As Aunt Lillian often remarks, Vernon seems to make a habit of losing jobs and houses. It isn’t long before he falls behind with the payments on their new place and Elvis and his family have to move again, first to Tupelo’s poorest coloured neighbourhood, Shake Rag, and then, when Gladys gets a job with Aunt Lillian at Long’s Laundry by the railway tracks, on to a house on North Green Street. Grandma Minnie Mae, who Elvis has recently nicknamed ‘Dodger’ on account of her ducking out of the path of a ball he threw across the yard, moved in with them after her husband shocked the whole of East Tupelo by filing for divorce. Vernon calls his daddy a no-good liar, and worse. But Dodger looks to Elvis like she’s happy to be free of that old man. From the way she swings her long, stringy body around their rooms, humming a little tune, sweeping corners that only she can reach, her ankle-length skirts whispering along with her breath, it seems to him that she’s dodged another ball.
They are still in a coloured neighbourhood, though Vernon often points out that theirs is a whites-only rental, and is on the very edge of what he calls Dark Town. They have no call to feel ashamed, he says. The Presleys can hold their heads up, even on the neat streets of Tupelo. Gladys says nothing, but her rage is obvious to Elvis. When his daddy is home, it’s there in her every movement, even in the way she holds her son: her arms are stiffer than they used to be, and her embrace sometimes threatens to squeeze the breath from him.
It is early summer. Elvis is out in the small backyard – so small there was no room for Mama’s chickens, who have been left with Uncle Noah – standing on an empty crate. A chinaberry tree growing in the neighbour’s garden casts its umbrella-shaped shadow across him as he practises his line for a school play.
‘My name is FEAR! People tremble and shake when I am near!’
He pretends not to know that he’s being watched through a hole in the wooden fence by the coloured boy who lives in the house behind his. If he admits he knows this, then he might have to feel ashamed.
‘My name is FEAR! People tremble and shake when I am near!’
It’s important to scowl, and to make himself bigger as he says the line. He breathes in, expanding his chest. Miss Camp has instructed him to imagine he is the Devil himself as he speaks the words. ‘But only,’ she has warned, her string of pearls trembling, ‘for the duration of your performance.’ It’s actually near impossible even to open his mouth at his new school. Most of the other kids at Milam wear pants and sweaters, not overalls, every day of the week. Not one of them lives near Dark Town. Miss Camp likes Elvis’s singing, though, especially ‘Barbara Allen’, which Grandma Dodger taught him. Miss Camp says that’s a sweet, sad song, and she’s right. When he sings it he doesn’t have to worry about sounding hillbilly. Sometimes his eyes well up when he gets to the bit about the mother digging the grave long and narrow, and Miss Camp looks at him like he’s as good as those kids in pants and sweaters, if not better.
Elvis knows his face is right, but he’s struggling with his voice. He tries again. ‘My name is FEAR!’ Then he stops and looks around, in case the boy reacts. But there’s just the warm breeze in the chinaberry leaves, and the low buzz of flies.
‘My name is FEAR!’ Louder. ‘People tremble and shake when I am near!’ No. He rushed that last bit, and barely whispered it.
He jumps down, rubs his hands roughly over his sweating face, then, without thinking too much, leaps onto the crate once more.
‘My name is FEAR!’ The whole thing shouted now, and his body as big as he can make it. ‘People tremble and shake when I am near!’ Perhaps a little pause after ‘tremble’ and more emphasis on ‘I’.
This time he imagines he’s up on the screen at the Strand, a bad guy in a sharp suit in a Gene Autry picture. Balancing his imaginary pistol on the shining hood of his brand new automobile, he narrows his eyes and recalls Miss Camp’s words. The Devil himself. His suit is black and his car is deep red and his aim is deadly. He says the line once more and twirls around, still brandishing the pistol, being careful not to look towards the gap in the fence, where he hopes the eyes of the boy will be widening in awe. He’s almost singing the line now. He’s not sure what he’s doing with his body; it’s something between acting and dancing; something, perhaps, like the Devil himself. Closing his eyes, Elvis thrusts his hands in the air and yells, ‘My name is FEAR! FEAR, I tell you!’ He almost laughs at himself, but not quite. ‘My name is FEAR and people tremble and shake and damn near piss their pants when I come around!’
Then he fires off a round of imaginary bullets, his groin juddering as the pistol explodes.
To his great surprise, a finger appears through the hole in the fence.
‘BAM-BAM-BAM!’
Elvis stops and stares. The finger remains where it is.
‘BAM!’ says Elvis.
‘BAM!’ says the finger.
Gladys has told him to be polite to his neighbours but not to get involved with coloureds, because these things have a way of not turning out for the best. And, mostly, it’s easy to follow her instructions. When he walks along the street, few people look him in the eye, even though he cannot help but stare at everybody he sees. Here on the Hill it’s not like in Shake Rag, where the women wore feathers and paint in the daytime, but there are still preachers dressed in shining suits and chunky jewellery, women in fancy hats like toy buildings, and music coming from the most unlikely places – Mr Ulysses Mayhorn’s store, for one. He’s heard that trombone moaning, and he wants to hear it again, soon.
But Mama is working over at Long’s, and is not here to watch over what he hears or sees.
When Elvis approaches the fence, the finger disappears. He looks through the gap and there’s no sign of the boy, but his garden is a paradise. There’s not only a large watermelon patch, but also a fig tree, a peanut patch, and an orchard of peach and apple trees with a couple of matted-looking mules standing beneath. Everything is glowing in the afternoon sun, as if waiting to be taken. Elvis stares through the gap, trying to drink it all in before it disappears. He knew the people on the Hill were respectable coloureds – ones with jobs in the finest houses in Tupelo – but he had no idea they might have gardens like this. This garden is almost as good as his uncle Bob’s, and Uncle Bob has one of the best gardens in East Tupelo, with enough produce to feed half their church. Surely Mama could have no objection to him talking to a boy with such a garden. A boy with such a garden would be, in her eyes, a clean and deserving kind of coloured boy.
Then Elvis hears breathing, and realises the boy is pressed up against the fence, just out of his eye-line but real close. He shifts round so he can see the side of the boy’s face.
‘Bam!’ Elvis says again, softly.
The boy jolts away from the fence. He’s tall and well built and neat-looking. He has a long face and eyes that slant slightly as they stare at Elvis. He doesn’t smile, but he doesn’t look afraid, either.
‘I’m Elvis Presley,’ says Elvis.
‘That’s funny,’ says the boy. ‘I reckoned your name was Fear.’
