When Elvis drives into the outskirts of Tupelo town with his mama beside him, a few heads turn to take a look at his car. Cutting his speed to allow people to appreciate the quality of the used Lincoln, he glances at his mama, half-expecting her to wave like the Queen of England.
Instead, she beams and says, ‘Sure is good to be back.’
It’s a grey Thursday in early February, and they’re both hunched up against the cold. The car’s heating system isn’t working as it should, and Gladys has her hands folded inside the cuffs of her new winter coat.
‘What you gonna do in town while I visit with Novie?’ she asks.
‘I’ll figure it out.’
‘You might get yourself over to Reed’s. Buy a little something for Daddy. They have some high-class neckties there. He’s gonna need a few of those, with all the fine folks we’re meeting.’
‘I could get you something,’ Elvis suggests.
He’s already bought her two Mixmasters, one for either end of the kitchen, so she doesn’t have to walk so far.
‘Now don’t you go spending any more on me!’ says Gladys, rubbing his shoulder.
This is the first time Elvis has been back to Tupelo since ‘That’s All Right, Mama’ came out, and what he most wants to do is drive down Main Street as his new self. He wants to walk outside the courthouse in his new striped pink sport coat from Lansky’s and see if anybody recognises him both as the Elvis he once was and the Elvis he’s now become: the rising star of the Louisiana Hayride, the singer making his mark on the regional country-and-western charts with three records, the young man the local newspapers are calling ‘the Hillbilly Cat’ (he’s not sure about being called a hillbilly of any kind, but Miss Keisker started that one, and she says it’s great). Most of all, he wants to meet somebody from the old days, so he can tell them what he says to anybody who’ll listen: It’s all happening so fast, I just can’t believe it. One minute I’m driving a truck, the next my record is on the radio!
What he really can’t believe, though he would never admit it to anybody, is how quickly he has come to expect success. With every good notice in the local press, every new booking, every promise from Mr Phillips that the next record will be bigger, he expects more. Mr Phillips has told him: there’s no standing still in this business. You got to keep climbing, or you’ll be sliding right back down that greasy pole.
He’s certainly climbing. And there are few things more joyous to him than telling his mother exactly how he’s getting higher.
‘Mama,’ he says, lowering his voice. He’s been saving up this piece of news for a while. ‘I got a promoter interested in me. A real big one. Mr Neal says this guy knows everybody, even folks out in Hollywood. He’s booked me on a tour he runs, with Hank Snow, and Mother Maybelle and the Carter Sisters, Slim Whitman, all of them.’
Gladys gives a little shriek. ‘Hank Snow! Son, that’s news!’
He can’t help but let his voice rise with excitement. ‘Sure is!’
‘And Mr Neal reckons this man knows folks in Hollywood?’
His mama likes Mr Neal, the local disc jockey who Mr Phillips has brought in to manage Elvis’s live appearances. He’s built like a bear, is always laughing, and seems just as excited by Elvis’s success as they are. Elvis thinks of him as the kind of smart, well-dressed, smooth-talking uncle he wishes he actually had.
‘Mr Neal thinks real highly of him. Reckons he knows exactly what’s what in the entertainment business. He used to be Eddy Arnold’s manager.’
‘What’s this man’s name, son?’
‘Colonel Tom Parker.’
‘You met him yet?’
‘Sunday. After the first show at the Ellis. It’s all fixed up.’
Although he’s not yet spoken to the man, he’s spotted Tom Parker at a couple of his shows. Elvis was doing his spot at the Hayride when he first noticed the short fat guy with the cigar clamped between his jaws. What was strange was that instead of watching the show he was looking right at the audience. Elvis dismissed the man as a goof until he saw him again, the next Saturday night, doing exactly the same thing, only the girls were on their feet and really yelling this time. Every few moments Tom Parker would tear his eyes from them, glance back at Elvis, nod, then go back to watching the audience. Elvis thought maybe the man got off on looking at the girls until Mr Neal told him who he was, and that it wasn’t the girls who interested him.
‘Well,’ says Gladys, ‘when you meet him, be sure to mind your manners. I don’t want none of these big business folks saying I ain’t raised you right.’
‘Nobody could say that, Mama,’ says Elvis, and he plants a kiss on her cheek.
He drops his mother at Novie’s house, then cruises down Main. It’s two-thirty in the afternoon, and the sidewalk is peppered with shoppers. The store windows reflect his car’s streak of cream metal as he glides down the wide street, the radio turned up now that Mama’s not here to complain. Several shoppers turn to look, but he doesn’t recognise their faces.
Then, outside the TKE drugstore, Elvis’s prayers are answered by a cloud of black hair.
He toots the horn and pulls in at the kerb. For a moment he sits, watching her in his side mirror. Magdalene Morgan is taller, slimmer, and her saucer cheeks have become more defined since he last saw her, seven years ago. But she still walks with her eyes fixed dead ahead, as if she knows exactly where she’s going and means to waste no time getting there. He notices that her coat is a little shabby about the hem.
He opens the door and steps out.
‘Hi, Magdalene.’
She has to skitter to the side to avoid colliding with him. Then she squints at his face.
‘Don’t you recognise me?’ he asks, pouting, unsure whether he’s thrilled or appalled.
She continues to squint, so he starts to sing, ‘You may talk about your men of Jericho …’
‘Elvis? Is that you?’
‘Wanna grab a shake, honey?’
She blinks. ‘Is this your car?’
He strokes the hood, which is still warm. ‘Uh-huh.’
She folds her arms. ‘Well, I’ll be doggone! Elvis Presley! Ain’t seen you in a while!’
‘Come on inside, and I’ll tell you all the news.’
Her mouth is working as if she’s about to make some excuse.
‘I’ll buy you a piece of pie,’ he says, grabbing her hand. It’s cold, and he can feel her bones move beneath his grip.
