His mama and daddy go out into the yard to argue, which is almost worse than doing it in the house. Any passing stranger could listen to them out there, and Sam and his family, who Elvis has never heard shouting, will certainly witness every word. At least inside it would be only Dodger who’d know. But after supper is finished and the crockery washed, and Elvis has slipped into the bedroom to be alone with his funny papers, Gladys takes Vernon out under the branches of the chinaberry tree to list his failures.
As her voice rises through the night air, Elvis lies in his bed, having given up trying to focus on Zorro. Gladys explains, almost patiently, the ways in which her husband fails to live up to her expectations. Since he’s regained his job driving for McCarty’s, these ways have become more numerous and grave. Now he’s not only failing his family and his church, but he’s betraying them, and she knows it. She’d have to be a fool not to notice the way he smells when he comes home! Does he think these flattened burger buns he’s brought home from his delivery round will put her off that unholy scent? Does he truly believe that damaged goods can make amends for what he’s up to?
Vernon interrupts his wife with a shout. ‘I don’t wanna hear this shit again, woman!’
Elvis leaps up and rushes to the door. He imagines himself bursting into the yard, to the rescue. He even has his hand on the door handle, ready for action. But which one to save? He knows it should be Mama, but at the moment it’s Daddy he feels for. Gladys warms to her theme. Her eyes will be darker than the night sky now.
‘Don’t you curse at me, Vernon Presley! You think I don’t know what you get up to? I guess you forget to mention your wife and child to them ladies in the pig-stands. You’re as bad as your own daddy! He spent more time with them whores down Goose Hollow than he did in his own home.’
At this insult, Elvis scoots back across the floor and slides beneath his parents’ bed, pulling the dusty rug over his body. There is a deadly silence. Nobody should mention JD Presley, who everybody in town knows to be a swaggering, no-good drunkard, in Vernon’s presence, let alone make a comparison between father and son.
Elvis knows that his mama usually starts these arguments, and always gives as good as she gets. Once she left Vernon with a bruise on his cheek the size and colour of a plum. But there is no denying his daddy is the stronger of the two, and Mama will come off worse if the argument becomes a physical fight.
There’s nothing but silence, for the moment. Elvis imagines the wrinkles in his father’s forehead deepening as he shifts from foot to foot. Elvis used to think of his daddy as a lined man. His clothes were scrupulously ironed, his hair carefully combed, but his face was lined even when he wasn’t yet thirty, and he seemed to have trouble standing straight. He often made himself smaller by pointing his shoulders towards the floor and complaining of pain in his back. When he did that, Gladys seemed to tower over him, the breadth of her shoulders matching his, and Elvis liked to believe that his mother’s sturdy body was bigger and stronger than his daddy’s.
Since he’s been on the road, though, Vernon has been standing straighter.
His mama starts again.
‘You’re good for nothing and always have been! To think I used to watch the door for you to come home! I shoulda known by the way you slouched your old self in, always late, always tired, too doggone lazy to lift a finger—’
Elvis focuses on the mattress above. It swells between the springs like something infected. He wishes he could escape to Mayhorn’s, but there is no way out while his parents are in the yard.
‘Lazy! My mama always said you was a no-good son of a gun, and she was right!’
The pattern just above Elvis’s nose is so faded, the roses look like pink stains. There are no thorns, just petals. He lets his vision blur, and wishes his ears could do the same. Why can’t you let your hearing go just out of range, like you can let your eyes slide slightly out of focus? He always hears too much. Even now, he’s aware of the slow sweep of Dodger’s broom on the kitchen floor. Whoosh, pat. Whoosh, pat. No doubt she’s listening, too.
‘Gladys. Enough, now.’
There’s a warning in his daddy’s voice, but he’s not really mad. Not yet. Sometimes his mama will relent, and then she won’t get hit. If his daddy can handle this right, they both might come out unscathed. Elvis wills his father to be smart this time. If he can just hang in there without defending himself too much, Gladys will run out of steam.
‘Don’t you “Gladys” me!’
‘Honey, I understand you’re mad, but you got to trust me. I ain’t been with nobody but you. I couldn’t. You know that.’
‘You was before.’
‘That was one time! It was a mistake. I was drunk. And I’m sorry. You’re my only one, Glad.’
‘I don’t want to hear it.’
It could go either way. If his father continues in this vein, it could end with the two of them making up in bed.
‘Glad.’
‘I can’t stand it, Vernon. I just can’t.’