After a moment, Elvis breaks out laughing.
‘I’m Sam Bell,’ says the boy.
For days, the performance on the crate becomes a ritual. Elvis climbs up, does his line, does it again, and Sam watches through the gap in the fence. Sometimes Sam laughs, and his laugh is like somebody falling down the stairs: a long, loud series of bumpy noises. When he laughs, Elvis gets mad, and tries the line a different way, telling himself no coloured boy will laugh like that at him. It always ends in them both firing their finger-pistols.
Then Elvis says, through the fence, ‘Your garden sure looks good.’
Sam crosses his arms tightly and stands very still.
‘You got peanuts back there?’ asks Elvis.
Sam sighs and tilts his head.
‘Them mules look like they could use riding.’
Sam lets out a small laugh. ‘They’s good for nothing but petting.’
There’s a pause.
‘You good at saying that thing of yours,’ Sam says. Elvis notices Sam has a way of not opening his mouth very wide when he speaks, as if he’s unsure whether he should make any sound at all. But when he does, his voice is low and serious. It makes Elvis want to speak in the same way as Sam: with measured, thoughtful authority.
Elvis grins. ‘You good at firing that gun of yours.’
‘You could maybe come over,’ Sam says, ‘but I gotta ask Mama first.’
This is all the invitation Elvis needs. In a flash, he’s crawled beneath the fence and is standing next to Sam. From here, the garden doesn’t look as big as it did from the other side, and Sam, too, looks smaller. The two boys blink at one another. Sam’s overalls are newer than Elvis’s, but he, too, is barefoot. He smells a little spicy. Perhaps he has something in his hair, which is cropped close to his head and shines in the sun, as if it’s oiled.
‘I’ll go ask her, then,’ Sam says.
‘I’ll come with you,’ says Elvis.
Sam looks hard at him. Then he shakes his head and mumbles, ‘I guess.’
All his life, Gladys has warned Elvis: Don’t go in other people’s houses and dirty their floors. When you play with a friend, stay in the yard. If it’s wet, play on the porch, or beneath the house, so long as you’ve checked for snakes. Back in East Tupelo, he’d spent hours with Guy and Odell, playing trucks beneath the floorboards of his own house. The fine dirt there made a good racetrack.
As Sam leads him through the orchard to the porch, Elvis smells the ripe peaches on the tree and tells himself that perhaps the rule about playing in the yard doesn’t apply with coloured folks. So many rules are different, when it comes to them. And, as a white boy, doesn’t he have the right to go in that house if he pleases?
On the porch, they hesitate.
‘I don’t know what she’ll say,’ Sam warns.
‘Won’t know till we ask her,’ Elvis assures him. Usually, if he’s polite enough, and smiles at the right moments, older folks say yes to him.
Sam pulls open the screen door and Elvis follows him over the threshold and into the aroma of freshly baked biscuits. His stomach growls. The floor of the living room is so polished it gleams, and in the corner of the room is a piano with the lid up. The keys are all intact, and there’s music on the stand. It looks as though it will play good, exactly like the one in church. He could sit there, and let his fingers run over the smooth keys, turning his hand so his knuckles catch each one. Sometimes he can pick out a tune in church, when the preacher lets him. He’s much better at playing the piano than the guitar.
When they reach the kitchen doorway, Sam’s mother stands before them. She is wearing a flowered dress and a checked apron, and she’s as tall and thin as Dodger. She seems to fill the entrance, stretching her arms from one side of the door frame to the other, blocking their progress.
Seeing Elvis, she draws in a breath. And stares. At first her stare is openly surprised, as if she might laugh. Then her eyes dart suspiciously from Sam to Elvis and back again.
Suddenly Elvis knows with absolute certainty that he should not be here, that his mama will be disappointed and his daddy mad enough to whip him. But it is too late to back out.
Sam, who stood so straight and still before, is quivering. His hands keep fluttering around his body, as if to chase away some phantom. Is this what he looks like, Elvis wonders, when Miss Camp tells him to please hold still, for heaven’s sake?
‘Who,’ Mrs Bell asks Sam, ‘is this?’
Mother and son consider Elvis as if he’s a curious and perhaps dangerous pet that’s just been delivered to them by mistake.
‘Elvis,’ Sam manages. ‘This here’s Elvis.’
‘What kind of name is that?’
‘His name,’ Sam states, simply.
She keeps her hands on the door frame. ‘And is Elvis a friend of yours?’
Just in time, Elvis stops himself from answering the question for Sam. Instead he focuses on Mrs Bell’s hair, considering its depth and texture, imagining how it might feel beneath his fingers. Would it be like wire wool? Or soft, like a lamb’s coat?
‘Samuel? Is this boy a friend of yours?’
‘Yes, Mama,’ Sam mutters.
She breathes deeply through her nostrils.
‘Your mother know you here, Elvis?’
‘Yes, ma’am,’ says Elvis, scratching at his neck.
She lets her hands drop. ‘Well,’ she says, stepping back so they can pass, ‘I guess you’d better come on through. Sit down there. I’ll fetch you both some biscuits.’
‘Thank you, ma’am, that sounds real good,’ says Elvis.
Mrs Bell gestures towards a wooden chair at the table by the back door.
Before he sits, he cannot stop himself from adding, ‘You have it real nice here, ma’am.’ It’s what his mama would say, in this situation. She might add a question, too, about which talented lady did the pretty embroidery on the cushions in the living room.
Mrs Bell stares at him as though she might laugh again, then gathers herself and nods, sternly.
Also at the table is an older woman. Her hair is tied up in a purple scarf which tugs at the skin on her forehead. After watching Elvis settle his dusty behind on the chair, she turns slowly to Mrs Bell, who is standing at the counter, putting biscuits onto a plate. ‘Lorene,’ she says, ‘what’s this white boy doing in my house?’
Mrs Bell places the plate on the table, together with a pitcher of milk and some cups. ‘He’s a friend of Sam’s, Mama.’
The old woman looks at Sam. ‘That right, Samuel?’
‘Yes, Grandma.’
There’s a pause while the old woman’s frown deepens. ‘Tell me something,’ she says, slowly. ‘How can that be, son?’
Beneath the table, Sam’s hands begin to flutter again. Elvis wants to reach out and hold them down for him. But he’s not sure, yet, whether it would be OK to touch Sam. He looks clean enough, but he’s been warned by Dodger to watch out for nasty coloured diseases.
