At three-thirty in the afternoon, Gladys sits down for the first time that day. Miss Richardson from the Housing Authority is coming at four to interview her about Vernon’s application for public housing, and she has been working hard to set their room on Poplar Avenue straight. She gazes at the still-stained door, which she spent the best part of an hour rubbing with sugar soap this morning, and sighs. She’s washed and ironed the drapes, as well as the old quilt that covers the easy chair, and retrieved her best tablecloth from the trunk. Their pallet bed is leaning against the wall and the bedding is folded neatly. She’s polished the window with vinegar and newspaper and has propped it open to air the place. The whole rooming house smells of damp and cigarette butts and blocked drains.
None of them has slept well since moving to Memphis. There are sixteen families in this building, crammed into as many rooms, and the slamming of doors is a constant interruption. After eleven p.m., the cries from the street seem to grow louder and more frantic, and, even now, Gladys can hear the sound of radios from the rooms above and the crying of babies from those below.
She’d heard the stories, of course. Back in Tupelo, Mr Martin, the butcher, regularly told Gladys that Memphis was a wicked city. He was fond of saying that Beale Street made Harlem look like a kindergarten. Gladys had little knowledge of Harlem, but she understood what Mr Martin meant: Memphis was the kind of place where Goose Hollow whores and their customers would be welcome.
Nothing had prepared her, though, for their new neighbourhood of Little Mississippi. There is a smell here that still makes her draw breath. Even in January, she’s aware of the aroma of greasy hotplates, automobile fumes and liquor. As they’d driven through the outskirts of town for the first time on that warm September night, she’d taken in the lights of the juke joints, gas stations, cafeterias and car dealerships, and not one of them seemed in any way connected to the other. It was as though these places had sprung up, at random, and nobody cared enough to move or tidy them into some understandable pattern. It was nothing like the Zoological Gardens, after all. To Gladys, Memphis did not look like a city; it looked like a mess. In downtown Tupelo, there was order to the streets and leafy squares, but she couldn’t discern any here. As they approached the centre of town, the streets became narrower and the buildings taller and more frequent, but there was the same feeling of things being thrown down, of the city being made up as it went along.
And the lights! Even at one o’clock in the morning, bulbs burned in houses, bars and restaurants. Signs for drive-ins, liquor stores and movie theatres glowed. And everywhere was concrete. Stepping from the car to look up at the large rooming house – from outside, it appeared faintly grand, with a turreted roof and a pillared porch set well back from the road – she was surprised to hear the insects still whirring, and to feel the warm intimacy of the night air. That, at least, was the same.
Every night since they arrived, Gladys has begged Vernon to take her home, and Vernon has accused Gladys of having no faith in his ability to take care of his family. His mother, along with Gladys’s sister Clettes, Vester and their kids, will be coming out here soon enough, he keeps saying. Lillian has said she and Charlie want to come. And maybe Gladys’s younger sister, Levalle, with little Junior and Gene. She won’t be lonesome long! They’ll get a better place. His contact in Memphis, who found them this room, has explained it to him: they just have to wait a few months, then the public-housing people will give them an apartment. A brand new place, probably, with low rent and decent neighbours.
Elvis arrives home, and Gladys rises from her chair.
On his first day at Humes High School, he came back within the hour, saying it was too big, there were too many kids; he couldn’t even find his homeroom. Despite his tears, Gladys forced herself to march him back, and she has threatened to do so again if he ever tries another trick like that. She figures that he doesn’t yet know enough about the city to have the nerve to cut school.
She kisses him on the hair. He looks paler and thinner than ever. ‘Miss Richardson’s coming any minute,’ she says, ‘so wash your hands and face good.’
He bends over the basin she’s prepared for him. Their bathroom and kitchen are on the ground floor, shared with the rest of the building, but there is a tap by the door, and a hotplate.
‘How was school?’ she asks.
‘Good,’ he replies, unconvincingly. He reaches for a graham cracker and she slaps his hand.
‘Wait till she comes. I’ll get your butch.’
‘I can get it.’
He pours himself a glass of milk from the carton on the window ledge and sits at the table to drink.
There’s a knock at the door.