Tugging her hand free, she says, ‘It sure is good to see you, but—’
‘I owe you, Magdalene. For leaving town and not saying goodbye and all.’
She looks at him sideways. ‘That’s the truth.’
‘So are you coming?’
She sighs. ‘Sure.’
As they walk through the glass door, he resists placing a hand between her shoulders to guide her to the counter. With lunch recently over, only two other people are sitting there: one old lady who is nursing a coffee and smoking a cigarette very intently, and a suited man eating a cheeseburger over his newspaper. On seeing the menu chalked up behind the soda fountain, Elvis’s mouth waters. He could have anything he wants. He could have two of everything. But he informs the unsmiling waitress that they’ll take a couple of chocolate shakes and a large slice of apple pie to share, and then he tells Magdalene he’ll be back in just one second.
On the other side of the room, he drops a nickel into the jukebox and the coloured tubes light up. He chooses ‘Blue Moon of Kentucky’. Leaning over the humming glass dome, he watches his record slide and click into place and the needle rest in the groove. Then he closes his eyes and waits for the first verse to finish before turning to face the counter.
Magdalene is watching him, looking curious but not particularly impressed.
‘Who’s that?’ he calls across the room. ‘Who’s that, Magdalene?’ She looks blank, so he strides over to her, arms open wide. ‘You know who that is, don’t you?’ he says.
By this time, the other diners and the waitress have looked up.
Magdalene’s eyes slide to the jukebox, then back to Elvis. ‘It ain’t …’ she says. ‘It can’t be!’
He nods.
Her cheeks fill with colour, and she claps her hands together twice, as if applauding him.
Elvis sits on the stool and basks in her astonishment. For a full minute, all they can do is laugh together. The man tuts and returns to his newspaper, and the old woman lights another cigarette.
‘Gosh dang!’ gasps Magdalene. ‘I heard you was singing some, but I had no idea!’
‘I’ve cut three records! And they’re playing them all over the South. They even buy them in Texas, Magdalene! Don’t you listen to the Louisiana Hayride?’
She shakes her head. ‘My mother don’t like it.’
‘Well, tell your mother I’m on it! Every Saturday! I’m the star attraction! I tell you, it’s all happened so fast I can’t keep up.’
The waitress pushes their drinks and pie across the counter.
‘Thank you, ma’am,’ says Elvis, grinning at her.
‘That your record?’ she asks. She’s a little older than him, has blonde hair screwed into a bun, small shoulders, and a greasy sheen to her forehead.
‘Uh-huh. I was just playing it to my old girlfriend here,’ says Elvis.
‘I like that one,’ says the waitress. ‘It’s real different.’
‘Got another one coming out soon, even better.’
‘He never was one to hide his light under a bushel,’ says Magdalene, rolling her eyes.
The waitress touches her hair. ‘I don’t guess he oughta hide anything at all.’
Magdalene looks at the waitress, then back at Elvis. ‘Well,’ she says, pushing back her stool, ‘it sure was nice to catch up! But I’d best be getting along.’
‘You just got here!’ he says, hanging on to her sleeve. ‘We used to sing together, didn’t we, Magdalene? I reckon this gal here started this whole thing.’
Magdalene waves a hand across her face. ‘Oh, now.’
‘Ain’t that precious,’ says the waitress. She turns her back on them, and begins polishing the sundae dishes.
Elvis grins. Magdalene grins back. They share the pie, and Elvis orders another slice. Leaning her chin on one hand, Magdalene watches him eat the lot, then says, in a small voice, ‘So how come you never wrote me?’
He swallows. Should he tell her about the marriage licence? About how he sat on her porch steps for the longest time with his declaration of everlasting love in his pocket?
She sucks up the last of her shake. ‘You plumb broke my heart.’
‘Magdalene,’ he says, solemnly, ‘I never meant to hurt you.’
She lets out a loud laugh and slaps his hand so hard he winces. ‘I’m just kidding!’ she says. ‘Guess I can forgive you now, anyway, huh? I see you had plans, all along.’
Recovering himself, he announces, ‘I got great plans, Magdalene. Like you wouldn’t believe.’
She smiles and nods, apparently ready to hear more.
What can he say? His plan is just to keep going. To sell more records. To go all the way. The word ‘Hollywood’ has been firmly planted in his head by Mr Neal’s talk of Colonel Parker’s contacts, but sitting here in TKE’s with Magdalene Morgan that word seems impossible to say. She might laugh at him again, and he couldn’t bear that.
The song comes to an end. ‘Want me to play it again?’ says Elvis, jumping up.
They listen to it five times in a row, and share another shake. When Magdalene leaves, saying she has to go fetch her cousin from school, Elvis tries to make her promise she will come visit him in Memphis. ‘But you’re a big star now, Elvis,’ she says, buttoning up her coat. ‘Why would you want to bother with me?’ And she strides down the sidewalk before he can reply.
* * *
After performing their first Sunday-afternoon spot at the Ellis Auditorium in Memphis, Elvis, Scotty and Bill are delayed by the line of girls seeking autographs, and, worried about being late for their meeting with Colonel Parker, they have to race down the wet steps and out into the rainy street. They are all still steaming from the show.
An approaching car slows, tyres hissing on wet asphalt, and sounds its horn, making Bill hold up his hand like a traffic cop. ‘This here’s Memphis’s own Elvis Presley!’ he bellows through the rain. ‘You can’t run him down! He just played the Ellis with the Blue Moon Boys!’
When they reach the other side, Elvis asks Scotty if what he’s heard about the Colonel is true.
‘What you heard?’ asks Scotty, setting a brisk pace.
‘That he knows Hollywood folks.’
‘Oh, that,’ says Scotty. ‘I guess that’s true. I thought you meant about him being a carny and all. ’Cause every bit of that is true.’