Mrs Bell touches her son on the shoulder. ‘Take a biscuit, Sam,’ she says. She pours milk for both boys. Elvis drinks his down, putting his lips to the side of the cup, right near the handle, so as not to swallow anybody else’s germs.
‘I asked you a question, Samuel,’ the old woman says, fixing her eyes not on Sam but on Elvis. ‘I said, how can that be?’
Sam has yet to touch his biscuit. ‘He lives on over the back. I saw him through the fence.’
‘And that makes him your friend.’
Sam’s mouth moves but no sound comes out.
‘How old are you, Elvis?’ asks Mrs Bell.
‘Twelve, ma’am.’
‘There. He’s just a boy,’ she tells her mother.
The old woman beckons Elvis with one finger. ‘Come here, boy, and let me look at you good.’
The woman’s dark eyes shine. Perhaps she has voodoo powers, like the gypsy back in East Tupelo, who sometimes used to call to Elvis from her porch. Folks said she’d cursed the man who’d wronged her in love, and that he’d never walked again. His mama told him not to look at her, and Elvis had no trouble obeying that particular instruction.
Sam kicks at Elvis’s chair and hisses, ‘You heard her!’
Mrs Bell says, gently, ‘Go on, Elvis. My mother can’t see too well, is all.’
He senses he will not get a biscuit until the old woman has examined him, and so he does as he is told.
She keeps beckoning until Elvis is almost touching her. The skin on her face looks both soft and tough, like the cover of an old book. Her nose quivers as she lets out a long breath onto his face. It smells of violet-flavoured candy. ‘What you up to, boy?’ she asks.
‘Nothing, ma’am.’
‘Who your kin?’
‘The Presleys, ma’am. My daddy is Vernon Presley. And my mother is Gladys.’
‘Ain’t never heard of them.’
‘My uncle, Noah, is mayor of East Tupelo.’
The old woman’s lips curl into a smile. ‘You an Above-the-Highway boy!’
‘I was, ma’am. But now my family lives right here in Tupelo.’
‘Your mama know you here in this house?’
Elvis does not hesitate to tell the lie again. ‘Yes, ma’am.’
She studies his face for a long moment, and he manages to keep looking right back at her.
‘You a good friend of my Samuel’s?’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘For how long?’
‘About a week.’
She clicks her tongue.
‘You hungry, Elvis?’
‘I could eat something, ma’am.’
‘I bet you could. You looks hungry, like most of them Above-the-Highway boys.’ She laughs. ‘Lean and white and right squirrelly.’
‘Mama—’ Mrs Bell warns.
She nods towards Elvis. ‘You can sit.’
He hurries to his seat, almost knocking it over in his haste.
Mrs Bell offers Elvis the plate. There are three left. He considers Dodger’s words about coloured diseases, but he cannot refuse this hospitality. He knows his mama wouldn’t want him to. And he’s so hungry he could eat the biscuits and the table, both.
‘Thank you, ma’am.’
As he reaches for the food, the old woman leans over and whispers in his ear, ‘Don’t you ever cross our boy, you hear?’
He nods, his mouth already full of delicious dough.
* * *
With the summer vacation started and the play done (Elvis thinks he didn’t give as good a performance as he’d managed in the yard), they are in Sam’s tree house, arguing about whether to go to Mayhorn’s store. The pitcher of lemonade and the plate of peanut crackers provided by Mrs Bell have been hungrily consumed. They have stroked the mules, led them around the orchard and attempted riding them until the animals protested, loudly; they have crawled around the peanut patch, pretending to be snipers. Elvis did such a good impersonation of being wounded that Sam rushed to his side, almost in tears.
Now Elvis wants to listen to Mr Ulysses Mayhorn play his trombone. He’s cycled slowly past the store on a few occasions, lured closer each time by the music coming from inside. He has never dared to stop, but with Sam as cover, perhaps he could linger a while. Perhaps he could learn more about this music, which seems to speak of secret, thrilling, terrifying things. He knows people call it the blues. How sound can be a colour, he doesn’t yet understand.
‘You crazy,’ says Sam. ‘Mama’ll never let me go over there alone.’
‘You won’t be alone. You’ll be with me.’
‘You understand what kinda music they play, don’t you?’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘Mama wouldn’t like it one bit,’ says Sam. ‘She says that music ain’t holy.’
Elvis can hear the rattle of pans in Mrs Bell’s kitchen, the car-dinals in the dusty trees, somebody laughing on North Green. He wants to hear the trombone again. That trombone moaned like somebody getting the spirit. But Mrs Bell may have a point: whether that spirit is good or evil, he’s not sure.
‘She ain’t gonna know. It won’t take long.’
And then, another time, it was like crying. Crying with joy, like his mama did after he sang in that talent show. Or crying in pain, like Mama does now, when his daddy fails to come home nights.
Never, never, never, wailed the trombone.
‘We can’t go over there,’ says Sam. But then he looks at Elvis, head tilted, a tiny smile playing on his lips. ‘Can we?’
‘We got my bike. We’d be there and back in twenty.’
The used bike was a gift from his daddy to make amends for having to move again. These days, with his mother and father both working, more things are appearing in the house. Not long ago, Vernon came home with a Victrola. Dodger says Vernon should make the rent before buying such things. Vernon tells his mama to hush up, but he says it low enough for her to miss.
Sam flops backwards and lets out a heavy breath. ‘It’s too hot to bother.’
Which is always Sam’s excuse for not doing what Elvis wants.
‘You sound like an old man, boy.’
‘We ain’t got no money!’
Elvis grins. ‘That’s where you wrong, Samuel Bell.’ He produces a nickel from his pocket and drops it on Sam’s chest, where it clatters on the rivets of his overalls.
Sam sits up. ‘Where d’you get that?’
‘Earned it. Doing deliveries for Mr Harris.’
Sam laughs. ‘You too much.’
‘Come on,’ says Elvis, jumping to his feet. ‘Get your ass moving.’
Cycling along the street, Elvis thinks about how he looks. He is careful to sit upright and let what breeze there is blow his hair straight back, to steer the handlebars loosely yet confidently, to look generally as though he is in absolute command of his bike, even though Sam is giggling and swaying as he balances on the crossbar. Elvis tries not to think too much about being a white boy with a coloured passenger. Despite Vernon’s disapproval, Gladys has said it’s all right to go play in Sam’s yard; but she hasn’t suggested he bring Sam over to the house, and Elvis knows that if Vernon catches him with Sam on his bike there’ll be hell.