Elvis lets her wipe his mouth with a dishtowel, then she pats him on the shoulder and whispers, ‘This is it, baby. Do your best, now.’
When Gladys opens the door, a woman younger than her stands with her hand already extended in greeting. She has a flat face and copper-coloured hair, and is carrying a woven shopping bag full of papers.
‘Mrs Presley,’ she says, clasping Gladys’s fingers and giving them a single squeeze. ‘I’m Miss Richardson.’
Before Gladys can answer, Miss Richardson is inside the room.
Elvis scrambles to his feet.
‘Sit down, son,’ says Miss Richardson. ‘You must be Elvis.’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
She stands on the rug, taking a good look around. ‘Yes,’ she says, nodding. ‘I can quite see why you’ve applied to us, Mrs Presley.’
‘Can I take your coat?’ asks Gladys.
Miss Richardson eyes the window and says, ‘No need. I won’t be too long. Is it all right if I sit at the table here and ask you both some questions?’
‘Of course,’ says Gladys. She pulls at her collar. She’s worn her best dress, one with yellow roses embroidered at the breast, and she suddenly realises it might have been better to look more ragged.
‘Now,’ Mrs Richardson says, once Gladys has taken the chair opposite, ‘tell me how long you’ve lived at this address.’
‘About four months. We moved from Mississippi.’
‘Oh? Whereabouts?’
‘Tupelo.’
‘Charming. What made your family come to the city?’
Gladys and Elvis exchange a glance but Gladys doesn’t falter. ‘My husband wanted better work. He was here during the war, in the munitions factory—’
‘He’s found it, I hope?’
‘Oh, yes, ma’am. But it doesn’t pay so good, and it’s a little unpredictable.’
‘I see. Your husband has stated in his application that he earns fifteen dollars a week. Is that right?’
‘I think so, ma’am.’
‘And your rent here is thirty-five dollars a month?’
‘That’s right. Can I offer you a cup of something, Miss Richardson?’
‘No, thank you. Is this your only room here, Mrs Presley?’
It’s all too brisk for Gladys, who has faced Miss Richardson’s kind before. She didn’t get Vernon his pardon from Parchman by rushing things and not taking time with folks. It had taken many afternoons, and a whole lot of listening to other people’s troubles, to get enough signatures on that petition. She smiles and pats Miss Richardson’s forearm, just lightly.
‘I hope you won’t mind me saying so, but you look like you could eat something, honey. Won’t you take a cracker?’
Gladys holds up the plate determinedly.
Miss Richardson’s face softens. ‘It’s very kind of you, Mrs Presley, but I’m fine. Really.’
‘We sure appreciate you coming, don’t we, Elvis?’
‘Yes, Mama.’
‘It’s my job,’ says Miss Richardson. ‘How old are you, Elvis?’
‘Just turned fourteen, ma’am.’
Miss Richardson leans back and studies his face. Elvis looks down at the tablecloth.
‘And what do you think you’ll do when you’re grown, Elvis?’
Gladys watches her son. During his God-fearing phase, they used to talk, a little, about him becoming a preacher. But she’s unsure if Miss Richardson would be impressed by this ambition. Big-city folks can be peculiar about God. Her own preference would be for him to become a businessman of some kind – perhaps running his own store. He loves pretty things as much as she does.
‘I’d maybe like to drive a truck, ma’am. My daddy used to do that, back in Tupelo.’
‘That’s a good, honest job,’ says Miss Richardson. ‘But maybe if you apply yourself at school you could get yourself a real trade.’
‘That would be wonderful, wouldn’t it?’ says Gladys.
‘It must be difficult to get your homework done with just this one room for your whole family, Elvis.’
Elvis nods gravely. Gladys blinks. The thought has never occurred to her before now. He has a table, and a chair, and pencil. Surely that’s enough.
‘It can be kinda … distracting,’ says Elvis.
Miss Richardson makes a note.
‘But Mama helps me,’ he adds, reaching over to squeeze her hand. ‘She helps me all the time.’
For the first time, Miss Richardson smiles at them both. ‘This boy’s a credit to you, Mrs Presley,’ she says. ‘I think I have all the information I need for now.’
Hope rises in Gladys’s heart.