‘Colonel Tom Parker has toured the nation with bearded ladies, performing bears, and men encased in ice. Not to mention dancing chickens and psychic dwarves,’ Bill cuts in.
‘Some of that ain’t true,’ says Scotty. ‘Far as I can fathom.’
Having reached the canopy of Palumbo’s restaurant, they stand beneath it for a moment, each catching their breath. Elvis adjusts his necktie and brushes the rain from his shoulders. Bill combs his hair. Scotty checks his watch, informs them they’re ten minutes late, and puts his hand to the door.
Before they go in, Elvis asks, ‘Do you reckon this could be, you know, real big for us?’
Scotty keeps his hand steady. ‘Depends what Sam says, I guess.’
‘We’re already big!’ Bill pats Elvis on the back. ‘He’s booked us on that tour of his, ain’t he? That’s us and the goddamn gorgeous Carter Sisters, Elvis! Now let’s get in there and hear all about it.’
It’s warm, hushed, and almost empty inside. Elvis can see five men arranged around a table beneath a low, multicoloured glass shade at the back of the restaurant. On one side are Mr Phillips and Mr Neal, and on the other are Oscar Davis, Colonel Tom Parker and a man Elvis doesn’t recognise. Mr Davis has been handling the promotion on a couple of their shows, and, as always, looks a real gentleman: fresh flower in his lapel (today’s is a purple carnation), immaculate suit, shining silver hair. The Colonel has on a faded tan jacket, no necktie, and his unruly eyebrows are bunched together as he talks to Mr Phillips, who is leaning back in his chair, arms tightly crossed.
For a second, Elvis considers ducking right back out the door. What could he possibly add to this conversation? He knows Mr Phillips means well by introducing him to all these fellas, but he’d really rather be back across the street in the auditorium. His mama and Dixie are coming to the next show, and he wants to make sure they get their seats right at the front.
But then a waiter in a long white apron appears, and Scotty introduces himself. The waiter smiles and ushers the three of them across the patterned carpet to the table at the back of the room.
None of the men looks up. They are too busy listening to the Colonel, who is in the middle of a speech. His voice is relaxed, as if he’s merely stating the obvious.
‘… boy can’t come to nothing while he’s on Sun Records. He needs a national stage. That’s the fact of it.’
Mr Phillips has his mouth set in a thin line, but his eyes are popping with disbelief.
Mr Davis holds up a hand. ‘Now, what Tom means to say, Sam, is that you’ve got a great act here’ – he gestures towards Elvis, Scotty and Bill – ‘a great act, and it would be a shame to waste such potential when you’ve already done so much.’ He smiles broadly. ‘Welcome, boys! Don’t pay us no mind! We’re just having a little discussion here … Take a seat, why don’t you? No call for formalities.’
Mr Davis offers Elvis a seat next to Colonel Parker.
Scotty and Bill drag chairs from the next empty table, and perch close to Mr Phillips, who is still scowling at the Colonel.
Mr Davis does the introductions. Colonel Parker nods at Scotty and Bill, then turns to Elvis and shakes his hand with warm, meaty fingers.
‘So you’re the sexy hillbilly singer, huh?’ He fixes Elvis with a clear stare. ‘My wife tells me you got all the gals in a spin!’ There’s something boiled-looking about his face: his cheeks are pink and shiny, like a doll’s. Elvis almost laughs, seeing the man up close. But the Colonel’s voice is deadly serious. ‘I was just telling Mr Phillips here that if you really want to make it, you gotta go national,’ he continues. ‘You look to me like a boy who really wants to make it. Am I right?’
‘Yessir,’ says Elvis.
‘There you go!’ barks the younger man next to Colonel Parker.
‘That’s Mr Diskin,’ says the Colonel. ‘He’s my lieutenant.’
Mr Diskin performs a goofy salute.
Elvis smiles, and looks to Mr Phillips for guidance, but Mr Phillips is staring at the Colonel and asking, ‘May I speak, now?’
‘Mr Phillips, you may speak whenever you like,’ says the Colonel.
‘I find your attitude a little hard to take, Mr Parker. You stroll into my town and tell me my label ain’t worth a damn—’
‘Colonel didn’t say that,’ Mr Davis cuts in. ‘What he said was—’
‘What he said was, my artist won’t get nowhere if he sticks with me. Least, that’s what I heard.’
Elvis has seen Mr Phillips’s chin jut out at this kind of angle before, when he’s feeling something real good about a song, and he’s heard him when his words start running off in all directions, either from excitement or frustration, but he’s never seen him get real mad. It makes Elvis’s gut shrink, because there’s nothing he can say to make this any better, and, without ever meaning to, he seems to have caused the whole thing. He wishes he could leave, right now. He doesn’t really see why he’s needed here, anyway. The businessmen could deal with all this stuff without him.
‘Who are you to tell me my business, anyway, Mr Parker?’ says Mr Phillips, whose voice has gone a little squeaky. ‘I make the decisions about my artists! I’m the label man, here! Last time I checked, you were just bookings and promotion!’
Scattered on the cloth before Colonel Parker are numerous emptied sugar packets. He reaches for another from the dish at the centre of the table, rips off the corner with his teeth, empties the contents into the dregs of his coffee, and flicks the packet onto the pile. Quietly, he says, ‘You’re taking this way too personal, Mr Phillips. My concern is to help these boys get to where they want to be. Where they rightly should be. Which is on a national stage, just like I said. I think that’s what everyone around this table wants.’ He sups the last of his drink. ‘And, last time I checked, these boys don’t belong to nobody.’
Mr Phillips can only glare at him.
Mr Davis says, ‘Maybe we ought to move on to the details of this tour.’