The worst of her anger has passed. Elvis can hear the difference in her voice. The relenting. Her words not exactly softening, but ready to bend to his daddy’s will, if he plays it right.
There’s a long stretch of quiet. Dodger’s broom stops. Then Elvis hears the weeping, and he slides out from beneath the springs and crawls into the chill of his own pallet. He might be able to sleep now, because he is used to the sound of his mother weeping. And weeping is a lot better than bruising.
* * *
Vernon tells a story about their neighbours.
‘Don’t go saying too much,’ Gladys warns.
‘Boy’s old enough to hear it.’
A week has gone by since their last big row, and they are sitting at the kitchen table with Minnie Mae and Elvis, having finished a good supper of cornbread, greens and pork chops. Vernon brought the meat home with him, saying it would help Elvis to take in the news. Gladys has told her husband that he can break it. Not one iota of this has been her decision, so she won’t be the one to tell her son.
‘You know old McCrumb,’ Vernon says, ‘drives that taxicab?’
Elvis nods.
Vernon leans close to him. ‘Turns out he killed his wife. In cold blood.’
‘Vernon!’
‘Elvis wants to hear this, don’t you, boy?’
‘Sure I do.’
Gladys covers her mouth with a hand.
‘I done heard it with my own ears!’ Vernon declares. ‘The other night. A scream and then a whump, you know? I tell you, it was like God’s own wrath coming down.’
‘I didn’t hear nothing,’ says Elvis, sitting up straight.
‘You was out. At that nigger church, most likely.’
‘You hear this, Mama?’
To hide her face, Gladys stands to clear the plates. ‘I coulda heard something …’
‘Anyways. Then there’s this silence – went on real long – a loud sort of silence, wasn’t it, Glad?’
‘Musta been him dropping something,’ says Minnie Mae, joining Gladys at the sink. ‘He always was clumsy as an ox.’
‘Naw. Wasn’t that at all.’
Minnie Mae takes up the dishtowel. In the window, the women’s eyes meet. Gladys raises hers to heaven, and her mother-in-law slowly shakes her head.
‘You ain’t seen nothing, though,’ Minnie Mae tells her son.
‘I tell you what I seen! I seen old McCrumb putting something in a sack in the trunk of his taxicab! Then driving off real quick!’
‘Probably his dinner,’ says Minnie Mae, in a low voice.
Gladys stifles a laugh.
‘In the middle of the night? I tell you, that weren’t no dinner. Unless McCrumb makes a habit of eating his wife’s head.’
Gladys crashes a bowl onto the drainer. ‘Now you going too far!’
‘That’s what it was, Glad,’ Vernon says, evenly. ‘I swear on my mother’s life.’
‘Careful, now,’ says Minnie Mae. ‘I’m standing right here, and I’m still breathing.’
Elvis’s mouth is hanging open. ‘Was there blood, Daddy?’
‘Some,’ says Vernon, going to the icebox for a beer. ‘There was some blood.’
He saunters back to the table and pops the bottle open. ‘Word round the neighbourhood is, he drove round all day with his wife’s head in the trunk. Imagine that! All them folks getting a ride with the head of a murdered woman!’
‘They’da smelled it,’ says Dodger.
‘Not necessarily. Not at that point. Not if it was still fresh.’
Gladys squeezes her dishcloth dry and stares at the grimy suds in the sink.
‘Long and the short of it,’ says Vernon, taking a swig from the bottle, ‘is the police came by this afternoon and hauled McCrumb off.’
‘That don’t mean he killed his wife,’ says Minnie Mae, gently prising the cloth from Gladys’s grip and pushing her out of the way so she can finish the dishes.
‘But let me ask you this: where in the wide world has Mrs McCrumb gone?’
‘Maybe she’s visiting her relatives over Pontotoc.’
‘You crazy?’
Gladys has had enough. She crosses the room and places a hand over her son’s. ‘What Daddy’s trying to say is, we gotta pack up and leave. It’s for the best.’
‘I was getting to that—’
‘Like Daddy’s saying, it ain’t safe here,’ says Gladys, being careful to keep her tone flat. ‘So we gotta leave.’
Elvis stares at her. Something has shifted in his face, and he looks five years old again.
‘Yeah,’ says Vernon. ‘Your mama here’s petrified. Done made her all jittery. This neighbourhood’s never been the best, but this – well, it’s just too bad. So we’re moving to the city. Making a fresh start.’
‘The city?’ asks Elvis.
‘That’s right, boy! Just picture it: bright lights! Movie theatres bigger than you’ve ever imagined! We’re gonna make our futures!’
