‘Pretty soon I’m gonna buy you a place even better than this, Mama.’
Elvis is taking his parents on a tour of the homes of the Hollywood stars. They’ve already got a look at the houses of John Wayne and Carole Lombard. Now he’s parked up at the gates of his favourite mansion: Red Skelton’s, on Sorbonne Road, Bel Air.
‘He has a mile-long driveway and a thirty-five-thousand-gallon swimming pool!’
They can just see the house, beyond the trees on the crest of the hill. With its vine-covered red bricks and tall windows, it looks to Elvis like a lot of things in Los Angeles: as if it’s come straight from a movie set.
‘Son, it’s something else,’ says Gladys, touching her pinned-back hat. ‘Real high class.’
‘At night that driveway is lit up all the way to the house.’
‘He don’t have no trouble finding his front door, then,’ says Vernon.
It’s February, and his parents have come to California to visit while he’s filming his new movie, Loving You. Arriving at Paramount, they seemed unsure at first. Gladys’s hand had quivered when Mr Kanter, the director, shook it, and Vernon talked too loud about how long the journey had taken and how fancy their hotel room was and how he couldn’t take his eyes off all these beautiful ladies. But now they’ve been here a couple of days they seem to have realised that their son truly is the star of this picture, and they’ve relaxed some. Elvis has pointed out to them that there’s a man to do his hair and make-up, another whose job it is to take care of his wardrobe, and a boy whose only role seems to be to tell him when it’s time to work. Mr Kanter is in charge, of course, but as the Colonel says, without Elvis, there is no movie.
‘How many rooms does it have, son?’ asks Gladys.
‘I ain’t sure, Mama. But we’ll have more.’
‘So long as you buy me that lilac crêpe dress you promised.’
‘It’s yours.’
They smile at one another, and, from the back seat, Vernon asks if their next stop can be for a beer.
The following day, Mr Kanter suggests to Elvis that his parents could feature in the scene they’re shooting that afternoon. His character, Deke Rivers, whose story is loosely based on Elvis’s own, will be singing his triumphant final number, ‘Got a Lot o’ Livin, to Do’, in a coast-to-coast broadcast which will win over the entire nation. Even the middle-aged ladies who’d previously disapproved of the explosive young singer will be cheering him and clapping along.
When his mama mentions her concern about looking fat on film, Elvis tells her not to be silly. Nobody will be thinking of that. She’ll look pretty, like she always does: Hollywood will work its magic. Mr Kanter agrees. ‘It’ll be cute,’ he says. ‘And I think the fans would love to see your mother enjoying your performance, Elvis.’
So Gladys agrees.
On set, it’s up to Elvis to generate all the energy in the enormous studio. Even though there’s an audience for this scene, it’s nothing like a real show. The metal monster of the camera is always there, for one thing, and for another he’s not even singing. The pre-recorded song booms through the speakers, and the men behind him mime playing their instruments as he lip-synchs. At least he’s managed to get Scotty, Bill and DJ small parts in the picture, which has smoothed things over with them, for now.
As he dances to the edge of the stage, the lights go up on the audience and he sees his mama sitting on the end of a row about halfway down the aisle. She’s grinning like a girl, and doesn’t take her eyes off him even for a moment. When he returns her gaze, she clasps her hands together and raises them to her chin, as if in prayer, and he senses he can make this one come alive. Jumping from the stage, he leads the audience in clapping along, then dances down the aisle, swinging an arm and bending his knees, all the time heading for his mother. Her tapping foot never misses a beat, and he remembers how he watched her dance on the porch that day his daddy came home from the pen, and how the man in the truck had applauded, and he dances harder, until he’s right up close to her. In that moment Gladys almost rises from her seat to greet him, a little perspiration on her lip and a sheen in her eyes he hasn’t seen there for a while, and he worries, briefly, that she’ll forget this is a movie and throw her arms around his neck. But she just keeps clapping and beaming. Elvis dances back down the aisle, and before the song ends he glances at his mama again, and she looks right at him, and he knows he is loved.
* * *
‘Elvis wants a farm,’ says Gladys, ‘like the one in Love Me Tender.’
Not long after arriving home from California, she and Vernon are in their brand new white Lincoln Continental, driving towards Whitehaven shopping mall to meet the realtor, Mrs Virginia Grant.
‘It’d have to be a farm with a big ol’ house on it!’ says Vernon.
‘Not a farm, then,’ says Gladys. ‘Maybe a ranch.’
‘More like a mansion,’ Vernon corrects her, ‘like Red Skelton’s house.’
He takes his time driving. Gladys senses his enjoyment when other motorists come up close behind, or linger in the lane beside them, to get a good look at the car. It is wonderful. The leather seats are like lovers’ laps, wide and welcoming. They hardly seem to move as they glide down Highway 51, past the empty lots, gas stations, restaurants and signs pointing towards the new airport.
They park up easy in the empty lot. The new shopping plaza is the most upscale mall in Memphis, and the buildings shine in the cold February light.
Vernon cuts the engine. ‘Darn,’ he says. ‘We shoulda been late. Kept her waiting.’
He leans back in his seat and fishes a cigarette from the pack in his pocket. Elvis says his daddy should smoke cigars now that he’s made it, but Vernon can’t stand the smell.
Another car – much older than theirs – parks on the other side of the lot.
‘Reckon that’s her?’ asks Gladys, twisting her neck.
‘Bound to be.’ Vernon taps his ash into the tray.
‘Don’t you think we oughta go meet her?’ Gladys’s feet, in their pristine pumps, are becoming numb with cold.