Mr Neal, who, until now, has been silently studying the edge of his napkin, says, ‘Yes! Great idea. Tom, you were telling me, weren’t you, about that big resort hotel in Nevada you’re talking to …’
Elvis manages to sit for a while as the talk turns to dates, towns, venues, promotional activities. Mr Phillips glowers in the corner, not uttering another word. Elvis is so distracted by Mr Phillips’s mood that he doesn’t really hear what’s said. Scotty and Bill seem at ease; they help themselves to coffee from the pot on the table and even throw in their own suggestions for venues. Unable to stand it any longer, Elvis rises from his chair.
‘I’m right sorry, gents,’ he says, ‘but we gotta get back for the next show. It was a real pleasure to meet you, Colonel Parker, and you, Mr Diskin.’
Holding out his hand, he realises it’s trembling, but he’s unsure whether it’s with outrage on Mr Phillips’s behalf, or with excitement at Colonel Parker’s words: a national stage.
Colonel Parker looks surprised. ‘Leaving us already, son?’
‘I’m sorry, sir, but I like to be ready, you know, for a show.’
Colonel Parker sits back in his chair and folds his arms. ‘That’s a good attitude. But you do realise this is your future we’re discussing here?’
‘And I’m real grateful to you, Colonel Parker, it’s just—’
The Colonel holds up a hand. ‘Call me Colonel. And save your gratitude,’ he says, ‘for when I’ve made you a real star.’
Elvis lets out a laugh, but the Colonel keeps a straight face.
There’s a pause, and then the Colonel waves him away. ‘Off you go, then, fellas! I like to see entertainers committed to punctuality! See you on the tour!’
As Elvis turns to leave, Mr Phillips glances at him and Elvis flinches, expecting to see blame of some kind in his eyes. But all he sees is sorrow.
* * *
The lights in the Big Creek High School gym are down, but Elvis can see the girls up front, screaming, crying, beating their fists on their knees and shaking their heads as if in grief. Ever since he became a regular act on the Hayride, his shows have gotten crazier, but this is the craziest yet. He’s got pretty good at knowing which flick of the wrist or hip, which special kind of sneer, will have the girls leaping from their seats. At first, Mr Neal paid a few of them to scream, at least that’s what Bill said, but tonight it doesn’t look like any girl here has much control over what her body is doing.
Scotty hides his amazement behind an ironic smile, but Bill looks like a schoolboy who just got told there are no more lessons, ever. They’ve all quit their day jobs, and after every performance Bill tells Elvis how he just can’t believe it. All this money. All this music. All these girls! There are always girls waiting after a show, and they are ready and willing for just about anything. The ones Elvis doesn’t want, Scotty and Bill can scrap over.
He drops to his knees at the edge of the stage as he finishes ‘I Got a Woman’, knowing that it will get them on their feet, and looks out at the front row. Instead of standing to clap, they are lifting their skirts and showing him everything they’ve got. Some of them are wearing underclothes, but not all. One girl with blonde curls falling in her eyes has her checked skirt bunched around her waist and her legs wide apart. She’s bellowing like some animal. He pauses, seeing the darkness between her thighs, and almost points his finger – but then remembers who he is now, and that he’s on stage, and if he points at this little girl, who knows what will happen to her? She could go to jail.
He shakes his head and laughs at the delicious insanity of it, and hopes his mother and father, who are watching the show from a couple of rows back, haven’t noticed what’s going on. Gladys and Vernon regularly come along if it isn’t too far to travel, and he likes that they are there to see how popular he is, and how good he’s become at putting on a show. He doesn’t hold back for his parents’ sake. His mama says how an audience reacts to him is a special thing, so why should he put the brakes on? If anything, he wants to push the audience further, so his mama can see how much they adore him, and how hard he works to be worthy of their love.
He’s into ‘Baby Let’s Play House’, pumping his legs to the beat, singing about how he’d rather see his baby dead than with another, when he realises that the audience can’t hear him. They’re covering their ears and yelling and whistling so loud he fears he may lose the song, or the dusty curtain above the stage might fall on his head. He can no longer feel the thump of Bill’s bass. The floorboards are vibrating, not with music but with screams. The sound rips through Elvis, making him think of the tornado that went through Tupelo when he was a baby. The Baptist church across the street was razed to the ground, but Uncle Noah’s house, where they’d sheltered, escaped unscathed. Gladys has told him, over and over: Sometimes I think we survived because of you, son. Because God wanted to spare you. She’d held him so close that he’d screamed to be set free, and the tornado had passed by.
If he can survive that, he can deal with this, easy. He can keep singing as the noise rises up and around him like deep water. He can keep moving, going up on his toes and bumping his hips, turning to face Scotty as he jiggles his ass, which makes them even crazier; and he’ll keep pinching his nose and laughing, because now the whole thing’s a big joke – the girls, the moves, even the song. And if he laughs first, then nobody else can.
It’s a joke only for a moment before he’s back in the music, though he senses it’s not the song that counts so much as the way he sings it, the way he moves to it. His lungs taking their air and his mouth making these sounds. Nothing can stop what’s inside him from coming out. Beneath his satin shirt, his chest expands. His flecked jacket is soaked with sweat. Even his hair seems to have its own rhythm. He feels like that angel back in Priceville cemetery, firing his arrows of love to the mere mortals on the ground. He does have Jesse’s power. Here it is, coming out of every pore.
Elvis sticks his right arm out and brings it down slow to signal to Scotty and Bill that they should take this last part easy. He slides to his knees again to finish the number, pleading with his baby to come back, and the girls roar and weep their desire to do so, if only he’d let them.
Then they rush towards the stage, hungry for anything he can give, screaming, ELVIS ELVIS ELVIS, and he hears his name and recognises it. Yes. Here I am. I was waiting for you, and now I’m here.
Raising his arms in triumph, he says, ‘Thank you, you’re a great audience,’ and then he bows low, straightens up, waves, bows again, thanks them again.