‘Daddy says there’s more work in Memphis. Jobs with prospects,’ says Gladys, glancing at Vernon.
‘We’re moving to Memphis?’
‘That’s right.’
Elvis swallows. ‘That’s real far—’
‘We leave tomorrow night,’ says Vernon. ‘We’ve decided, so why wait?’
At this, Elvis jumps from his seat.
Gladys grasps her son’s fingers, but he yanks them away.
‘No,’ he says. ‘I just can’t!’
‘Why not, son?’ asks Vernon.
Elvis is clutching at the back of his neck and bending over as if he might vomit.
‘Son,’ says Gladys, softly. ‘We got to go.’
‘But you said the police have taken McCrumb.’
‘This morning,’ says Vernon.
‘Then there ain’t nothing to be afraid of, is there, Mama? If he’s gone, it’s all right.’
Gladys looks to the floor.
Vernon spreads his hands on the table. He seems to be considering his skin’s every mark and line as he says, ‘We gotta go, son. That’s all there is to it.’
Her fists itch to upend the table and send the beer, Elvis’s glass of milk, even her beloved hen and rooster salt and pepper shakers – a wedding present from the church – flying into her husband’s lap. She’s aware that Vernon’s story is a fiction, and is pretty sure of the real reason they have to leave. He’s been driving somewhere every night for the past month, and, most mornings, he smells of the still. After all, when they were first married, Vernon was warned by the police for making moonshine.
‘I know what it is,’ says Vernon. ‘You don’t wanna leave that little girl of yours.’
This is enough to bring a stricken look to Elvis’s face, though Gladys doesn’t think this is necessarily on Magdalene’s account. When Elvis is with Magdalene in church, Gladys can see her son watching the girl not for herself, but for her voice. When he sings alone, she knows he’s nervous as all get out, but he puts his whole self into the song. When he sings with Magdalene, any fool can see his frustration in the way he holds his shoulders high as Magdalene misses a note. He wouldn’t do that, she thinks, if he were truly smitten with this girl. He might see the mistake, but he’d let it go. He’d forgive her trespasses, just as she has Vernon’s. Most of them, anyhow.
‘She’s gonna be mighty impressed you’re leaving for Memphis,’ says Vernon, drawing his son into his arms. ‘Bet she ain’t never been there!’
In fact, Magdalene has been, on the same church trip as Elvis and Gladys. Uncle Noah drove them to the city once in his school bus, to visit the Zoological Gardens. When Gladys thinks of Memphis, she thinks of polar bears and tigers and Odell being sick in a bucket, of the big park where the animals were and how that green space was contained by well-kept paths and signs telling you where and where not to go. Perhaps the whole city is as ordered and neat as this, despite what folks say about the low-down, unholy goings-on there.
Vernon holds Elvis at arm’s length and says, ‘You gonna be a big city boy.’
Gladys cannot sleep that night. As she often does when her own mind keeps her awake, she goes to Elvis’s pallet and gazes on her boy. Sometimes the sight of his slumbering body, so warm and at ease, will enable her to relax into sleep.
When she kneels by the side of his bed and peers into his face, his eyes flick open.
Instead of speaking, she simply peels back the sheet and heaves herself in beside him. He nuzzles into her side, and she kisses his damp forehead.
‘We can come back,’ she whispers, ‘to visit.’
‘We can come together,’ he says.
‘We’ll do that.’
‘I’ll drive you.’
‘OK, baby.’
‘We’ll be together.’
‘Always.’
‘I ain’t letting go of you, Mama.’
‘I know it, son.’
‘There, there.’
‘There, there.’
Mr Mayhorn is counting up the takings when Elvis crashes through the door. He looks up for a second, nods, then goes back to his money.
Elvis stands, panting.
‘Show don’t start for another two hours,’ says Mr Mayhorn, cupping his hand at the edge of the counter and scooping coins into it.
‘I’m leaving!’ Elvis blurts. ‘I came to tell you I won’t be coming no more. Not ever again.’
Mr Mayhorn drops the coins into a cotton bag and draws the string tight. He rests it on the counter and takes off his eyeglasses to focus on Elvis.
‘Sounds serious,’ he says.
‘We’re going to Memphis. Tonight. Daddy decided just yesterday. Mama’s real upset. We gotta leave Grandma behind, too – for now, anyway … And I won’t see you or Sam! Or my girl, Magdalene! She’s gonna be broken-hearted. I can’t believe it, Mr Mayhorn, I just can’t.’