It’s near five-thirty, and people are beginning to spill onto the sidewalk, making their way home from work or braving the slightly gentler heat of the late afternoon. One woman stops and looks at Elvis and Sam and says something to her pretty daughter. Elvis considers waving at the two of them, then thinks better of it. Folks will sometimes make allowances for kids when it comes to colour, but not that many allowances, especially when the kids are twelve already. Sam is tall, too, and with his serious, long face, looks more like fourteen. Which is another good reason to take him to Mayhorn’s.
Elvis stares straight ahead, set on making it to the store before Sam changes his mind. From the crumbling, dark alleyways of Shake Rag come the cries of babies and the raised voices of women, but they must pass quickly to find the real music. Sticky heat blasts their faces and dust kicks up behind the bike as Elvis gets up speed. Sam holds on tight, wobbling but not protesting.
Outside the store there are brooms, aprons, washtubs, cans of gasoline, kerosene lamps, matches, rope, hoes, watering cans, spades of all sizes, copper kettles, buckets and dippers, dishcloths and men. Four of them are sitting on the porch steps, listening to Mr Mayhorn tuning up inside the store. Elvis is aware the men will have seen him hanging round here before, and must think him a curious, hungry-looking, dog-like boy who has no business at a coloured store, listening to coloured music.
Suddenly losing his nerve, Elvis pedals harder and cycles straight past.
‘You missed it!’ Sam hollers. ‘Elvis! You missed it!’
As if in echo, the trombone calls out, long and loud. Never, never, never.
Elvis skids to a halt, breathing hard.
‘What’s wrong?’ asks Sam. ‘You blind?’
Sam is his cover. With Sam here, it will be all right.
Elvis swerves the bike around and pedals back to Mayhorn’s.
Spine straight, he brakes sharply, causing Sam to tumble from the crossbar. Elvis drops the bike, wipes a hand through his hair, then looks up at the men on the porch. The men look back at him. A long moment passes. The one on the lowest step looks the hardest. His brow is beaded with sweat and his white shirt clings to his chest. He wears a wide gold chain around his neck and his hair is oiled into waves; he looks strong and protected.
Slowly, he says, ‘Evening, boys.’
‘Sir,’ says Elvis.
The man looks through him and addresses Sam. ‘You Lorene Bell’s boy?’ he asks.
‘Yessir.’
‘You got her eyes. Those pools of sorrow, just the same.’ He raises his chin. ‘And this boy’s with you?’
Sam glances at Elvis, hands fluttering. ‘He’s a friend of mine, sir.’
The man nods.
A long note blasts from the store, and Elvis shifts from foot to foot, eager to move closer to its source.
‘Your mama’s a good woman,’ says the man. ‘She still working over that house on Highland Circle?’
‘Yessir,’ Sam replies.
The man shakes his head. ‘Then she still tolerating a whole crock of shit. ’Scuse my language, boys.’
‘That’s OK,’ says Elvis. Vernon would curse from dawn to dusk if Gladys let him.
The man ignores him. ‘Tell your mama Joe says hello, you hear?’ he says to Sam.
Hearing a few notes strung together, Elvis walks forward and puts his foot on the step.
Joe holds up his hand. ‘If you boys is figuring on buying candy, you’d better come back tomorrow. Store’s closed for today. Mr Mayhorn’s practising with his band.’
‘We’ll come back—’ Sam says.
Elvis cuts him off. ‘Actually, sir, we came to hear the music.’
For the first time, Joe looks Elvis in the eye. He lets out a long whistle.
The man sitting on the top step quits puffing on his cigarillo. ‘Then we oughta charge you, boy,’ he says, in a surprisingly squeaky voice. ‘Doncha think, Joe?’
‘Sure ’nuff, Willie.’
‘But, sir,’ stammers Elvis, ‘I don’t—’
‘Now,’ says Joe, ‘I wonder. What’s the going rate to hear Ulysses and his band down Vaughan’s?’
‘’Bout fifty cents, I reckon,’ says Willie.
Sam digs Elvis in the ribs. ‘You got that nickel,’ he mutters.
Elvis digs in his pockets. He produces the coin and holds it up to Joe, hopefully.
Joe throws back his head, and from somewhere deep inside his gut, a laugh escapes. ‘I’s messing with you!’ he roars, batting Elvis’s hand away. ‘Y’all can sit over there, by ol’ Henry. He won’t pay you no mind.’
Henry, who is leaning on a stick as he chews tobacco, looks to be the oldest of the men. First spitting to the side, he nods to the boys.
Elvis and Sam huddle together on the step, as far from Henry as they can.
Willie is still laughing. ‘What a skinny white boy like you want to listen to ol’ Mayhorn for?’ he asks. ‘Thought you white boys liked Perry Como and that Sinatra fool.’
‘I can’t stand that shit,’ says Joe, with a look over at Sam.
Elvis clears his throat. ‘Actual fact, sir, I like the Ink Spots best, I reckon.’
Willie sniggers. ‘Ink Spots is minstrel music.’
‘Naw!’ says Joe. ‘I can stand a little Ink Spots.’
‘The Ink Spots are very great musicians,’ Henry suddenly states, rolling his tobacco from cheek to cheek. ‘Very great indeed.’
Everyone is quiet for a moment, as if waiting for the old man to go on. But he just settles himself on his stick once more.
‘I like “My Prayer”,’ says Elvis. ‘Reckon that’s my favourite …’
‘Hush up now,’ says Joe. ‘Show’s about to start.’
Elvis grips his knees to keep them from moving. The men shift around him, clearing their throats, arranging their legs. Sam whispers, ‘We can’t stay long,’ and Elvis nods, impatiently.
Then the trombone sounds. Gently, it climbs from a growl to a wail to the sweetest note he’s ever heard. It reminds him of Magdalene Morgan’s singing: it has something of that same purity. But the most delicious thing about it is that he can already feel it’s going to be sullied. The trombone climbs and climbs, then swoops low, and the double bass cuts in, anchoring the brass with its regular beat. A man begins to sing. His voice sounds as though it’s been dredged from the bottom of a creek.
‘Call my baby
Call her quick …’
Sam’s hands have stilled now. Elvis can tell he’s listening, too.
‘She’s been rolling in the dark …’
Every man on the steps wears the same look. It’s the one his mama gets when Brother Mansell brings the congregation down after they’ve sung an energetic, upbeat tune. He reminds them to feel the Spirit, to let it in, because God’s love is there, if only they’ll accept it. They’ll be richly rewarded, oh, yes, perhaps not now, but in the hereafter, when no matter what hardships they have suffered in this life, they’ll all be welcomed in that place of ease and peace. And yet, it’s not exactly an easeful look his mama gets. There’s that slight lift of the eyebrows, an opening of the mouth that suggests some great, barely controlled longing. All the men have that look, now.