When he finally turns around, Scotty is gesturing to him to get off, and Elvis spots something in his friend’s face he hasn’t seen before. It takes him a second to recognise the emotion as fear. He glances over his shoulder and realises that dozens of girls are climbing towards him, their skirts hitched about their waists as they haul their legs onto the stage, standing on each other’s hands and pushing one another down in their fight to be the first to reach him. Although he has felt something come loose in an audience before now, this is the first time the stage has been stormed.
Scotty has already fled, holding his beloved Gibson guitar above his head, and Bill is on the top step yelling, ‘For God’s sake, Elvis! Get off!’ But Elvis doesn’t move. He’s fascinated by these girls, the way they have broken all the rules. It dawns on him that the stage is a special place where he and they are free to do what they want. Together, they can make up their own rules. And he is sure they won’t hurt him. They love him too much for that.
But they are coming at him now, a swathe of females panting and screaming his name, their fingernails snatching the air. A girl in a tight yellow sweater is beckoning to him with both hands, her painted mouth hanging open. Another is making a strange grunting noise as she stares at him, slowly shaking her head. A brunette stands in the centre of it all, one hand at the back of her neck, her eyes glassy, as if she’s about to faint. Instinctively, he ducks, covering his head with his hands, and is instantly squeezed on all sides by girls. The sweet scent of laundry detergent and hairspray mingles with the sharp musk of their bodies. Somebody grabs at his jacket, somebody else goes for his pants. It becomes a little hard to breathe. He tries to laugh, to say, ‘Easy, ladies, give a fella a break,’ but finds he has no voice.
‘Elvis! I’ll love you for ever and ever!’
‘Sing to us one more time!’
‘I’m yours, Elvis!’
‘Please, Elvis! Please!’
Then he hears his mother yelling, ‘Why are you hurting my boy?’
And his father’s voice: ‘Get offa him! Go home!’
His parents must be picking them off, because, astonishingly, the hands fall away, the roar in his ears subsides, and he can breathe again. Then his father grips him beneath the armpits, lifting him from the crowd, and his mama takes hold of his legs. To his surprise, she doesn’t falter at the weight of him. She anchors his ankles at her hips, as if he is a cart she must pull, and pushes on through the girls, yelling at them to move aside. As Gladys and Vernon carry him to safety, Elvis turns his head and gives the girls a grin.
Backstage, his daddy’s shirt is crumpled and his hair is so sweaty it sticks up from his forehead in what looks to be a bad parody of his son’s style. His mama dabs at her brow with a handkerchief while Vernon fetches her a chair, then hands her his hip flask and instructs her to drink. Elvis flinches as, without protest, she takes a good few gulps and wipes her mouth with the back of her hand.
Now he’s in the safety of the locker room, Elvis realises his legs are weak, and he takes a chair next to his mother. For a while they both pant and sweat and shake their heads and say, ‘Lord have mercy.’ Each time Gladys says it, it sounds more desperate, but each time Elvis does, a little laughter creeps in around the edges of the words.
‘They didn’t wanna hurt me none, Mama.’
Gladys’s hand trembles at her mouth.
‘They just wanna get close to me, is all.’
Gladys fixes him with a black stare and says, ‘Looked to me like they was gonna kill you. They coulda ripped you clean in two.’
Elvis glances at his daddy, who is leaning on the bolted door. He has nothing to say. ‘Get that fan on,’ Elvis instructs, and Vernon does as he is told.
Thick, stale air moves around them. Elvis takes his mother’s damp hand. Gently, he presses it between his own until the trembling stops, and whispers, ‘There, there, baby. Elvis is still right here.’
Gladys leans forward so their foreheads touch. Her skin is sticky on his, and he can smell liquor on her breath.
‘They just had me so scared,’ she says.
‘Shh. It’s OK, baby.’
‘Elvie.’
‘Mama.’
‘I can’t stand to see you hurt.’
‘I know it.’
‘I keep getting these dreams. They’re tearing you apart, and there ain’t nothing I can do about it.’
The fan shudders. Outside, they are squealing his name. Elvis tries not to smile, for his mother’s sake.
Gladys balls her handkerchief in her fist. She takes a deep breath, shakes her head, then says, ‘Maybe you oughta limit these shows, son.’
Elvis leans back in his chair. ‘What do you mean, limit?’
Gladys reaches for her new crocodile-skin purse, which is big enough to hold a small cat, drops the handkerchief into it, and clicks it shut. ‘I mean, ain’t the records enough? All of this – I can’t fathom it, son. Seems to me like you ain’t thinking straight.’
Elvis jumps to his feet. ‘I’m thinking real straight, Mama. I’m building my career here. Tell her, Daddy. The shows are how I sell records.’
Vernon folds his arms. ‘Boy’s right, Glad. It’s all part of it.’
Gladys tightens her grip on her purse. ‘But do you have to do so many?’
Elvis paces the length of the room. The cement floor is gritty beneath his delicate shoes. ‘I gotta keep selling records!’ He manages not to kick a locker door for emphasis. ‘So I gotta keep doing the shows. It’s like Colonel Parker says, I gotta break out of being a regional star. I gotta go national!’
Gladys clicks the clasps on her purse open, then shut, then open, then shut.
‘But you’re on stage almost every night, making them girls lose their minds. It scares me half to death to watch it.’
‘Mama,’ says Elvis, pausing before her, ‘you know I’m doing it all for you and Daddy, don’t you? Pretty soon I can buy you a house. And a new car. Anything you want—’
‘But I can’t see why in the world you’d take such risks!’
‘I’ll be able to buy you anything at all. So you gotta quit asking me to limit stuff.’
‘And see you wind up dead?’
She looks at him with such rage that he thinks he might be in for a whipping. That palm might draw back and swat him across the legs. He takes a step away from her, in readiness.
But all Gladys does is snatch the flask from Vernon’s hand.
Elvis steels himself. He keeps his voice steady. ‘I’m sorry, Mama, but if you can’t stand to watch, then I reckon you oughta stay home. Ain’t that right, Daddy?’
