Although most of our guests at the Palmer House were ordinary travelers touring the mountains, here and there some strange characters landed on our doorstep: a few drunks; two con artists; several people carrying on affairs; a young couple who, returning late one night, were noisily making love, with the young lady calling loudly, “Doctor! Oh, Doctor!”; a wealthy man barely out of adolescence who ate candy bars all day and who later flew to Thailand to indulge himself in drugs and sex.
But the strangest guest of all was Mrs. Gosp.
But the strangest guest of all was Mrs. Gosp.
It was the summer of our first year in the business, and I took the phone call. An older woman informed me that her niece was arriving from Hawaii and needed a place to stay for a couple of weeks. So I booked the room—at that time, we were renting two of the bedrooms on the third floor, because we had only one child—and I told the woman we’d take good care of her niece. This guest aroused my interest because I assumed she would be young and might be attracted to my brother Chris, who was single and living with us at that time.
Then came the niece’s arrival. She was a tiny woman in her fifties, wrinkled, grey-haired, a chain smoker whose complexion contained that yellowish pallor some smokers acquire. She brought only a small suitcase and a couple of paper bags for luggage. We put her up on the third floor, and for the next few days everything went well. Mrs. Gosp didn’t own a car, but she was gone from the house most days, presumably walking around town or visiting her aunt.
Then the weirdness began. Here are just a few examples.
Once during her second week with us I was talking on the front porch with a couple of guests. It was pitch black and pouring rain, and Mrs. Gosp stuck her head out of the door. “Jeff,” she said, “do you have any binoculars I could borrow?”
I told her no, which was true, but her question puzzled me. I could hardly see the faces of the guests because of the darkness and the rain. Why would she want binoculars? One more tale of regret: I should have asked her, though I was afraid her reply might frighten the guests. To this day I have no idea why she wanted the binoculars.
On another evening my brother Chris, Mrs. Gosp, and I were sitting on the front porch when a car coming up Pigeon Street ran over a possum. “You should call a vet to see if that possum can be saved,” Mrs. Gosp told us, taking a long drag on her cigarette. “Vetenarians like helping wild creatures.”
After she went inside, Chris and I scooped the dead possum into a trash bag and dropped it into one of the bins at the back of the house.
On another occasion, Chris was sweeping the porch when Mrs. Gosp came down the sidewalk from town.
“How are you, Mrs. Gosp?” Chris asked.
“The lid on this town is going to blow sky high,” Mrs. Gosp replied. “And I’m getting out of here.”
And she did. She packed her bags and left that afternoon, traveling by bus back to California. Mrs. Gosp was a great one for bus travel. Once, I learned, she had come from California to Waynesville, stayed for the afternoon, and then hopped back onto the next bus for California.
Mrs. Gosp stayed with us on two other occasions, and from our conversations with her my brother and I began piecing together a little of her history. As a young woman, she had modeled and taught ballroom dance. She had married a Naval officer, a physician, and had lived in various places around the globe. She took to the bottle, became addicted, underwent a cure, shed herself of liquor, and then apparently went mad. Or perhaps she had been mad her entire life. Her husband, by then a high-ranking officer, had divorced her, but continued to offer some financial support, which paid for her bus trips.
On her third visit, when Mrs. Gosp had stayed with us for about a week, her aunt called me early one morning. “I can’t afford to pay for Alicia anymore,” she said. “You’ll need to ask her to leave. I’d come help you, but as you know, I’m bed-ridden.”
“Oh, I won’t need any help.”
“Well, you better be careful. Alicia has been kicked out of half the hotel rooms in Haywood County. When they tell her she has to leave, she sometimes goes crazy and destroys the rooms. In one motel she did over a thousand dollars worth of damage. And I’d appreciate it if you didn’t tell her I called. Alicia beat me once, a while back.”
Well, I thought at this remark, that explains why Alicia isn’t staying with her aunt.
After we hung up, I thought a moment about the incongruities of human nature, of the diminutive Alicia beating a bedridden woman, and of rooms destroyed. Then I walked upstairs. I entered Mrs. Gosp’s room—none of the rooms had keys and I had seen her leave the premises around 6:30 that morning—and I zipped up her small bag and packed a few loose pieces of clothing into the two paper sacks. Because she had already packed the bag, I presumed Mrs. Gosp knew about her impending departure. I carried the bags downstairs, placed them by the front door, and locked it. Then it was back to the kitchen to serve breakfast to our other guests.
When the bell rang, I opened the door. There stood Mrs. Gosp. By now, thanks to her aunt, I also knew she had fallen into the custom of walking early to a downtown café, eating breakfast, and then returning to the Palmer House for more food. I had wondered why she so often scarcely touched her plate, and now I knew.
“Good morning, Mrs. Gosp,” I said. “I know it’s your last day with us so I took the liberty of packing your bags.”
I put the suitcase and the paper bags on this porch.
For a destroyer of rooms, Mrs. Gosp took this news very calmly. “Why, thank you, Jeff,” she said, as sweet as you please.
“I hope you have a good trip and a wonderful day,” I said, starting to close the door.
“Wait! What about my breakfast?”
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Gosp. No breakfast this morning.”
Well, she just exploded. She began stomping up and down in front of the door, shaking her fists at me and screaming: “You’re trying to kill me! You’re trying to give me a heart attack! “
It’s awful to admit, but even then this spectacle was humorous. She clearly wasn’t about to suffer a heart attack. Apoplexy, maybe, but not heart failure.
“Well, Mrs. Gosp,” I said, “you’ll have to have that heart attack here on the porch, cause there’s no way you’re getting into this house. Would you like me to call you a cab?”