‘Rolling in the dark
My baby’s been out rolling in the dark …’
The song goes on for over ten minutes, and during that time, the world around Elvis slips away. He stops thinking about the men on the steps, or Brother Mansell, or his mama. Everything but the song quietens. It’s like a long, cool, sweet drink on a blistering day. It’s better than that. Better, even, than his mama’s embrace. It’s better than anything he knows.
He sits and he listens, the dusk gathering around him.
Five songs later, when the musicians break and Elvis finally turns to Sam, he’s so ecstatic that he cannot speak. He can only grin.
Sam says, ‘We gotta get back.’
Elvis stares at him, stupefied.
‘Mama will fret,’ Sam says. ‘She’ll already be fretting.’
It is growing dark. Gladys will be home from work, and his supper will be cold. But, at this moment, these facts do not seem very significant to Elvis.
Joe and the other men have gone inside, and the sounds of laughing and back-slapping drift from the store.
Getting to his feet, Elvis tries to peer through the screen. He chases the delicious scent of cigarette smoke with his nose. There’s a flash of brass, and a white handkerchief raised to a sweating forehead. He ducks back out of the light.
‘They ain’t through yet,’ he says.
Somehow, all thoughts of what his own mother will say about him being out after dark – and there’s no way on this earth he’ll admit where he actually was, but he’ll consider that later – have disappeared.
Sam stands up. ‘I gotta get back.’
‘Just ten more minutes.’
‘I gotta get home right now!’
Joe unhooks the screen and looks out. ‘What’s going on?’
‘Nothing, sir,’ says Elvis, before Sam can speak.
‘Ain’t you boys gotta get home? Your mamas will be waitin’ on you,’ says Joe, looking at Sam.
Sam nods solemnly.
‘Goddamnit!’ Elvis explodes.
Joe gives him a long, steady look. ‘What’s the problem, son?’
‘I want to listen, sir. That’s all.’
‘How am I gonna get home?’ asks Sam, almost in tears.
Joe places a hand on Sam’s shoulder. ‘Here’s what we’re gonna do. This boy here – what’s your name, son?’
‘Elvis. Elvis Presley.’
‘Elvis is gonna take you home.’
‘But—’
Joe holds up a hand. ‘But nothing. Listen. I let you stay, and tomorrow I got a whole heap of trouble in my lap, courtesy of your daddy, or your brother, or your uncles. And that’s trouble I can do without. Understand me?’
Elvis hangs his head.
‘This way, you go, my hide is safe, and y’all can come back next week, long as you promise to go on home when you supposed to.’
‘Come on,’ says Sam, plucking at Elvis’s sleeve.
‘Listen to your young friend here, Elvis,’ says Joe. ‘He talks a lot of sense.’
But Elvis is not listening. He can hear only the trombone, which is sliding out into the evening again.
He’s not listening, either, to the shouts from the pool hall, the slamming of the huge door to the Elks’ Club, or even to the singing inside the church as he cycles home along North Green Street with Sam on the crossbar. He sees lights from the houses, the swaying of porch swings, the flutter of women’s skirts as they step out with their young men, the black glint of the electricity wires scoring the sky. He sees it all, but he doesn’t hear a thing, because Ulysses Mayhorn’s trombone is still exploding gently in his mind.
After he’s dropped off Sam – and neither boy utters a word of goodbye – Elvis lets himself into the house. At the table, Vernon, Gladys and Dodger are waiting. The glare of the overhead light gives their faces a greenish tinge. Vernon is eating his corn and does not look up, but Gladys jumps to her feet and, before Elvis can duck, swipes him across the head with the back of her hand.
It’s not a hard blow, but it does reduce the volume of that trombone.
Dodger says, in a low voice, ‘Boy don’t deserve that.’
Gladys rubs at her hand.
‘Sit down, Glad,’ Vernon orders, licking his buttery fingers.
Gladys ignores him. ‘Where you been all this time?’ she demands.
A place has been set for Elvis, so he pulls up a chair and sits, calculating that this will buy him some time to think of a reply.
‘Answer your mother,’ says Vernon.
‘Sorry I’m late, Mama,’ Elvis mumbles, eyes on the table.
‘I was out later than this when I wasn’t much older—’ Vernon begins.
Gladys cuts him off. ‘Times was different then. And you wasn’t raised round here. Lord knows who’s out in them streets.’
‘Glad’s right,’ says Dodger. ‘Gotta be real careful out there.’
‘Where you been, son?’ asks Vernon.
‘You might wanna eat that chicken, fore it gets cold as a witch’s titty,’ whispers Dodger, patting Elvis’s knee.
‘Don’t you dare touch that plate till you told me where you been, Elvis Presley!’ His mother is standing over him, close enough for her spittle to land on his cheek. He can’t find that trombone, now.
So he faces her. ‘Listening to some music,’ he says, slowly.
‘Boy’s always loved music!’ says Dodger.
‘Where you been listening to some music?’
He hesitates, then recovers. ‘Church.’
‘You been all the way over East Tupelo?’
‘Naw. Church on North Green.’
There’s a pause.
‘The nigger church?’ asks Vernon, pushing his empty plate away.
‘Not inside! Just outside, listening.’
Dodger chuckles and shakes her head. ‘Well, butter my behind and call me a biscuit,’ she says.
‘What for?’ asks Vernon.
‘I told you. I was listening. To the music.’
‘You sure that’s all you was doing?’ asks Gladys. By the softer tone of her voice, he can tell that she is ready to believe him.
‘I told you, Mama. I couldn’t lie to you, you know that.’
‘You weren’t round one of them juke joints, were you?’
‘Course not!’
‘Bad things happen in them places.’ Gladys sits down, apparently relieved. ‘A juke joint’s no place for a young boy like you.’ She touches his hair.
‘What was you doing listening to a bunch of niggers?’ Vernon asks.
‘They sing pretty, Vernon. You got to admit that,’ says Gladys.
‘Pretty crazy,’ says Vernon. He widens his eyes and waggles his hands.
‘At least it’s holy music,’ says Gladys. ‘Who was with you, Elvie?’
‘Couple of boys from school. It’s kinda a thing with some of the Milam fellas.’
‘Their mamas know they was at the coloured church?’
‘Sure.’
Gladys sighs. Then she takes up a spoon and ladles mashed potato onto her son’s plate.
‘Well, I hope you was careful on the way back, and didn’t talk to nobody.’