Vernon nods, silently.
Gladys takes another drink, and Vernon announces that it’s time they hit the road.
* * *
In May, he goes to Lowenstein’s on Main to buy Dixie a pink playsuit. The assistant looks down her nose at his wad of bills, which prompts him to buy three silk dresses for his mama, too. He hands much of every week’s gains over to Gladys for safekeeping, but the truth is there’s so much cash around he finds it difficult, and frankly unnecessary, to keep track. There’s more than enough for the family to rent a new two-bedroom brick bungalow in a better neighbourhood, and for his father to quit looking for work. Elvis wasn’t sure this was such a good idea, but Vernon told him it was simple: he could work for his son, sorting out all the little things Elvis no longer had time for. Answering fan mail, for example. Hell, he was already doing it!
Elvis hasn’t seen Dixie in three weeks. He has a short break in his touring schedule, and they have a date arranged for this evening, but as he drives home from Lowenstein’s, he wonders if he can present the gift to her sooner than that, and perhaps even get her to let him watch her put it on. But where? If he takes her into his bedroom, his mother will be knocking on the door, and Dixie shares her room with her sisters. Perhaps he could persuade her to try it in the car. The thought of Dixie easing up those little shorts on the back seat of his new Cadillac – which he’s had painted pink and white, remembering that car his mother saw parked outside St Joseph’s – has him turning the vehicle around and heading straight for her house.
She lives in a one-storey place on a leafy avenue over the south side of the city. He parks the Caddy, throws it a loving look, then races up Dixie’s porch steps.
Luckily for him, her father’s car isn’t in the drive. Mr Locke has made it clear that he’s not entirely sure about Elvis. He’s always asking about the shows, about how Elvis stands the odd hours, and whether he ever thinks of taking up something a little more steady. Elvis tells him that he’s just no good at anything else.
Dixie’s mother is more amenable, but even she’s no pushover.
‘Well,’ she says, keeping him on the porch, ‘Dixie isn’t expecting you right now. I don’t think she’s ready yet.’
‘That’s an awful shame, Mrs Locke. I know she’d flip for this movie—’
Then a voice comes from the hallway. ‘Elvis? Is that you?’
Elvis smiles. ‘Why, there she is, ma’am. And she looks good and ready to me.’
Dixie pushes past her mother, bounces onto the porch, and flings her arms around his neck.
‘Hi, sweetheart.’ He pecks his girl on the cheek, then turns to Mrs Locke. ‘I’ll have her back by ten-thirty, ma’am. I promise.’
Dixie tugs him down the steps.
When he has her in the car and they’ve pulled away from her house, he gestures towards the back seat. ‘I got you something,’ he says. ‘But you can’t look at it yet.’
She reaches over to lift the paper, and spots the pink fabric. ‘Ooh!’ she says. ‘Is it for the prom?’
He’d forgotten about Dixie’s goddamn High School prom. He’d promised to take her, months ago.
‘’Cause I already got my dress and all—’
‘It’s better than that,’ he says, ‘but you got to wait.’
Dixie moves up close to him. ‘You’re still taking me to the prom tomorrow night, right?’
‘Course I am, baby!’ He grasps her hand and kisses her fingers.
‘When can I open it?’
‘When we get to Riverside Park.’
‘I thought we were going to the movies.’
‘Are you kidding? I need to see you in it first.’
She gazes at him, wide-eyed. ‘Elvis. What in the world are you suggesting?’
‘That you try it on for me.’
‘And where am I supposed to do that in Riverside Park?’
He drops his voice. ‘In the back of the car, honey.’
She slaps his thigh. ‘You’re crazy! I am not undressing in this car!’
‘I won’t look,’ he says. ‘I’ll keep my eyes right on the lake. I’ll just be taking in the glorious view, baby. I swear.’
She folds her arms. ‘I want you to turn this vehicle around and take me straight back home.’
‘Aw, you don’t mean that,’ he says. ‘I ain’t seen you in weeks! So now I want to see as much of you as I can.’
She’s quiet for a few minutes. He keeps driving, sneaking little looks in her direction. She frowns, and starts to fiddle with the hem of her dress, which is white, printed with birdcages, and sits just past her knee.
‘Don’t you wanna know what’s going on with the tour and all?’ he asks.
‘Sure,’ she says, but she doesn’t look at him.
‘I don’t wanna bore you with it.’
‘No,’ she says. ‘Tell me.’
He’s called her every night with an update, but he can’t seem to tell her the details often enough. Telling Dixie makes it all seem real.
‘I’m top of the bill, now. Colonel Parker’s real pleased. I think he might wanna be my manager, Dixie! He’s told Mr Neal he wants to keep working with me. Did I mention he knows people in Hollywood?’
‘You sure did,’ says Dixie, glancing at the package on the back seat.
‘And the last four shows were total sell-outs!’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘But I missed you every minute.’
‘That’s why you bought me a gift?’
‘Sure, baby,’ he says. They’re approaching the park now. ‘How about I stop somewhere real quiet, then step out of the car while you … you know.’
‘You’ll wait outside?’
‘You can lock all the doors.’
She says nothing, but she doesn’t object when he puts his arm around her shoulder and draws her closer so he can kiss her ear.
He drives towards McKellar Lake, away from the noise of the teen canteen and the dancing pavilion. Finding the quietest spot he can, right out on the far side, he stops beneath the pines. At six o’clock on a Friday, there are a few mothers with young kids packing up picnics and making for home, but nobody else is in this part of the park. He cuts the engine, and the sound of the geese burbling on the water floats through the windows. He fiddles with the radio dial, trying to find some appropriate song, something romantic and passionate without being too suggestive. They both like Mario Lanza, but he can’t find anything of that kind. In the end, Dixie reaches over and flicks the switch, killing the music.
‘Are you getting out so I can do this?’ she says.