After another minute or two, she settled down and ordered me to call a cab. Off she drove a few minutes later. Unbeknownst to me, she instructed the driver to drop her at the courthouse, where she intended to take out some sort of warrant on me. Mrs. Gosp’s aunt explained this to me when she called later that morning, adding that she had once served as Clerk of Courts and had already warned law officials to ignore whatever Alice told them.
Someone, maybe the aunt, told me Mrs. Gosp’s husband had threatened her with detention in a mental care facility if she crossed the country one more time by bus. All I know is that I never saw her again after her tantrum on the porch.
Then came the niece’s arrival. She was a tiny woman in her fifties, wrinkled, grey-haired, a chain smoker whose complexion contained that yellowish pallor some smokers acquire. She brought only a small suitcase and a couple of paper bags for luggage. We put her up on the third floor, and for the next few days everything went well. Mrs. Gosp didn’t own a car, but she was gone from the house most days, presumably walking around town or visiting her aunt.
Then the weirdness began. Here are just a few examples.
Once during her second week with us I was talking on the front porch with a couple of guests. It was pitch black and pouring rain, and Mrs. Gosp stuck her head out of the door. “Jeff,” she said, “do you have any binoculars I could borrow?”
I told her no, which was true, but her question puzzled me. I could hardly see the faces of the guests because of the darkness and the rain. Why would she want binoculars? One more tale of regret: I should have asked her, though I was afraid her reply might frighten the guests. To this day I have no idea why she wanted the binoculars.
On another evening my brother Chris, Mrs. Gosp, and I were sitting on the front porch when a car coming up Pigeon Street ran over a possum. “You should call a vet to see if that possum can be saved,” Mrs. Gosp told us, taking a long drag on her cigarette. “Vetenarians like helping wild creatures.”
After she went inside, Chris and I scooped the dead possum into a trash bag and dropped it into one of the bins at the back of the house.
On another occasion, Chris was sweeping the porch when Mrs. Gosp came down the sidewalk from town.
“How are you, Mrs. Gosp?” Chris asked.
“The lid on this town is going to blow sky high,” Mrs. Gosp replied. “And I’m getting out of here.”
And she did. She packed her bags and left that afternoon, traveling by bus back to California. Mrs. Gosp was a great one for bus travel. Once, I learned, she had come from California to Waynesville, stayed for the afternoon, and then hopped back onto the next bus for California.
Mrs. Gosp stayed with us on two other occasions, and from our conversations with her my brother and I began piecing together a little of her history. As a young woman, she had modeled and taught ballroom dance. She had married a Naval officer, a physician, and had lived in various places around the globe. She took to the bottle, became addicted, underwent a cure, shed herself of liquor, and then apparently went mad. Or perhaps she had been mad her entire life. Her husband, by then a high-ranking officer, had divorced her, but continued to offer some financial support, which paid for her bus trips.
On her third visit, when Mrs. Gosp had stayed with us for about a week, her aunt called me early one morning. “I can’t afford to pay for Alicia anymore,” she said. “You’ll need to ask her to leave. I’d come help you, but as you know, I’m bed-ridden.”
“Oh, I won’t need any help.”
“Well, you better be careful. Alicia has been kicked out of half the hotel rooms in Haywood County. When they tell her she has to leave, she sometimes goes crazy and destroys the rooms. In one motel she did over a thousand dollars worth of damage. And I’d appreciate it if you didn’t tell her I called. Alicia beat me once, a while back.”
Well, I thought at this remark, that explains why Alicia isn’t staying with her aunt.
After we hung up, I thought a moment about the incongruities of human nature, of the diminutive Alicia beating a bedridden woman, and of rooms destroyed. Then I walked upstairs. I entered Mrs. Gosp’s room—none of the rooms had keys and I had seen her leave the premises around 6:30 that morning—and I zipped up her small bag and packed a few loose pieces of clothing into the two paper sacks. Because she had already packed the bag, I presumed Mrs. Gosp knew about her impending departure. I carried the bags downstairs, placed them by the front door, and locked it. Then it was back to the kitchen to serve breakfast to our other guests.
When the bell rang, I opened the door. There stood Mrs. Gosp. By now, thanks to her aunt, I also knew she had fallen into the custom of walking early to a downtown café, eating breakfast, and then returning to the Palmer House for more food. I had wondered why she so often scarcely touched her plate, and now I knew.
“Good morning, Mrs. Gosp,” I said. “I know it’s your last day with us so I took the liberty of packing your bags.”
I put the suitcase and the paper bags on this porch.
For a destroyer of rooms, Mrs. Gosp took this news very calmly. “Why, thank you, Jeff,” she said, as sweet as you please.
“I hope you have a good trip and a wonderful day,” I said, starting to close the door.
“Wait! What about my breakfast?”
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Gosp. No breakfast this morning.”
Well, she just exploded. She began stomping up and down in front of the door, shaking her fists at me and screaming: “You’re trying to kill me! You’re trying to give me a heart attack! “
It’s awful to admit, but even then this spectacle was humorous. She clearly wasn’t about to suffer a heart attack. Apoplexy, maybe, but not heart failure.
“Well, Mrs. Gosp,” I said, “you’ll have to have that heart attack here on the porch, cause there’s no way you’re getting into this house. Would you like me to call you a cab?”
After another minute or two, she settled down and ordered me to call a cab. Off she drove a few minutes later. Unbeknownst to me, she instructed the driver to drop her at the courthouse, where she intended to take out some sort of warrant on me. Mrs. Gosp’s aunt explained this to me when she called later that morning, adding that she had once served as Clerk of Courts and had already warned law officials to ignore whatever Alice told them.
Someone, maybe the aunt, told me Mrs. Gosp’s husband had threatened her with detention in a mental care facility if she crossed the country one more time by bus. All I know is that I never saw her again after her tantrum on the porch.
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