once we're gone, you better find Mary." I
nodded my head in agreement.
Jacques said to her, "If you'll excuse us, Honey, Justin
and I have something to attend to."
"Oh, I'm sure you do, sugar," she said with a smirk, then
added, "You're awfully handsome, Justin. You an entertainer?"
"You could say that," he said, and left the room with
Jacques in tow.
"You boys care for a drink?" she asked Marvin and me,
once we were alone.
"You got any sarsaparilla?" I asked, completely drowning
in the whole Southern ambiance.
"Naw, darlin'. Just some good old Kentucky Bourbon.
Will that do ya?"
"Is a coon's ass fuzzy?" I responded.
"Now, I wouldn't rightly know about that, sugar, but I'll
take that as a yes." And she poured us each a healthy shot.
"Well, fellers, if there's nothing else I can do for ya-"
"Actually," I interrupted, "there is."
She looked bewildered at first, but then, after I explained
the whole story to her, she sat there grinning and nodding.
I hoped that was a good sign.
"My, my, my. Now, that is a mighty interestin' story.
Yessiree, Bob. Ma was sure surprised when that appraiser
told her what that vase was worth. Poor thing nearly had a
heart attack, but knew that wouldn't look too good in front
of the TV, so she stayed calm until that camera feller said
Cut. Boy howdy, then she started a-screamin'."
"So she still has the vase, then?" I asked.
"Oh, hell, no. She sold that thing the very next day."
(See, I told you they all do that.) "Didn't get nearly what
that appraiser said she would, though. Still, for a few bucks'
investment, she did pretty damn good. Excuse my French.
I'm sure sorry for you, Em."
"Well, it's not your fault. Do you mind me asking what
she got for it?" I asked, crestfallen that I had been so close
to finding it.
"Let's see now. I believe it was something like fifteen
thousand dollars. Ma's on the social security and all, so that
money was a godsend. She bought a new rocker first thing.
Just sits on her front porch a-rockin' and a-grinnin'. Bless
her heart."
"Could you tell me who she sold it to?" I asked, praying
that she at least knew that much.
"Sorry, sugar, sure can't. I wasn't with her at the
time. But tell you what, I'm going
I was tickled pink about going backstage. Not just because
we were meeting Mary's daughter, but also because I'd
never been backstage before, anywhere. I felt so cool. So
hip. Like those people who wear black Armani suits and
sunglasses indoors. (Okay, I'm tragic. But I think we knew
that already.)
Jacques knocked on the dressing-room door, the one
with the star on it, just like in the movies, and announced,
"It's Jacques. May we come in?"
A few moments later, the door opened and Patsy was
standing before us in a robe. Her makeup was mostly gone
and her hair was pinned up where the wig had once been.
The aura had sadly gone with it. She was no longer the Patsy
of my dreams. Without the makeup and clothes, she barely
resembled the legend. Sadly, the thrill of backstage life was
ebbing fast.
"Yes?" she asked, staring at Jacques and then the three
of us.
"My friends would love to meet you. Would you mind a
little company?" he asked.
"No sweat, sugar. Ya'll come on in." Well, she might not
have looked like Patsy anymore, but she sure as shootin'
sounded like her. My spirits were once again lifted.
"You were amazing, Miss Cline. What an incredible
voice. Thank you so much," I gushed. Thank goodness
it wasn't a Barbra or a Bette impersonator; I might have
fainted dead away.
"Please, darlin', call me Honey. Miss Cline's been gone
and buried for years now. But I surely thank you for the
compliment. Where you boys from?"
"San Francisco," the three of us answered.
"Ah, I see," she said knowingly.
Justin leaned in to Jacques and whispered something in
his ear. Then he leaned in to me and whispered, "I told him
I had a headache and asked if he'd walk me to our room for an aspirin. Once we're gone, you better find Mary." I
nodded my head in agreement.
Jacques said to her, "If you'll excuse us, Honey, Justin
and I have something to attend to."
"Oh, I'm sure you do, sugar," she said with a smirk, then
added, "You're awfully handsome, Justin. You an entertainer?"
"You could say that," he said, and left the room with
Jacques in tow.
"You boys care for a drink?" she asked Marvin and me,
once we were alone.
"You got any sarsaparilla?" I asked, completely drowning
in the whole Southern ambiance.
"Naw, darlin'. Just some good old Kentucky Bourbon.
Will that do ya?"
"Is a coon's ass fuzzy?" I responded.
"Now, I wouldn't rightly know about that, sugar, but I'll
take that as a yes." And she poured us each a healthy shot.
"Well, fellers, if there's nothing else I can do for ya-"
"Actually," I interrupted, "there is."
She looked bewildered at first, but then, after I explained
the whole story to her, she sat there grinning and nodding.
I hoped that was a good sign.
"My, my, my. Now, that is a mighty interestin' story.
Yessiree, Bob. Ma was sure surprised when that appraiser
told her what that vase was worth. Poor thing nearly had a
heart attack, but knew that wouldn't look too good in front
of the TV, so she stayed calm until that camera feller said
Cut. Boy howdy, then she started a-screamin'."
"So she still has the vase, then?" I asked.
"Oh, hell, no. She sold that thing the very next day."
(See, I told you they all do that.) "Didn't get nearly what
that appraiser said she would, though. Still, for a few bucks'
investment, she did pretty damn good. Excuse my French.
I'm sure sorry for you, Em."
"Well, it's not your fault. Do you mind me asking what
she got for it?" I asked, crestfallen that I had been so close
to finding it.
"Let's see now. I believe it was something like fifteen
thousand dollars. Ma's on the social security and all, so that
money was a godsend. She bought a new rocker first thing.
Just sits on her front porch a-rockin' and a-grinnin'. Bless
her heart."
"Could you tell me who she sold it to?" I asked, praying
that she at least knew that much.
"Sorry, sugar, sure can't. I wasn't with her at the
time. But tell you what, I'm going
Similar Books