‘Let her come to us. Then we got the upper hand.’
‘You sound like Tom Parker.’
‘Colonel’s a smart cookie. Ain’t he done got you this new car?’
Another vehicle pulls up beside them. A woman in a pea-green swing coat gets out, then opens the door for a small girl in a knitted cap. They do not give the Presley Lincoln a second glance as they walk towards the mall, hand in hand.
‘Ain’t that girl adorable?’ says Gladys. ‘When Elvis and Barbara are married, we can bring our grandbabies here.’
‘Elvis ain’t gonna marry that gal. He don’t even see her that often no more.’
‘I can’t see why not. That showgirl was just a flash in the pan. Barbara’s waited for him. She’d make a good wife.’
Vernon chuckles. ‘Why keep a cow, Glad, when you can milk one through the fence?’
‘That’s a dirty thing to say!’
‘You never used to be so prissy,’ says Vernon, grinding out his cigarette. ‘Now, listen. Don’t get too excited by what this realtor gal shows us. ’Cause we don’t wanna pay what she’s asking.’
Gladys stares out of the window. The woman is holding the glass door of the grocery store open for her child.
‘It’s like a game, see?’ Vernon continues. ‘We gotta act like we don’t care. If they know we care, it’s in the bag for them.’
‘What does it matter, if Elvis can afford it?’
‘We don’t want her thinking we’re green. Don’t forget we’re the Presleys. Boy! I bet that old maid over there is getting herself pretty worked up, thinking she’s gonna meet Elvis’s daddy!’ He grins at Gladys.
‘She might not care for Elvis’s music.’
‘It ain’t just about the music, Glad! Our boy’s a superstar! And that means money. And just about the only thing real-estate folks care for is money.’
‘Here she comes,’ hisses Gladys, spotting a woman climbing from the car behind them.
They get out to watch Virginia Grant approach. She is tall with a wide nose and hair the colour of Gladys’s when she was a girl. She is not, Gladys notices, young or particularly attractive, which comes as something of a relief. Mrs Grant walks swiftly, swinging a folder in her hand, giving Vernon a businesslike smile. Vernon leans back on the car, openly assessing the realtor’s appearance in a way that makes Gladys so embarrassed that she steps forward to speak first.
‘You must be Mrs Grant,’ she says, offering her hand. ‘I’m Gladys Presley, and this is my husband, Vernon.’
‘Such a pleasure!’ says Mrs Grant.
Vernon does not move. ‘Whatcha got for us, ma’am?’
‘We’re so excited!’ says Gladys. ‘We can’t wait to see it, whatever it is!’
Vernon hangs his head. ‘You gotta forgive my wife, Mrs Grant. She gets herself awful worked up over nothing sometimes.’
‘You said on the phone you wanted privacy, and somewhere more rural, perhaps?’ says Mrs Grant, being careful to address them both equally. ‘I think I have just the place for your family. It’s not far from here, and it’s an absolute dream of a property, perfect for your needs—’
‘Our son has said he wants a plantation-type mansion,’ states Vernon.
‘Or a farm,’ adds Gladys.
‘Well, this is both,’ says Mrs Grant, firmly. ‘But instead of talking about it out here in the cold, why don’t we go on over? Do you want to follow me in your car?’
‘No need,’ says Vernon. ‘We can give you a ride.’
‘That’s kind,’ says Mrs Grant, holding her folder to her chest, ‘but it’s really not necessary—’
‘Don’t you wanna ride in Elvis Presley’s car?’ asks Vernon, caressing the Lincoln’s roof.
‘Well,’ says Mrs Grant, glancing at Gladys, ‘since you put it like that …’
Vernon holds open the passenger door.
Gladys arranges herself in the back. She knew her husband would not tolerate following Mrs Grant around town. He’s already stated his opinion that real estate is no job for a woman, a sentiment with which Gladys cannot help but agree.
When they’re on the road, Vernon asks, ‘How much is this house you have in mind, Mrs Grant?’
‘Sixty thousand dollars.’
Vernon smiles. ‘Sixty thousand? Is that all? I reckon we can do a whole lot better than that. That won’t get us much more than we already got.’
‘I didn’t want to presume—’
‘Presume nothing,’ says Vernon. ‘The Presleys are looking to double their property investment. My son has instructed me, as his financial manager, to look for properties in the region of ninety thousand dollars.’
‘I beg your pardon, Mr Presley. I hadn’t realised your son was doing quite so well.’
‘Elvis is in the movies, ma’am. Hollywood. California.’
‘Can we turn around here?’ Mrs Grant asks. ‘I have someplace else I’d like you to see.’
Vernon makes a slow and careful U-turn on the empty highway.
After ten minutes, the new buildings of Whitehaven run out, and everywhere Gladys looks is open country.
‘Where you taking us, Mrs Grant?’ asks Vernon. ‘Back to Tupelo? We’re almost at the state line!’
‘It’s right here,’ says Mrs Grant, pointing to a low gate by the road. ‘Thirty-seven sixty-four Highway fifty-one South. But this house also has a name. It’s called Graceland. If you pull over here, Mr Presley, I’ll walk you up the driveway.’
Although bare now, the trees which surround them are taller than the house, and look as though they have been in this ground for ever. As Mrs Grant has pointed out, this is not just a mansion, it is an estate of thirteen acres. The house was built about ten years ago on what was left of a cattle ranch owned by the Moore family. Mrs Moore, the proprietor, is too old to take care of it all, and has been loaning out the downstairs rooms to the nearby church, who use them for choir practice and Sunday-school sessions.