Mr Mayhorn lets him run on, then he slaps a hand down, hard. Elvis watches the counter tremble, and almost expects it to let out a note of grief in response.
‘Boy,’ Mr Mayhorn says, quietly, ‘you lucky. You getting out of here. You escaping! You getting free!’
Elvis looks at him, bewildered.
Mr Mayhorn raises his eyes to the ceiling. ‘Don’t tell me you ain’t dreamed of going someplace else.’
Of course he has. So many of the songs he loves speak of hitting the road, cutting loose, going over the rainbow, way out west.
‘You want to stay here and do what your daddy does? That it?’
But there’s also no place like home. His mama likes to sing that one, sometimes, and she sounds like she means it.
‘I just don’t wanna leave.’
‘Bullshit. You wanna leave so bad I can smell it coming off you. Man can’t hide a thing like that.’
‘But, Mr Mayhorn, I came to say goodbye, and that I’ll miss this place, and you …’
Mr Mayhorn removes his eyeglasses and wipes a hand over his face. ‘Go on, now,’ he says. When Elvis doesn’t move, Mr Mayhorn crosses the room, places a hand on his shoulder and shoves him gently towards the door. ‘Get going. And don’t come back.’
At home, Elvis sits on the back step and weeps. Tracing a line in the soil with his shoe, he thinks about his loss, and it seems limitless.
Then he remembers somebody who will be sad to see him go.
He is just about to cycle all the way to Magdalene’s when he has an idea. She won’t ever forget him if he can make it clear how much he loves her.
Vernon is busy packing up the Plymouth – a recent purchase – and Gladys is washing the dishes when Elvis slips into the bedroom. Clothes and papers are spread across the mattress, and a suitcase lies open on the floor. Peering beneath the bed frame, Elvis is relieved to discover that his mama’s shoebox is still there. He reaches in and slides it across the boards. Gladys has shown him the contents of this box many times. Hastily, he opens it and removes the ivory comb that belonged to Doll, the grandmother he never knew, the paste brooch in the shape of a robin with a cut-glass eye and a broken wing, the piece of lace from a great-aunt’s wedding dress, the report cards from every year he’s been at school, and finally finds what he’s looking for: his parents’ marriage licence. He shoves the other items back in the box and slides it beneath the bed. Then he pockets the licence, together with a pencil, and makes for the door.
Once he’s cycled down the hill, across town and onto the shoulder of the highway, he stops and leans the document on a lamp post. On the back, he does the best he can to copy the official seal of Pontotoc County, and writes, in script he wishes was neater and more suitably cursive, MARRIAGE LICENSE AND CERTIFICATE of Magdline Morgan (he has never known her middle name) and Elvis Aron Presley. He also writes the date: September 11th, 1948.
The sun is getting lower as he crosses the levee, and the insects start to sing in the long grass. He pedals faster. Vernon has told him they will leave after dark because driving at night is the best way to travel. As he cycles, Elvis prepares what he will say to Magdalene. I got to leave for the city, but I want you to know that I’ll always love you, and here’s the proof. He’ll hand her the licence and she’ll gaze on it, a little puzzled. Then he’ll say, Maybe we’ll be married some day, when the time is right.
He cycles uphill towards East Tupelo, standing on the pedals to gain more momentum. Her eyes will fill with tears but he’ll hold her hand and say, Can you wait for me, Magdalene? Can you be pure and true? She’ll nod, silently, and he’ll kiss the top of her head, and then they’ll cry together. Or perhaps he won’t cry. She might not appreciate that.
He finds her house in darkness. The porch is empty, and there’s no truck outside, so he creeps around the back to try to get a look in the windows, but with all the lights out he can’t see much. He sits on her porch steps, thinking he’ll wait it out. It’ll be more romantic this way; she can find him sitting alone in the evening gloom. He curses himself for not having brought his guitar – he could’ve strummed a sad tune to welcome her home.
The train’s whistle tears through the evening and the sky turns deep orange. Lights start to come on in the neighbouring houses. He hopes somebody will come out and spot him waiting patiently, so they can tell Magdalene what she missed, later.
But nobody comes. From the look of the sky Elvis guesses it must be past nine by now, and his mama will be frantic. He stands and takes a last look at Magdalene’s house. Perhaps he should post the licence through her door. He could write her a note about his leaving on the bottom. Then he imagines his mama’s reaction to her marriage licence going missing, and he slips the paper back into his pocket, picks up his bike, and makes his way down the dirt road. The girl will never know what he did, but it feels good to have done it.