‘I was, Mama.’
‘Maybe I could come meet you, next time.’
‘Ain’t no need. I got the bicycle now.’
‘Boy’s all right, Glad,’ says Vernon, rising and stretching. ‘He don’t need you to watch over his every move.’
Gladys serves Elvis a helping of greens. ‘Just tell me next time, you hear?’
He nods and starts in on his food, wondering how long he can keep this wonderful thing a secret from his mama.
* * *
Elvis goes to Mayhorn’s store whenever he can, with or without Sam. He takes his guitar with him, and somehow it seems protection enough. As the summer goes by, Sam comes less often, and by the end of August, Elvis is going to the store alone.
One evening, the music is so good that he stays long after the sun goes down. It’s not that he thinks it’s better than the music in church. It’s more that he’s discovered it’s possible to like both kinds equally; that both kinds rub along in a funny sort of way. He knows other folks find Mr Mayhorn’s playing ungodly, but he can’t see that. It seems to him that this music gives him everything he needs, everything he didn’t even know he wanted. God must be in it somewhere! So why should he move? How can it be important to be home, even if Mama is waiting? He stays so long that more men arrive, some with women on their arms. The women stand off to the side and chatter when the music stops, their dark, painted lips moving quick.
‘Fine-lookin’ ladies over there, ain’t they?’ says Joe.
Elvis ducks his head.
‘Don’t let their menfolk catch you gaping.’
‘No, sir.’
‘You got a little girl?’
‘Yeah,’ says Elvis, sitting up straight. ‘Name of Magdalene.’
‘Magdalene? As in Mary Magdalene?’
‘I guess.’
He’s familiar with the story of the fallen woman. How she used her long hair to cover her nakedness in the desert. How she washed Jesus’s feet and wept at the crucifixion.
Joe laughs. ‘Boy, you don’t need to look for trouble, do you? It finds you!’
‘She’s a good little girl, sir. Real fine.’
Joe shakes his head. ‘Sure she is.’
Elvis scowls, feeling he ought to make some kind of stand for Magdalene’s honour.
‘Anyways,’ says Joe. ‘Mr Mayhorn wants to meet you.’
‘Pardon me?’
‘I done told him, ’bout this funny white boy who keeps hanging round, and he says he wants to get a look at you.’
Elvis has imagined many times what Ulysses Mayhorn might look like. Sometimes he’s pictured him as a huge figure with a handsome head as large as the room and hands that can reach you, wherever you are. Other times, he’s figured him to be nothing more than an old coloured shopkeeper with a limp.
‘When?’ Elvis asks, unable to keep the urgency from his voice.
Joe touches him on the shoulder. ‘Soon.’
On his next visit to the store, Elvis imagines Magdalene sitting next to him, listening. Instead of perching on the splintered wood of the Mayhorn steps, he’s in a fancy auditorium, and he can feel the warm skin of her forearm against his own. She’s wearing her best lace collar and cuffs, and her skirt rests easy on her pure white knees. Lately, they’ve been sneaking to the woods behind Priceville cemetery to lie side by side. He takes her there to see Jesse’s grave, and she doesn’t complain when he suggests they rest beneath the pines on the way back. It reminds him of the tornado game he used to play with Corinne beneath his cousin’s house, but so far he hasn’t asked Magdalene if she will lie on top of him. Her moods are unpredictable, and if he hasn’t praised her performance in church highly enough she’s capable of ignoring him for an entire week. If he could bring her here to the store, maybe she would understand his longing to feel her whole body pressed down on his, her soft hair falling about his ears, covering his head like water.
But there is no way he could bring an eleven-year-old white girl to this place. He hasn’t even told her that he comes here.
Joe taps him on the shoulder. ‘Come on. Now’s the time.’
Elvis scrambles to his feet, happy, for once, to leave his daydream.
Inside the store, the air is thick with cigarette smoke, sweat, and the tang of moonshine. This is what it must feel like, he thinks, to walk into a juke joint. He is glad to be wearing his good pair of tan pants and the white cotton jacket given to him by his new friend James. James also attends Milam but isn’t as highfalutin as some of the other kids. After the school play, he’d told Elvis he’d done a good job. And, more importantly, James’s brother is Mississippi Slim of WELO. Every Saturday, Elvis still goes along to the courthouse for the Jamboree, and hopes to be noticed by Slim, but now James goes with him. Elvis believes the jacket was once Slim’s own – James swears that it was.
The other men watch Elvis as he follows Joe deeper inside, beneath the large scales hanging from the ceiling, past the sacks of meal and maize, the barrel of mash for hogs, the shelves groaning with canned greens, beans and pork. Beneath the long counter at the back of the store are boxes of matches, candles, Hay-Po hair oil, leather rollers, combs, razors. But the place is transformed in this light. Two oil lamps cast long shadows and make even the empty crates, which have been shoved to the side to make way for the musicians, glow warmly. The guitarist sits on an upturned box, his instrument resting on his lap like a sleeping child. He’s twisted to the side, deep in conversation with another man, but Elvis notices the crisp creases along the sleeves of his lime-coloured shirt. His guitar is dark red, and much bigger than Elvis’s. It shines even more deeply than Mississippi Slim’s guitar. Elvis is so distracted by the instrument that he jumps when Joe grabs his arm and spins him round. Before he’s had time to take a breath, he’s looking into a pair of big yellowy eyes.
‘Elvis. This here’s Mr Ulysees Mayhorn.’
He is not much taller than Elvis. The top of his head is bald, and the hair around his temples is grey and stands out like wings. Sweat is lodged in the wide wrinkles of his forehead. His black silky shirt is embroidered on the shoulders with unicorns. He is squat and solid, and when he opens his mouth the men around him stop talking.
Mr Mayhorn sticks out a meaty hand. Taking it, Elvis feels the bones in his fingers grind together, and gets a strong whiff of alcohol. He cannot tell if this is liquor, or cologne.
‘You interested in the blues, Elvis?’
‘Yessir!’
‘You friends with Lorene Bell’s boy, I hear.’
‘Yessir.’
‘Where is he?’
Elvis looks round the room, then at Joe, who shrugs.
‘Truth is, sir, I don’t reckon Sam loves the music the way I do.’
Mr Mayhorn fingers a button on his silky chest.
‘You live in this neighbourhood, Elvis?’
‘Yessir. Up on North Green.’
Mr Mayhorn places a hot hand on Elvis’s shoulder. ‘OK, boy. You good.’ Then he turns back to his musicians.