The choir is practising today, in fact. As they walk up the sweep of the long driveway, the sound of ‘Bosom of Abraham’ comes from the house, and Vernon hums along.
It reminds Gladys of the first time she visited Memphis Zoological Gardens and saw those landscaped lawns and pathways that seemed to have been created not for walking on but for looking at. There is something ordered and regular about the place that relaxes her mind.
Nearing the steps of the house, all three of them stop and stare. The walls are built from stone the colour of bread. The columned portico, as tall as the house itself, is so white that it looks iced. To each side of the porch are four green-shuttered windows, and hanging above the front door is a large glass lantern. It’s the kind of house a city governor or county judge would live in. It’s the kind of house, Gladys thinks, in which you might find Sleeping Beauty. She imagines, briefly, her son lying on a bed within, a rose at his chest, waiting for the awakening kiss of his true love. With the welcoming swish of the trees all around him, and the highway far enough away to be quiet, but close enough to take him where he needs to go, she’s sure he’ll be able to sleep here.
Glancing at her notes, Mrs Grant says, ‘Downstairs there’s a living room, dining room and parlour, plus a big kitchen, a pantry, a butler’s pantry, a utility room, one bedroom and a bath and a half. Upstairs are four bedrooms and three baths. And in the basement there’s a wood-panelled den and a playroom. And the car porch has space for four cars.’
Vernon threads his arm through Gladys’s. ‘This looks like the right kinda place for us,’ he says.
Gladys whispers in his ear, ‘You said not to show her we wanted it.’
Vernon laughs. ‘Aw, hell,’ he says, ‘we want it.’
* * *
Driving down South Main early one evening in March, Elvis tells his friends about his new house.
‘It’s kinda a mansion, real classy, nicer than any of those Hollywood homes you see on the TV, nicer than any I been in, anyhow. And I’m gonna make it bang up to date inside. Mr Golden, who did Sam Phillips’s house, is fixing up the whole place. It’ll be all done by the summer.’
Cliff, riding next to him, says, ‘Sam’s house looks like something offa Commando Cody.’
‘Sam’s house makes Commando Cody look old-fashioned,’ says Elvis.
He’s spent the afternoon showing his friends how to use the prop gun he brought back from the film set of his latest movie, and they’ve all got pretty good at it. Now they’re on their way to the Hotel Chisca to drop in on local disc jockey Dewey Phillips, so Elvis can update him on the movie. He wants to tell him what it was like to kiss Dolores Hart, and how Lizabeth Scott is a lot of fun, despite being one hundred per cent lesbian.
It’s noisy inside the car and the windows are starting to steam up. He and Cliff picked up Heidi, Gloria and Frances on the way, and the warm buzz of the pill he took to keep him on top for the night, plus the sugary smell of the girls’ perfume, has him winding down his window for air. The plan is to stop by Dewey’s, then head to the Fairgrounds, which Elvis has rented privately for the night, so he and his friends won’t be bothered by strangers. Gene and Lamar will meet them there later with two more carloads of friends.
At the sight of his Cadillac, other drivers sound their horns. One girl leans out of her passenger-seat window and yells his name as he speeds past. The long syllables stretch after him down the street.
Elvis pulls up outside the towering red bricks of the Hotel Chisca and slams the car into park. He takes a moment to check his hair in the mirror.
Cliff, who knows the drill, hops out first to look up and down the sidewalk for any obvious trouble, then opens the door for Elvis.
‘I’ll be back!’ Elvis tells the girls, leaping into the cool evening.
Cliff nods and stretches an arm towards the hotel, but there are already five or six girls approaching them, and although Elvis knows he should head straight to the double doors, he pauses. One of them has a little of Dolores Hart about her. More girls appear, as if from nowhere, and soon he’s in a crowd of fifteen or so, all waving odd pieces of paper snatched from purses and pockets. It’s remarkable how many till receipts, grocery sacks and shopping lists he’s signed. Paperback novels and sides of milk cartons. Dollar bills. Even, one time, a baby’s bonnet.
‘Great to have you back in Memphis, Elvis!’ shouts an older man from behind the girls, and Elvis calls back, ‘Thank you, sir! Sure is good to be home!’
Then there’s a shout, and it’s unmistakably male and full of rage.
‘I got something to settle with you, Presley!’
Elvis looks up and the crowd stills. A young man in a marine uniform is ploughing towards him.
Catching Cliff’s eye, Elvis tries to walk on, thinking he can just ignore the boy. This sort of thing happens more now he’s in the movies, especially with young men who are jealous of his effect on their wives and girlfriends, and he knows it’s best if he can just sidestep his way out of it.
The girls have parted for the marine, who now plants himself in front of Elvis, blocking his path.
‘You pushed my wife a month back,’ he says. ‘That ain’t no way to treat a lady.’
Elvis studies the marine, who appears younger than him, with a puffy face and a dark brow. He’s breathing hard.
‘I got no idea what you’re talking about,’ he says. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me—’
The marine shakes his head. ‘You need to apologise.’
Elvis tries a smile. ‘I was out in Hollywood a month ago, so I think you’ve got this wrong, friend.’ He takes a step forward, but the marine grabs his arm.
‘I ain’t your friend,’ he says.
Elvis can feel the crowd holding its breath. Somebody calls, ‘Don’t let him get away with that, Elvis!’
‘Turn me loose,’ he says, quietly.
The marine’s face is real close now; there’s coffee on his breath and Elvis can feel the heat and power in his fingers. He thinks of his mama asking for more protection. Vernon has said they should build a bigger wall around Graceland. Elvis had expected Gladys to baulk at this, but she’d nodded solemnly and that stricken look had descended.
