The luxury trailer did not live up to Gladys’s expectations. The flimsy metal walls didn’t offer nearly enough protection from the fans, who found the Presleys out in the woods beyond Killeen, and the whole place was just too hot to bear, even with the air conditioning cranked up to maximum.
So the family have moved to a ranch-style house, a little like the one they had on Audubon. Elvis has invited Anita, Cliff and Gene to spend the weekend in this new rental, and Gladys and Minnie Mae have spent Friday afternoon preparing meat loaf, mashed potatoes, fried okra, fried chicken and two pies: one cherry, one peach. Now they sit together in the early-evening shade of the backyard, iced teas in hand, both exhausted by their labours, waiting for the party to arrive. The truth is that Minnie Mae has done most of the work, quietly lifting dishes from Gladys’s hands whenever she had a dizzy spell. Each time this happened, Gladys sat on a stool and laughed it off, blaming the heat. But as she watches the end of the sloping lawn for signs of Elvis’s arrival (in order to avoid the fans permanently lodged at the front drive, he sometimes sneaks along the creek running by the back of the house), she knows she hasn’t fooled her mother-in-law for one minute.
‘You don’t look so good,’ says Minnie Mae.
‘Maybe it’s the change,’ says Gladys.
‘I was fifty, fore that kind of trouble started. You’re barely past forty.’
Gladys sips her tea. Only Vernon knows that she’s taken a few years off her age ever since she lied on her marriage licence.
‘This heat, then.’
Minnie Mae pulls her lawn chair closer to Gladys.
‘I’m serious, gal. I been watching you. I seen you grabbing at stuff, just to stay on your feet. Your face is yellow, did you know that? And I ain’t seen you smile in I don’t know how long.’
Hearing these truths, Gladys’s hands begin to shake, and a slosh of cool tea wets the front of her dress, making her curse.
Calmly, Minnie Mae takes the glass from her and sets it down on the grass. ‘Now, now,’ she says. ‘Let’s not get excited.’
Gladys clamps her hands together in her lap. She stares down, willing them to be still. Since they moved to Texas, she has known that she is seriously ill. She keeps thinking of her own mama, who took to her bed for years before she died, saying she was weak, and so very tired. Nobody knew what was wrong. It had been Lillian’s job to keep the sheets and Doll’s nightgowns fresh, and to feed and bathe her mama. Perhaps, Gladys thinks, if she had a daughter of her own to take care of her, she could slip between the covers of her bed and rest until the Lord saw fit to take her.
Minnie Mae pats her forearm. ‘I’m gonna have a talk with Vernon. I’m surprised Elvis ain’t done something already.’
‘He’s so busy,’ says Gladys, her voice a whisper.
‘I’m gonna see Vernon gets you to a doctor. Tomorrow.’
‘I already seen Dr Evans. He can’t find nothing wrong.’
‘You got to go again. We can find a doctor right here.’
‘I don’t like seeing other doctors.’
‘We’ll get you to Dr Evans, then.’
‘Elvis has his friends for a visit—’
‘Well, we just got to go without him.’
Gladys sighs, defeated. ‘Maybe Elvis don’t need to know.’
Minnie Mae raises her eyebrows. ‘Don’t you think he’ll wanna know, Glad?’
‘I don’t want to worry him.’
‘Bit late for that, ain’t it?’
Gladys tries to grasp her mother-in-law’s bony fingers, but gets a handful of her frilled cuff, which is edged with lace and comes almost to Minnie Mae’s knuckles.
‘You gonna be just fine,’ says Minnie Mae. ‘The doc will soon get you back to your old self.’
Gladys spends a few moments running her fingers along the cuff, then she says, ‘The work here is real fine. Did Elvis buy you this one?’
‘Gladys!’ tuts Minnie. ‘Don’t you remember? You made it for me.’
Minnie Mae must have talked to Elvis as well as Vernon, because after supper he comes to her bedroom. She’s turned in early and is lying on the bed with the lights off and her clothes still on, trying to breathe through her headache and summon up the energy to take her medication.
‘Mama?’ He hovers in the doorway, and she knows she could pretend to be sleeping and he would turn around and rejoin the others, who are still talking and playing records downstairs.
He opens the door wider. ‘You awake?’
Everything in this rented house is unfamiliar, and she has to fumble for the light and try to remember which way to turn the switch.
He sits on the bed and looks at her with such concern that she has to avert her eyes, terrified by what ills he might spot in her face.
‘We gonna get you to Dr Evans tomorrow. It’s all set. I want you to take a flight. It’ll be quicker.’
She props herself up on her pillows, pushing him away as he tries to help. Then she grasps his hand. He’s wearing his uniform, and has a good tan on him from all those days spent training outside. He looks so capable, so healthy. Perhaps, she thinks, there is hope. If she can hold on to him, and if he can keep talking as if he’s in control of everything, some of his youthful energy could be passed to her. Maybe she doesn’t need to see a doctor at all.
‘I’m sorry, son,’ she says.
‘What for?’