Joe moves forward, ready to take Elvis back to the steps, but Elvis stays where he is. ‘Mr Mayhorn, sir?’ he asks, quickly. ‘Will you show me your trombone?’
Without looking at him, Mr Mayhorn replies, ‘That depends, Elvis. Will you show me yours?’
The store explodes with laughter. Elvis’s skin burns. For a second he stares at the wooden floor. But then he gathers himself and says, ‘I would, if I had one.’
He’d hoped that would bring more laughter – and it does, a little.
Mr Mayhorn looks over his shoulder and flicks his eyes over Elvis’s white jacket. ‘Kinda busy now, son. Come by the store some time when I ain’t practising.’
At lunchtime the following day, Elvis walks out of school. He grabs his guitar from the space between the stationery cupboard and the blackboard, and heads for the bathroom, but instead of going in he ducks around the side and pushes open the door to the schoolyard. Behind him are the sounds and smells of the canteen: steel on steel, boiling meat, hundreds of young voices raised in excited conversation. Without looking back, Elvis straps on the guitar and hurries to the gate which leads to the eastern sidewalk.
He crosses onto Allen Street, sprinting away from the bright red school buildings. He doesn’t think about his growling stomach. If he can get to Mr Mayhorn on his lunch hour, he has a chance of being introduced to the trombone.
It feels wrong to be out on the heat-blasted sidewalk when everyone else is inside, or resting in the shade of a porch. Hitting North Green, he slows to a jog. The sun burns the back of his neck, and he wishes he’d worn the white jacket so he could turn up the collar. Most places – the pool hall, the juke joint, Mr Harris’s store – are closed, with the blinds pulled down. He gets the feeling that nobody in the world is outside at this moment. He is free to do exactly as he wishes, without fear of another soul witnessing his actions.
He hopes Mr Mayhorn will ask if he can play, so he can show him the chords he’s mastered, and maybe sing some, too. The guitar doesn’t yield to him as he would like: it’s hard to learn, and has none of the instant joy of singing. His fingers become thick and creaky on the strings. But wearing it has become a uniform, a shield. If nothing else, he can use it to beat time.
When he reaches the store, he’s pleased to find the blinds closed and the door shut. A sign says, Back at 2pm! RC Cola and fruit crates are stacked high in the front yard. He can smell chicken’s feet – he knows the aroma from Sam’s house – and it sets his mouth to watering.
He picks his way round to the back, then climbs the steps to the door, guessing this leads to the Mayhorn living quarters, and Jesse is suddenly there.
You can’t knock on a nigger’s door.
Why not?
’Cause you ain’t got the balls. You should turn round and run right back to Miss Camp. You love her.
I don’t. I love Magdalene.
Sure. She ain’t never gonna give you an inch, boy.
I just gotta find a way to get to her—
You gonna knock on that door?
Elvis stares at the rusty curlicues of the screen, and wishes he’d been able to bring Sam with him.
Got any money on you? ’Cause you know the nigger’s gonna need paying.
I got my lunch money—
Knock it, then.
He knocks, and immediately there is barking from what sounds like at least a dozen dogs.
A girl no more than a few years older than Elvis opens the door and squints through the screen. Her apron is covered in roses and her bangs are in rollers. Over the rest of her hair is a net, like the one Dodger wears in bed. She pulls the collar of her dress tight.
The dogs – Elvis can see three – gather around her legs and sniff at the screen. They are large and beautiful, with silky hair and long ears.
He realises she is waiting for him to speak.
‘Howdy, miss,’ he begins. ‘I’m here to see Mr Mayhorn.’
She peers at him quizzically, then calls back over her shoulder, ‘Daddy! Somebody here for a visit.’
‘Hope I haven’t called at a bad time,’ Elvis says.
‘Who’s there, Dinah?’ Mr Mayhorn’s voice.
‘Tell him it’s Elvis Presley,’ says Elvis.
‘Say what?’
‘Elvis. Elvis Presley.’
‘It’s Ellis Presley, Daddy.’
There’s a short pause, then Mr Mayhorn calls, ‘Bring him in here.’
‘He says come in,’ says Dinah, wrenching the screen back.
The dogs jump at Elvis’s legs, barking.
‘Don’t pay them no mind,’ she says, walking through the living room. ‘They’s hungry but they can’t eat till Daddy finished.’
He stumbles after her, his legs hindered by swishing dog tails. Crates from the store are piled up in here, too, and there’s a threadbare easy chair with another dog, smaller than the rest, curled on its seat. Dinah opens a door and points him into the kitchen.
The walls are painted a dark, flaking green. At a wooden table sits Mr Mayhorn, wearing his undershirt.
‘You’ll have to wait for me to get through eating,’ he says. His hair is flatter than it was the other evening, and he has on a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles which look tiny on his heavy face.
The dogs immediately lie at Mr Mayhorn’s feet, looking up at him expectantly. He ignores them, and continues to scoop rice from his plastic plate and into his mouth with swift precision. Not a grain is spilled from his fork.
‘Sit down, boy.’
Elvis does as he’s told, taking the chair opposite Mr Mayhorn. He props his guitar against the wall, but Mr Mayhorn doesn’t seem to notice it.
‘You hungry?’
‘No, sir,’ says Elvis, but his eyes won’t move from Mr Mayhorn’s food.
‘Dinah, fix Elvis a plate.’
Dinah, who has been standing in the doorway, watching, turns to the stove and fishes a couple of fried claws from the skillet, then heaps the plate with rice.
Mr Mayhorn has a claw in his hand, so Elvis copies him, closing his eyes and biting into the skin, his teeth grazing the bone. It’s chewier and denser than his mama’s fried chicken, but it has a deep savoury flavour that he likes.
‘That was mighty good,’ says Mr Mayhorn, finishing up. ‘Thank you, girl.’ He gestures to Dinah to come over, and whispers something in her ear. She giggles, glances at Elvis, who smiles his best smile at her. Then she slips from the room. Elvis wonders if she is old enough to be married, and whether he can ask Mr Mayhorn such a thing. Perhaps he can say something about her making somebody a fine wife one day.
He thinks better of it.
Mr Mayhorn wipes his big fingers on a napkin, taking care to clean each one thoroughly. ‘Now. What was so urgent you got to interrupt my food?’
Elvis swallows. ‘You said to come by when you ain’t working, sir.’
‘Ain’t you s’posed to be in school?’
‘We had library hour this afternoon. So that’s, you know, kinda optional.’
‘Ain’t no school I know that’s kinda optional.’