‘Maybe we should settle this like real men,’ the marine says.
Elvis’s blood rises. He feels its pressure in his lips, behind his eyes, in his fingertips. It’s not unlike being onstage. Then, in one swift movement, he pulls the prop gun from inside his jacket and jabs it into the marine’s chest.
‘Come any closer,’ he hisses, aware that he sounds like a character from one of his own movies, and not quite sure, yet, whether he’s kidding around or not, ‘and I’ll blow your damn brains out, you punk.’
Immediately, the crowd moves back, all eyes on the gun in Elvis’s hand, which he knows looks real enough.
‘Jesus!’ says the marine, holding out his hands as he backs away.
Cliff puts a hand to Elvis’s shoulder. ‘Get in the car, man,’ he says, softly.
But Elvis stands his ground, sure, now, that he’s absolutely serious. ‘Go on!’ he yells at the marine, waving the gun. ‘Get!’
The marine turns and sprints down the sidewalk.
Slowly, Elvis slides the gun inside his jacket and scans the crowd, pleased with his performance. The faces look back at him, changed. Each one is pale. Several girls hold their hands over their mouths, not to stop the squeals coming out, but to keep back some objection. Nobody offers up any more pieces of paper, or baby’s bonnets.
‘I’m real sorry,’ Elvis says, ‘if that man there scared anybody.’
Then he ducks into the car, and Cliff speeds away.
Nobody says a word, all the way to the Fairgrounds.
Riding the Pippin in the front carriage, his knuckles straining at the bar, the coloured lights, the chill breeze and the smell of the hot-dog stand hurtling towards him, he can still feel the prop gun inside his jacket, poking into his ribs. Seated next to him is Gloria, and in the car behind are Heidi and Frances. Barbara hasn’t joined the group at the Fairgrounds tonight. He senses she’s had enough of it all, and he’s not particularly sorry. He knows how she would feel about that prop gun. Barbara has made her dislike of firearms more than clear.
He’s picked Gloria because he suspects she’ll scream the loudest when their wooden truck ratchets up to the ride’s highest point and tips over the edge of the seventy-foot drop, and he wants to scream right along with her. The air pushes him back in his seat, lifting his hair and pummelling his cheeks. When he opens his mouth to yell, the wind rushes down his throat, almost preventing the sound coming from him. But when he forces it out, closing his eyes and screaming for all he’s worth, it’s ecstasy, this flying through the night in a roller-coaster car with nothing to do but scream and hold on. Elvis yells and yells and yells.
That night he rides the car ten times in a row, screeching into the dark like one of his own fans. And every time he rides it, he pictures the fear on that marine’s face, and tells himself that he had every right to put it there. Any other man would have defended himself. Why should he be different? But he knows he cannot let something like that happen again. If the Colonel finds out, he’ll never let Elvis forget it. Be smart, son, and let those other fools take the rap, he’d say. He must have more guys around at all times. Armed, if necessary.
Much later, in bed, he takes two sleeping pills but he doesn’t tumble directly into oblivion. Instead he travels through several dreams in which he’s back sleepwalking in East Tupelo, the gravel road rough and warm beneath his feet. A truck’s headlamps sweep over him, and he tugs his too-small nightshirt down, aware, suddenly, that anybody could see his peter, that those lights could display everything he thought he’d hidden, and that his mama isn’t coming to save him.
It is as if, for the first time in his life, he is really going home.
At least, this is what Elvis tells himself as he races through the June night with Cliff snoring in the seat beside him. He’s impatient to see his new house, which he visited over Easter but has yet to spend a night in. Hollywood and his latest movie shoot – they had him dance in a jailhouse, which struck him as both ridiculous and wonderful – are finally behind him. Joining Highway 51 into Memphis, he imagines he can already see the glow of the new lights lining his driveway. On the phone, Vernon had complained about that many blue and gold lights making Graceland look like an airport, but he has promised they’ll be working by the time his son gets home.
Elvis guns the engine and sounds the horn, just for the hell of being back in town. He feels as though he owns the whole state. He doesn’t know exactly how much money he has now – he leaves the details to the Colonel, and the counting to Vernon – but he knows it’s more than a million dollars and it keeps on coming. Still, he wishes some special girl were here to witness him whizzing past the motels, the car dealerships and Chenault’s Drive-In. He considers picking up Heidi, Gloria and Frances, or even some girl off the street, just to give them a thrill.
Every night he’s been away, he’s called home and received a report on the latest developments in the decor. Gladys knew exactly what he wanted: purple corduroy drapes and a white couch the length of the entire front wall in the living room; his bedroom to be painted the darkest blue there is, with navy drapes, a white carpet, a mirrored wall and a ten-foot-square bed; and in the front hallway, the ceiling to be painted like a night sky, with stars picked out in tiny bulbs. When they’d moved from house to house and room to room in Tupelo and Memphis (how many times? he’s lost count, but it’s at least fifteen), nowhere had truly belonged to them. Even at Lauderdale Courts, which had felt the most permanent of his homes, the family were not free to choose the colour of the walls. And Audubon Drive, now he looks back on it, could never have been home, with the golf-set surrounding the place. Graceland will be different. He means to write his name on every inch of his new home.
Elvis unwinds his window to take a gulp of the warm, damp Memphis air. The streetlamps stain the dark sky fuzzily orange until he comes close to his house, where trees begin to outnumber lights, and the new developments run out. He slows down to take in the first sight of his mansion. Drawing close to his gates, he nudges Cliff.