‘Being such a bother. I’m sure I’ll be well again, if I can just rest.’ Her head pounds, and, trying not to let the pain show in her face, she squeezes his hand harder. ‘Seems an awful fuss to go all the way to Memphis …’
‘Mama,’ he says, ‘it’s all set up. I can’t stand to see you sick. So I gotta get you well.’
She takes a deep breath, relieved that he didn’t buckle. ‘I can’t fly, though,’ she says. ‘I won’t do that.’
He sighs. ‘Then you’ll take the train. I’ll drive you and Daddy to the station myself.’
‘Thank you, son.’
He kisses her hand and says, ‘You’re gonna be all better, ain’t you?’
Only now does she hear the fear in his voice.
‘I am.’
‘Elvis is gonna get you well.’
‘I know it.’
He touches her head. ‘There, there, baby,’ he says.
The next morning, she wakes before six and, unable to sleep again because of the ache thrumming through her legs, decides to go to the kitchen for a drink. She’s had a broken night. Every time she managed to slip away from pain into sleep, she dreamed she was on a train journey and the windows in her carriage were blacked out, so she couldn’t see the names of the stations.
Opening the kitchen door, she’s surprised by the sight of Cliff ironing one of Elvis’s army shirts, wearing only a pair of undershorts and socks. He’s frowning in concentration as he nudges the iron gently along a sleeve.
‘Cliff! Why in the world are you doing that?’
Stepping behind the board in an attempt to hide his shorts, which are bright orange and rather baggy, Cliff keeps a tight grip on the iron.
‘Give it to me,’ Gladys instructs.
‘’Fraid I can’t do that, Miss Gladys. Elvis has given me his orders. You ain’t to touch this.’
‘Why ain’t Alberta doing it?’
‘Has to be a man who irons an army uniform, Miss Gladys.’
‘Oh, Cliff! What a notion!’
‘It’s true, ma’am.’
Gladys moves slowly across to the counter to sit herself on a stool. The ache in her legs eases a little. From here, she can see the trees and the bright lawn outside, still wet from the night. It’s already hot, and a veil of steam rises from the grass.
‘What’s he need that for today, anyhow?’
‘He wants to wear it, Miss Gladys. You know how he is about his uniform.’
She does. Elvis has had Vernon arrange for twenty pairs of army pants, ten jackets and ten army ties to be tailored specially for him, and he often wears them, even on his days off.
Cliff pushes the iron’s nose into the shoulder of the shirt.
‘You’re good at that.’
‘I got my uses, ma’am.’
‘How about sharing a beer with me, Cliff?’
They have done this before in the afternoon, alone in the kitchen at Graceland, both hiding their bottles when they heard Elvis approaching.
To her relief, Cliff doesn’t even check the clock. ‘Sure, Miss Gladys. In my book, it’s always time for a drink with a lady.’ He places Elvis’s shirt on a hanger and hooks it on the back of the door. Opening the refrigerator, he says, ‘I oughta apologise, for my attire and all.’
‘I seen worse.’
He laughs. Then he settles himself on a stool next to her, and pops the caps on their beers.
After they’ve taken a drink, Gladys muses, ‘I just can’t fathom why Elvis needs so much uniform.’
‘He’ll be glad of it in Germany,’ says Cliff. ‘I hear it gets real cold out there.’
Gladys puts down her bottle. ‘Germany?’
Cliff looks at her for a long moment before saying, very quietly, ‘Oh, shit.’
‘Elvis is going to Germany?’
He wipes his face with one hand, pulling down the corners of his eyes. ‘Guess he didn’t tell you, huh?’
Her head goes light, and she has to lean on the counter to catch her breath.
‘I’m real sorry, Miss Gladys,’ Cliff says. ‘He’s getting posted. In September.’
She closes her eyes. Germany. She’s not sure, even, where it is on the map. She only knows it as a place of war. She pictures barbed wire, tanks ploughing through mud, and pits filled with dead bodies.
‘Can I fetch somebody for you?’ asks Cliff. ‘Mr Presley, maybe?’
‘No,’ says Gladys, hanging on to his arm. ‘Stay with me, please.’
He pats her hand. She can feel his muscle moving as he does so, and she tries to concentrate on that, on the strong smoothness of his arm.
‘Cliff,’ she says, looking up at him, ‘you’ll take care of my son when I’m gone, won’t you?’
Cliff frowns.
‘You’re one of his best friends,’ she says, ‘so I’m expecting you to do that. And he oughta marry before he leaves the country. He’ll need somebody out there, and I can’t go.’
Cliff laughs; then, seeing she’s serious, clears his throat. ‘Well, that’s really up to him, ain’t it?’
She removes her hand from his arm and takes another drink. ‘I don’t reckon Anita to be perfect. She’s too interested in her own career. But it’s better he marries her than keeps on as he is.’
Cliff picks up his beer. ‘Why you talking this way, Miss Gladys? You’re still young yourself. You could go to Germany. Elvis would fix it.’
She waves the comment away. ‘It’ll ease my mind to know you’re gonna be there for him.’
‘All right,’ he says. ‘I promise.’
They chink the necks of their bottles, then watch the sun blaze up over the trees.