‘I figured this was more important,’ says Elvis, through a mouthful of rice.
Mr Mayhorn pulls his shoulders back. ‘Don’t you know how goddamn lucky you is in that school?’ He jabs his glasses at Elvis’s chest; the tips of the arms are furry from chewing. ‘You got books over there, I guess? Enough for one each? And that fancy new brick building. Look at yourself, boy. You eating chicken feet with Ulysees Mayhorn when you could be studying to be a lawyer or something.’
Elvis cannot bear to meet the man’s stare, so he looks at the wall behind him instead. There’s a faded calendar from a paper-products supplier, and a framed picture of Christ with a lamp – the same one his mama has hung on their bedroom wall.
Mr Mayhorn pushes the screen open and shoos the dogs into the backyard. For a second, Elvis considers bolting after them into the brightness of the afternoon.
‘You wasting time, boy,’ Mr Mayhorn says, quietly.
Elvis pushes away his half-finished plate of food, not caring, now, if his action causes offence. ‘I’m just more interested in the music, is all.’
Mr Mayhorn pours himself a cup of water from the pitcher on the table, then takes a long drink. ‘How come?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Not good enough.’
‘I love it, sir.’
‘Why?’
Elvis looks at Christ’s glowing lamp. ‘It’s like God.’
Mr Mayhorn puts down his cup. ‘You blaspheming now?’
‘I don’t – I didn’t—’
‘You want to be a gospel singer, that it? Go round praising God and wearing greasepaint? Singing holy and living dirty?’
‘No, sir.’ Although he has thought about it.
‘Hillbilly singing, then? Twanging your guitar there and crying your guts onto your spangled shirt?’
‘Not really, sir.’ He’s pictured this, too.
Mr Mayhorn glances at the guitar. ‘Can you even play that thing?’ he asks.
‘I can play some. But it’s hard.’
‘It ought to be.’
‘Is playing the trombone hard?’
‘It’s so hard, it hurts. Every time, it’s pain. But a good sort of pain.’ He waves a hand in front of his face. ‘You too young to understand.’
‘Can I see it?’
Drumming his fingers on the table, Mr Mayhorn says, ‘You don’t let up. I give you that.’ He sighs. ‘Stay there. I keep her in the bedroom.’
He stands and walks gracefully from the room, taking his time.
Elvis waits, trying to keep his knees from jogging up and down.
You got what you wanted, says Jesse. Good job, boy.
When Mr Mayhorn comes back, he’s carrying a battered leather case. He rests it on the floor, then kneels before it. His thumbs click the locks back and a whiff of polish escapes. Elvis doesn’t dare to lean across, sensing that he must be patient, and let Mr Mayhorn ease the trombone from its velvet bed.
‘First, we got to put her together. She ain’t nothing till we make her. And it must be done tenderly.’ Still kneeling, Mr Mayhorn points first to the half of the trombone that’s shaped like the head of a lily, then to the long thin tube. ‘Bell and slide,’ he says, removing both halves from the case.
He gets to his feet and, holding the slide in his left hand, balances one end of it on the floor before gently connecting it with the bell.
Elvis stands to get a closer look.
‘You gotta treat her real nice,’ Mr Mayhorn says, twisting in the mouthpiece. His big fingers hold the instrument firmly yet lightly.
‘Step back, boy.’ He waves Elvis out of the way. ‘One dent in her and she’s dead.’
Elvis does as he’s told.
Grinning, Mr Mayhorn holds the trombone up and turns it in the air.
‘She’s real pretty, sir,’ says Elvis.
‘As a picture!’ agrees Mr Mayhorn. He holds the mouthpiece to his lips and blows a long note, sliding it into a tune which Elvis recognises as the opening to ‘Basin Street Blues’.
‘Now,’ says Mr Mayhorn. ‘Your turn.’
Elvis stares at him, astonished.
‘That’s what you came for, ain’t it?’ Mr Mayhorn asks. ‘Hold her here,’ he says, taking Elvis’s trembling hand and placing it beneath the warm mouthpiece. ‘And here.’ He fastens Elvis’s other hand on the slider, showing him how to hold it between two fingers and thumb. It feels cool and dangerous, like holding his daddy’s shotgun.
‘Now stand up straight. Get the air into your lungs.’
Elvis does as he is told.
‘And quit twitching your leg. You got to pucker up your mouth, real firm at the sides, bit looser in the centre. Like this.’
He presses his lips together, and Elvis tries to copy him.
‘Good. Now. Keep your lips shut and blow air through them, real fast, so you buzzing.’
Mr Mayhorn demonstrates, making a high farting noise. Elvis giggles, but Mr Mayhorn ignores him and keeps forcing the air noisily through his lips, so Elvis gives it a try. It tickles, and he wishes he could do it without spitting everywhere.
‘Not bad. Lips on the mouthpiece,’ says Mr Mayhorn.
When Elvis lifts it to his mouth, the instrument is damp with Mr Mayhorn’s spit, but he doesn’t care.
‘Not too firm,’ says Mr Mayhorn. ‘Now blow, and remember you want her to come to you, not blast her away. She won’t sing without you. You got to show her who’s making the music. Now do your buzz.’
Elvis blows, and the kind of sound a dying dog might make comes out.
Mr Mayhorn maintains a straight face. ‘Nice try,’ he says. ‘Go again.’
Elvis blows, and the sound is no better.
‘Again.’
Elvis closes his eyes and tries to feel Magdalene beside him, like when he sings in church and that beautiful sound comes from deep within his body. But all that emerges from the trombone is a thin whine.
Mr Mayhorn takes out a handkerchief and mops his brow. ‘Hand her over.’
‘I could give it another try.’
Mr Mayhorn puts one hand on Elvis’s shoulder and the other on the instrument. Gently, he pulls the trombone away and starts packing it back in its case. ‘Maybe the horn just ain’t your thing.’
A lump comes to Elvis’s throat.
‘Maybe you oughta stick to your old guitar.’
‘I sing some.’
‘There you go, then.’ Mr Mayhorn clicks shut the locks on the case. ‘Now, I gotta get back in the store …’
‘Sir?’ says Elvis. ‘How did you know you was good?’
‘I don’t.’
Elvis laughs.
‘I’m serious,’ says Mr Mayhorn, putting his eyeglasses back on. ‘I mean, other people tell me I’m good. And that’s real nice. But all I know is, I got to do it. Seem to me that the minute I start thinking I’m good is the minute I start to stink real bad.’ He opens the door and gestures towards the glaring afternoon. ‘Now get on back to school.’