‘Wake up, man! We’re home!’
He pushes the thought of the special girl from his mind, because it’s all perfect: the wrought-iron guitar man on each gate is obviously him, but could be seen as a more general symbol of rock ’n’ roll. The blue lights along the driveway lead right up to the house, which is so illuminated it seems to float, shimmering, among the trees. The columns rise up like golden fountains. And there are around thirty fans clustered at the entrance, all starting to wave and call out his name.
Cliff yawns and stretches. ‘Sorry ’bout that,’ he says.
‘Get out there and tell Uncle Vester to open up,’ says Elvis.
Cliff fumbles with the handle and almost trips from the car onto the sidewalk. He inches his way through the crowd. Elvis keeps the engine running, drumming his fingers on the wheel. He smiles and waves to the fans but keeps his window up now, despite their demands. He hasn’t time for them. All he wants is to get inside his house.
Finally the gates swing open and Elvis drives in fast, leaving Cliff to walk up the driveway. He slows a little on the first bend, sounding his horn three times to let them know he’s home. Seeing his parents silhouetted in the doorway, his whole body goes weak, as if washed through, and he has to concentrate on his breathing. It’s like that time at Brother Mansell’s when he was saved. He stops the car and lets the feeling overcome him, half-wondering if he will float up into the trees. Then he lowers his head in prayer, thanking God and Jesse for his success.
Leaving the engine running, he leaps out and jogs the rest of the way, laughing and calling to them.
On the porch, Gladys opens her arms and says, ‘Welcome home, son,’ just as he’d hoped she would. He nestles himself against her and breathes in her good Mama smell.
Inside, there is no canopy of stars, and the drapes are not purple corduroy but ivory brocade, because his mother decided they would hang better. She explains how the electricians couldn’t wire in all the tiny bulbs without weakening the ceiling, but he’s not listening. He’d wanted to bring the sky inside his home, so every time he returned he could look up and see the perfection he’d created right above his head. At night, those glittering stars would have welcomed his guests, letting them know that this was no ordinary house, but a mysterious mansion on the hill, a place where magic happened. Ever since he first set foot in the place, when there was just a dusty schoolroom piano in the corner of the living room, he’s dreamed of that night sky.
His mother is kneading her hands together as she apologises, and his father is coughing nervously.
‘Couldn’t be helped, son,’ Vernon says, patting him on the arm.
Seeing his parents’ discomfort, Elvis manages to swallow his disappointment, for now.
‘What about my bedroom?’ he asks.
‘That’s just exactly as you wanted it, baby,’ says Gladys.
Before his daddy can agree, Elvis has mounted the stairs. In his rush to get there, he barely takes in his reflection on the mirrored wall.
The following afternoon, Elvis sits on his bed, watching TV and eating potato chips from a china dish. He’s just ended a call to Scotty to ask what it would take to get him and Bill to change their minds about going it alone. The Colonel and the guys at RCA aren’t sorry; they’ve long wanted Scotty and Bill gone, saying the two musicians just aren’t up to the job. Elvis is a number-one entertainer, now. He needs professional backup, not a couple of hicks who’ve barely set foot in a real recording studio. Scotty said he reckoned Elvis owed him at least ten thousand dollars by now, which made Elvis laugh. The Colonel will never agree to such a sum. Scotty, though, hadn’t laughed one bit. He’d told Elvis that he and Bill were mighty disappointed. He’d told him that without them Elvis would never have made a record. He’d said that Elvis owed them both a decent living, not the peanuts they were getting on the payroll. As Scotty spoke, Elvis looked out of the window, watching his daddy driving his new tractor round in circles on the lawn. He could think of nothing to say. He hated to think of Scotty being upset. But he hated the thought of the Colonel’s wrath even more. So he made no promises. But he knows it won’t be long before he has to leave Scotty and Bill behind.
He pops another potato chip in his mouth. His bedroom is the blue he wanted, the blue of the East Tupelo sky on a summer’s night, or a police officer’s uniform. But Elvis feels the need for a girl more keenly now. The right girl would help him forget the pain in Scotty’s voice. The right girl would make this room perfect. Without one, it’s just too cold in here.
On the screen is Top Ten Dance Party, a new local show featuring kids dancing to the latest hit records. A girl who looks like Grace Kelly but sounds like Magdalene Morgan, cloud of bobbed blonde hair displaying her long pale neck, is introducing the next record. She has bright eyes, something shy in her smile, and a waist he could get both hands round. When he worked as an usher at Loew’s State, he sometimes used to imagine the starlet on the screen pausing the movie’s action to look right at him. All he’d have to do was beckon her, and she’d step into the auditorium. Then they’d run off together, up the aisle, through the curtain, down the sweeping stairs into the lobby, and out into the sunshine on South Main.
It dawns on him now that he can realise this fantasy. He can reach into the TV screen and pull that girl right out.
He calls a new friend, Lamar Fike, who Cliff has brought to the Fairgrounds a couple of times. Lamar is smart, full of jokes, and must weigh around three hundred pounds. Elvis has decided to call him Buddha, because he is fat and thinks himself wise. He’s also decided to count on him for a few things, and see how it turns out.
When he dials the number, Lamar’s mother answers.
‘Hello, Mrs Fike. This is Elvis Presley, calling for Lamar.’
There’s a pause, and then he hears her yell, ‘Lamar! It’s Elvis Presley for you again!’
There’s some murmuring before Lamar comes on. From the crashing and banging, Elvis figures that the phone in the Fike household is next to the stove.