‘Can’t I at least see you open it?’ he asks, stroking her shoulder and gazing into her eyes.
She sighs.
He places the package in her lap. Pouting at it, she says, ‘You didn’t oughta’ve gotten this for me.’
‘I want you to know you’re still my girl.’
‘But I’m not sure I can give you what you want – what I know you really want – in return,’ she says, blinking up at him with her eyes all blurry and pleading.
Irritation flashes through him. Is she going to spoil this with her soul-searching? He’s already told her he can wait until they’re married. Sometimes he wonders why she has to bring the subject up so often. It’s not as if he’s tried to push her into it. And how does she know what he really wants, anyway? He can get laid, any time he likes. He can take his pick of girls after a show, and he often does, though he’s always careful not to get one of them pregnant. Mama has warned him about that, over and over. The first time he’d sealed the deal, the rubber bust and, on her instruction, he took the girl – she was pretty enough, a few years older, and experienced – to the emergency room in Shreveport to get a douche. The whole thing had been more of a relief than anything. Since then, he’s been more relaxed about it, but he’s gone all the way only with girls who’ve been round the block a few times, although there’s been plenty of fooling around with all sorts of females.
He almost says, All I want is to see you in the fucking playsuit. Period.
Instead, he calms himself and says, ‘I ain’t expecting nothing in return, honest.’
Her pale fingers slide beneath the paper and tease off the tape. Holding up the playsuit, she doesn’t gasp in wonder, as he’d hoped. ‘It matches your car,’ is all she says.
‘I can take it right back to the store if you don’t like it,’ he snaps.
‘Don’t be like that! I love it,’ she says, covering his cheek in quick little kisses.
‘Try it on, then,’ he whispers, outlining her chin with one finger.
She points to the door. ‘Out!’
Sitting on the hood with his back to the windshield, he hears her click down all the locks and smiles to himself. The keys are in his pocket.
The sky is turning deeper blue and it’s cooler out of the car. The scent of warm pine is all around and there’s a little breeze coming off the water. He closes his eyes, feeling the car rock beneath him. Dixie will be squirming out of that dress as quickly as she can. She’s never let him touch anything past her knee. Sometimes he strokes the inside of her arm, which is soft as butter. When he runs his fingers all the way to the top, it makes her shiver and tell him to quit. He doesn’t mind; he wants her to keep herself nice for if they do get married. His mama says he shouldn’t tie himself down too quick but she also says not to let Dixie get away. It’s not easy to do both things.
A duck swoops low, almost touching his head as it lands awkwardly on the water, squawking and flapping, making him open his eyes and curse, and miss her unlocking the doors.
‘Elvis.’
His first thought, on turning to see her standing next to the car, is that he ought to have bought her some shoes, too. The playsuit doesn’t look as good as it would if she were wearing high heels.
But those thighs. Just as white and smooth as he’d hoped, if a little wider than he’d expected, considering the size of her waist, which he can get both his hands right round, easy.
‘Come on over here.’
‘Does it look OK?’
‘It’s beautiful, honey. Come closer.’
She takes little steps towards him, combing out her hair with her fingers as she walks, keeping her eyes on his.
Before she reaches him, he sticks out a hand. ‘Hold it right there,’ he says. ‘Now, sit on the hood, and cross your legs.’
She hesitates, seeming to wonder if he is serious.
‘I just wanna see you good.’
She slides herself onto the metal.
‘It’s kinda hot on here!’ she says, springing off.
‘Just relax into it. You’ll get used to it.’
Biting her lip, she sits on the hood, resting her feet on the fender and raising her thighs off the body of the car.
‘Now tip your head to the right, and give Elvis a big, big smile.’
‘I feel silly!’ she says, but she giggles and pushes her breasts out.
‘You look like a goddamn movie star up there on the Caddy, Dixie.’
‘Honestly?’ she says, tossing back her hair and showing her teeth.
‘That’s it,’ he says. ‘Perfect.’
After he has admired her from all angles, they spend a long time necking in the car. Dixie lets Elvis slide his hand up one of the legs of her playsuit. Then she takes hold of his fingers and pushes them further in. Feeling the wetness there, he snatches his hand away.
‘Elvis,’ she says into his shoulder, breathing quick, ‘let me show you how much I love you,’ and she tries to put his hand back where it was.
He shakes free of her grip and springs away from her.
She looks at him, and her face is flushed, her lips red. He finds it hard to meet her eye.
‘Dixie,’ he says, ‘you don’t have to show me nothing.’
‘But you been gone so long!’ she says, kneading her fingers on her naked thigh. ‘I worry about losing you to somebody else.’
‘Why would you even think that?’
She yanks the legs of the playsuit down as far as they will go and sits on her hands, her knees clamped together. Her mouth twists. ‘Why wouldn’t I, when you got so many girls throwing themselves at you?’
At this, he cannot contain his rage.
‘Seems to me like you got plenty of your own opportunities, right here!’
She shrinks back, shocked. ‘What does that mean?’
‘I heard you was at the Rainbow while I was away!’
She stares at him for a moment. Then she says, in a small voice, ‘Well, it gets kinda boring, sitting home and waiting with your mother.’
‘You don’t have to go around with other guys though, do you? Maybe one of them taught you this stuff, huh?’
‘What stuff?’
‘What you was doing just there. Nasty stuff.’
There’s a pause. Then Dixie says, very slowly, her eyes on her knees, ‘Elvis, please get out of the car so I can dress.’
He does as she asks, slamming the door good and hard, but as soon as he’s outside, listening to the gabble of those goddamn ducks, he pounds his forehead with the flat of his hand and yells, ‘Presley! You dumb ass! You heel!’
The ducks take fright and fly across the lake, into the dying sun.
Elvis paces the length of the car, yelling at himself and banging on his own head, until Dixie finally opens the door.