‘Hi, Elvis! How’s it going, man? I heard you were back in Memphis.’
‘Buddha, you need to get your own line.’
‘What I need is to get my ass out of here,’ Lamar says in a low voice. ‘Sorry about my mother. She’s a little tired this afternoon.’
‘I’m gonna get another line installed for you. You want one in your bedroom?’
‘Naw! I mean, that’s kind, but—’
‘I’ll have my daddy take care of it. He’ll have it all installed for you in a couple of days. Your mother would appreciate that, wouldn’t she?’
There’s another loud crash.
‘I guess she would.’
‘Well, OK, then.’
‘Thanks, man.’
Elvis smiles to himself and shifts closer to the TV. ‘You watching WHBQ?’
‘Sure am.’
On the screen, the girl is pulling a sweetly puzzled face at something her co-host is saying. Elvis decides that she’s a virgin. He can tell by the way she holds herself; there’s something pure about her posture.
‘You see that blonde on there? The hostess?’
‘Anita Wood. She’s a Memphis girl. Real beauty queen.’
‘I want you to set up a date with her for me. Call her up, will you?’
There’s a pause, then Lamar says, ‘Sure, Elvis. I can do that.’
The show’s end credits start to roll. Elvis says, ‘Give her an hour or so to get home. Then call. And, Lamar?’
‘Yeah?’
‘Tell her she’s special. Tell her I’m real serious about this.’
Because Anita already had plans to see somebody else, it took Lamar a couple of weeks to set up the date, but now that Elvis has got her in the Cadillac, he sees this as a good thing. It proves that Anita is loyal, and she doesn’t take other people’s feelings lightly. On the front seat, she looks contained and pale, holding her white hands in her lap and keeping her knees pointing away from his. Her perfume smells expensive and her pink dress seems to be made of satin. When he picked her up, her landlady, Miss Patty, insisted on Elvis coming to the door himself before she’d let Anita out. Bounding up the steps to meet her, he’d wondered if a velvet shirt was such a good idea for a hot night in July. When he took off his motorcycle cap and ducked his head at Miss Patty, he’d felt Anita’s eyes taking all of him in, and he sensed it would work out just fine.
On the back seat are Lamar and Cliff. They are heading to Chenault’s for burgers in the private dining room, but on the way Elvis takes a detour to the Strand to show Anita the enormous cardboard cut-out of himself outside the theatre. It’s part of the advertising display for Loving You.
He draws up to the kerb on the opposite side so they can get a good view.
‘Nobody’s torn it down, Elvis!’ says Cliff, laughing.
‘Not yet,’ Elvis says. He turns to Anita to explain. ‘The theatre manager had to replace it five times this week already, because the fans keep stealing me.’
‘That’s what he thinks,’ says Lamar. ‘Truth is, Colonel Parker comes up here every night and rips him down.’
‘Hush your mouth, Buddha,’ says Elvis, without looking at him.
‘What’s it like,’ Anita asks, ‘in Hollywood?’
Elvis hangs his head for a moment, as if considering her question deeply. The truth is that most of the time he’s in Hollywood, he longs to be back in Memphis; he’s just never been able to shake the feeling that people there are laughing at him.
‘Well,’ he says, ‘it’s just wonderful, honey. It’s my dream come true. But folks out there are kinda strange. Some of them are downright insane! So I figure it’s better just to get my work done, then come on home.’
‘It must be a lot of fun, meeting all those movie stars,’ says Anita, her eyes shining.
‘Know what was most fun?’ he says. ‘Seeing my mama and daddy on the set. They were real proud.’
‘I’d love to go there some time.’
Elvis leans closer to her. ‘Anita,’ he says, ‘what goes on in California is what goes on in hell. Ain’t no place for a good little girl like you.’
She giggles, but when he fixes her with what he hopes is a serious stare, she composes herself.
‘I mean it,’ he says. ‘I’d hate to think of a pure girl like you getting led astray.’
By this time, a group of girls on the sidewalk have noticed him. One of them puts her face close to his window, where she gapes like a fish on a hook. Then she slaps the glass and yells, ‘It’s him! It’s really him!’
Elvis puts the car into drive, revs the engine, then winds down the window. ‘Bye, girls,’ he says, blowing them a kiss before pulling away.
The car squeals off down South Main, and Anita squeals with it.
At Chenault’s, the sun glaring through the pitched glass roof lights up Anita’s hair. Her dress complements the pink leatherette seats and white vinyl tables. She nibbles on an order of fries and tells him quite freely about her job at WHBQ and her lack of steady boyfriends. She’s not ready, she says, to get serious with anybody.
Back at the mansion, it isn’t long before he invites her upstairs, to see his office. She murmurs her approval of his leather swivel chair and huge walnut desk, and listens politely as he takes her through his collection of gold records.
Grabbing her hand, he pulls her down the corridor, past his closets, and into the adjoining room.
‘And, well, you can guess what this room is,’ he says, sitting on the bed. He tugs at her fingers. ‘Take the weight off, honey. You can trust me.’
She sits next to him, but when he moves his face close to hers, she puts a hand to his lips to stop him.
‘Elvis,’ she says, ‘it’s like you said. I ain’t one of those girls.’
He tries to nibble one of her fingers, but she inches away and curls her hands in her lap. Back at Chenault’s, she’d seemed confident and full of talk. In fact, he’d wondered if she had too much to say for herself. Now she seems younger, and a little lost.
Since he’s been in the movies, he’s found these moments with girls have taken on an unreal quality. He wants to act like a star, and he senses that the girls want that too. But the whole thing can make him nervous, and he sometimes gets the feeling that what he’s doing is being recorded somehow. He wishes he could slip away from her and take another pill.
The air conditioning whirrs, and she gives a shiver. She’d removed her shoes before coming upstairs, and he looks at her naked feet, pale as moons.
‘I like your sooties,’ he says. ‘You got a chip on the polish there, though.’
Anita bends to examine her toes.
‘Seems a shame to spoil perfection, don’t it?’ he says, laughing.
She straightens up. ‘Do you always notice girls’ feet?’ she asks.
‘Only pretty ones, like yours. Ones like tiny flowers.’ He takes her by the shoulders and notices her glance at his diamond pinkie ring.
‘Will you keep them perfect for me?’ he says. ‘Just like you, little one?’ He kisses her forehead, and tastes salt. ‘That’s what I’m gonna call you. Little,’ he murmurs into her hair.
She draws back. ‘Like a doll?’
‘Exactly.’
Anita laughs.
‘What’s funny?’ Perhaps he’s made a fool of himself. Perhaps he’ll have to try another girl, if Anita is going to laugh at him. ‘Don’t you like me?’
Instead of replying, she plants a long, wet kiss right on his lips.
Before Elvis can speak again, she says, ‘You can take me home now.’
* * *
It’s six o’clock in the evening, and Gladys is in front of the mansion, feeding her chickens. Her flock chuckle and flutter around her slippered feet as she pushes her hand into the bin and savours the cool, pearly feeling of corn slipping over her fingers. Tossing a handful onto the grass, she reflects that there’s more pleasure in this act than there is in touching the real pearls her son has bought her. She has so much jewellery now that she’s embarrassed to look at it. On her dresser, it hangs on a silver contraption which is moulded to look like a tree. It is also crammed into mahogany boxes, inlaid with more jewels. It is stashed in velvet purses among the handkerchiefs and lavender sachets in her top drawer. And still it spills over. She has told him, many times now, to stop. Just stop. She has enough. But he won’t listen.
‘Mama!’
She’d known Elvis would be coming out soon; it was after four a.m. when she heard him arriving home, and he’s been in bed until about an hour ago. But she pretends not to have noticed his call. After all, it is a breezy evening, bringing a little respite from the heavy August heat. It’s been over ninety degrees for days, but it’s cooler out here, now. The wind blows the tall trees around as if they were no more than cotton plants. She could very well have missed him.
She feels her son watching her from the steps as she scoops another handful of corn, so round and full. But she won’t make it easy for him. Not today. Not with her legs in the state they are – when asked, she blames the swelling on the long hours she spent standing at St Joseph’s Hospital. Privately, she knows this to be a fiction. Her legs never gave her a moment’s worry until the family moved to Audubon Drive.
‘Mama!’
She focuses on her task, clucking to her birds as she feeds them. Let him come closer, if he really wants to. Let him smell the chicken shit.
‘Mama!’
Let him get it on his buckskin shoes.
‘Mama,’ he says, striding across the grass, ‘didn’t you hear me calling?’
‘No, son, I guess not.’
His pale face looks a little creased after another night at the Fairgrounds. He needs to blow off some steam, she knows that. And after being surrounded by those Hollywood folks, it’s good for him to spend time with his friends, just fooling around. Gladys herself used to love riding everything from carousels to Ferris wheels, and recalls fondly that feeling she would get of being on the brink of something wonderful whenever she bought a ticket.
‘Mama, can I talk to you?’
He looks paler because his hair is permanently dyed black now, like hers. He got it done for the picture he made earlier in the year, Loving You, and he’s kept it ever since. That unrelenting, thick blackness which reflects nothing. Although it suits him well enough, especially with his eyebrows and lashes dyed to match, she preferred his hair when it was the colour of wet sand. It seemed less fixed, somehow.
She knows what this is going to be about. Without meeting his eye, she scatters more corn and says, ‘Sure, son.’
‘Let’s go on inside.’
‘We can talk right here.’
He hesitates. ‘But anybody can see us.’
‘Not through them trees.’
He bends his knees a little to peer towards the gate. The fans are there. They are there twenty-four hours a day. But there aren’t that many this evening. And, anyway, this part of the grounds is mostly hidden.
‘What is it you wanted to say, son?’
He steps closer to her. ‘You gotta quit feeding them chickens.’
Her hand goes in for another scoop of corn.
‘Mama, you gotta quit—’
‘I heard you, Elvis.’
‘Colonel says it ain’t good for business.’
She turns to him, weighing the corn in her hand. ‘I just can’t see what feeding my chickens has to do with his business.’
‘It’s my business, Mama. His business is my business. It’s all of ours—’
‘Last I heard, you was an entertainer.’
His eyes look tired. ‘I am an entertainer,’ he says, slowly. ‘I’m the best entertainer in the business.’
‘What does feeding my chickens have to do with the entertainment business? I ain’t entertaining nobody.’
He looks to the ground and his shoulders sink forward. Perhaps she has been too harsh. She’s yet to have her evening beer, and hardly slept a wink last night. And this pain keeps stabbing at her calves.
‘Mama. You know what Colonel Parker said. It just don’t look good to feed chickens outside a mansion. What if the newspapermen see you?’
‘What if they do?’
‘Well, what do you figure they’d say?’
‘Don’t you like my chickens, son?’
He laughs, a little. Then he crouches down and scoops up Ruby, the one with the bad foot. Her eyes pop and she stretches her neck but he holds her tightly as he draws her close to his face. ‘I like you, don’t I?’ he says, shaking her more roughly than Gladys would like.