‘Get in here,’ she says. ‘You’ll frighten the fish, you keep going like that.’
‘I’m sorry, baby,’ he says.
She nods, quickly.
He climbs in beside her and says, ‘You know that we’ll be married some day, don’t you?’
‘I know.’
The Colonel has already advised him that he must hide any steady girlfriend from the press and never speak publicly of marriage, in case it puts the fans off. But Elvis hasn’t yet found the right moment to mention this to Dixie.
As he starts the engine, he can tell from the way she moves closer that she will forgive him, at least for the time being.
* * *
At Sun, Gladys is the only woman in the studio. Miss Keisker had greeted her and offered to take her coat, but Gladys declined, not meaning to stay longer than was necessary. Now Miss Keisker has dissolved back into the office, leaving Gladys surrounded by men in suits, one of whom is carrying the biggest camera she’s ever seen. Mr Phillips has sold Elvis’s record contract to RCA Victor for $35,000. The papers have been signed, and the man from the Scimitar wants Elvis’s picture.
This is the first time Gladys has been in the studio that her son has told her so much about, and she’s a little shocked at how empty and plain the white-tiled room is. It’s a late November day, and it’s kind of chilly in here. There’s a piano in the corner, and a few microphones lined up along the wall. And then there are these men, who are laughing together, and keep shaking one another’s hands and clapping her son on the shoulder. Everyone in the room is smiling at Elvis. Vernon hangs back, his jacket open, giving the occasional nod, saying nothing.
To Gladys’s surprise, Mr Parker isn’t in the centre of the action. He leans against a wall, smoking a cigar, observing the others, much as she is doing. All summer, he has been making her telephone ring, trying to convince her to sign the contract that would grant him the right to act as Elvis’s sole manager. When they’d first met, he’d smoked his cigar right at her kitchen table and assumed Vernon to be in charge. All his talk of million-dollar record contracts and Hollywood deals was directed to Elvis’s father. He’d also referred to Elvis as ‘our boy’, as if he already had ownership of him. And so Gladys refused to sign, even though Elvis begged her to do so. He kept telling her that she just didn’t understand: Tom Parker might be an old carny, but he knew everyone who counted for anything in the music business and the movies, too. Without Parker, he’d never really make it. When he’d said that, Gladys had realised the full extent of her son’s ambition: being an entertainer wasn’t enough; he wanted to be a movie star. How could she stand in his way? By October, she had relented, and Tom Parker promised her that Elvis would make so much money he would no longer have to do live shows. Instead of facing a crowd of frenzied fans, he would be in front of a movie camera. He would be safe. Whenever she doubts her decision to sign, she brings this promise to mind.
Mr Neal clasps her hands. ‘You sure look elegant today, Mrs Presley!’
Mr Gill at Goldsmith’s fixed her hair this morning, putting on more colour and lifting up the sides with cute little slides. She’d gone on to the department-store restaurant, too, and, encouraged by Vernon, had taken a couple of steadying beers with her lunchtime sandwich.
‘Why, thank you, Mr Neal!’ Gladys sings. Keeping hold of his hands, she draws him closer and lowers her voice. ‘Tell me, are you sure my boy will be all right with these new recording folks?’
Mr Neal is a true gentleman; he never laughs off a mother’s concerns. ‘Mrs Presley,’ he says, seriously, ‘Elvis is gonna be more than all right. He’s gonna be swell. These folks are the very best in the business.’
She nods. ‘Kind of a shame for Mr Phillips, though,’ she says. ‘Elvis is gonna miss him.’
They both look over at Sam, whose face is split by the width of his grin as he listens to something one of the other men – Gladys thinks it’s the man from RCA – is telling him.
‘I think Sam did pretty good out of this,’ says Mr Neal.
‘Elvis said that,’ says Gladys. ‘And so did Mr Parker. But I can’t help but feel sorry. And what about Scotty and Bill? They’ve been so good to my boy, Mr Neal. Taken care of him real well on the road. But Elvis tells me they ain’t a part of this thing with Mr Parker.’
Elvis has also told her that though he feels bad about Scotty and Bill going on the payroll rather than getting a slice of everything he makes, he has to look out for his own career now.
Mr Neal places a firm hand on her arm. ‘It’s a good deal for everybody, Mrs Presley.’ He beams, and she sees his gums. ‘Scotty and Bill will be just fine. They’re still the band, and any band of your son’s is onto a real good thing.’
‘I hope so, Mr Neal.’
‘Did Elvis tell you the Colonel already has his first television appearances booked?’
‘He sure did!’
‘You must be real proud. And the great credit to you is that he’s such a fine boy. Everybody comments on his good manners and attitude. And that’s all down to you.’
He’s told her this before, but hearing it in this room makes Gladys glow with pleasure. Looking at her son, radiantly handsome in his dark suit, ringed by businessmen congratulating him, she finds herself giggling.
‘I guess I did all right, Mr Neal!’
‘You certainly did.’
Thirty-five thousand dollars. He’ll see only some of that money, of course, but Elvis has told her it’s the most ever paid for a single artist’s recording contract.
‘Folks! Would y’all be so kind as to line up over there?’ asks the man from the Scimitar. ‘I need to get me a picture!’
The men look up. Elvis grabs his own leg, as if to control it, and says, ‘I’m shaking with excitement here!’ and everyone laughs, including Gladys.
Elvis takes her by the arm and steers her across the room. ‘You look happy, Mama,’ he says.
‘So do you,’ she replies.
As they line up, Elvis keeps her close, so Colonel Parker must stand behind her. Vernon manages to slip in on Elvis’s other side.
‘All this is for you, son,’ she whispers, and, turning her back on the Colonel, she kisses his cheek. The camera flashes.
He kisses her back, and as the camera pops again he says, quietly, ‘No, Mama, it’s for you.’
And, at this moment, Gladys is happy to believe this might be true.