‘Turn her loose.’
‘Sure Elvis likes you, you stupid old hen.’ He bunches up his lips and pretends to kiss the animal on the beak.
‘Elvis. Turn that bird loose.’
He does as he’s told, and Ruby scuttles away.
‘You done scared her, now.’
He dusts off his pants. ‘Look, Mama. You know what they’d say, don’t you? They’d say, Elvis Presley’s mother is so down-home Southern, she keeps chickens outside their big old mansion. And that makes Elvis no better than a hick. Do you want them to say that?’
She looks towards the house. The sun is getting lower, and the columns are golden. Above their heads, the leaves swirl in the warm breeze. It is a beautiful thing, to have this kind of luxury. Each day she tries to remember to thank God and her son for her luck. But she doesn’t feel lucky this evening. Lately, she keeps asking herself what is the point of such beauty, of such luxury, if she feels only boredom? One by one, her daily tasks have been taken from her. At Audubon, she’d tried to continue hanging out her laundry, but the neighbours had complained. Then Alberta had arrived, and there was no longer any need to shop or fix meals. Now there are three maids to clean, to wash her sheets, run her baths, iron her clothes and fold them into the closet. It is as if she has been removed from her own life. Her place now is to watch others work, and do nothing herself. Feeding her chickens was the last thing she had. And she loves her chickens, every one of them, even Clarence the cockerel, whose proud head hardly ever reaches for her hand, no matter how she loads it with corn.
‘It’s like the Colonel says, Mama. It’s bad for my image.’
At this, something in her snaps, and she slings a handful of corn at her son’s chest. ‘I am not part of your image!’ She is close to tears, but she won’t let them break. ‘I’m your mother! I’m a person!’
Elvis brushes down his shirt and shakes his head. If he laughs at her now she will wallop him, hard.
‘Now, don’t get excited—’
‘The fans like me! I’ve always gone out of my way to be good to them!’ She points towards the gate. ‘Why don’t we go down there and ask them if they care about me feeding chickens?’
They stare at one another.
‘I’m sorry, Mama. Really I am.’ His voice is soft. ‘But you got to quit. I’m gonna get the coop moved to the back of the house, and Daisy can feed them from now on. Daddy’s told her to do it.’
‘Daddy’s told her?’
Since when has Vernon been in charge of anything in the house?
‘And I don’t wanna hear nothing about you trying to stop her.’
Daisy. The maid. Memphis born and bred. Wears a little too much eye make-up.
‘What does a city girl like her know about chickens? They need special care and attention. You gotta talk to them, or they won’t lay.’
‘Mama. I know you love them old birds. But please understand. It’s out of my hands.’ He pauses, then smiles. ‘What would make it up to you? Just tell me what you’d like, and I’ll get it for you.’
She touches his hand, because she’s too weary to continue. All she wants is her chair by the kitchen window, and the cold beer that’s waiting for her in the refrigerator.
‘How about a little dog?’ he asks, his face brightening.
Putting down her corn scoop, she walks away from him, towards the house.
Around ten o’clock the same evening, when Elvis’s new girl and some of his other friends have arrived, Gladys sits in the kitchen, listening to him playing piano and singing ‘Little Cabin Home on the Hill’. Cliff is harmonising, and occasionally Anita joins in. Her high tinkling voice is pretty enough but, to Gladys’s mind, has no real power. Anita is a local girl, like Barbara was, but she just doesn’t have Barbara’s homeyness. Gladys had rushed to embrace her when they’d first met, fearful that the girl would dissolve before her eyes like all the rest, and she’d felt Anita bristle at the contact.
The sound of Elvis singing one of her favourites puts Gladys in a better mood. Her legs are feeling a little lighter now, and she decides she will put some biscuit dough together, ready to bake in the morning. Alberta has gone home and Daisy has yet to appear, so she can work without being overlooked. She slips on her apron and sets about measuring the flour, butter and lard, spreading her ingredients across the counter. She also fetches herself a small glass of beer to enjoy while she works.
She has her hands in the flour when she hears the side door open and her husband’s quick footsteps along the carpeted hall. He almost passes the kitchen without stopping. Not wanting him to get away with this, she sings out, ‘Evening, Vernon.’
He stands in the doorway wearing a sheepish grin. He’s in a pair of overalls, and his cheeks are flushed.
‘Why in the world are you wearing those?’ she asks. She hasn’t seen him in such dirty old clothes since he worked at United Paint.
Glancing down at himself, he chuckles. ‘Well,’ he says, ‘folks notice Elvis Presley’s daddy out on the street. And I’m kinda tired of the attention. So I figured I’d try me a little disguise.’
He’s never mentioned being tired of any of it, before.
He runs a hand down his front and eyes her mixing bowl. ‘You know you don’t have to do that stuff no more, Glad.’
She continues rubbing the lard and butter into the flour, stirring in the baking soda.
‘Well,’ he says, stretching his arms to the ceiling. ‘I’m about beat. Reckon I’ll turn in for the night.’
She asks, as lightly as she can, ‘Where you been?’
Vernon sighs. Then he steps into the kitchen and leans on the counter next to her, breathing all over her flour. The scent of perfume hits her, and she recognises it as the same one she’s smelled at the breakfast table. She notices, too, how shiny his eyes are. He is apparently unaware of how he smells.
‘Had to see a man about a dog. You know how it is.’
‘Oh, I know,’ says Gladys, reaching across him for the buttermilk.
‘Elvis told me he talked to you about them chickens,’ he says. ‘I reckon it’s for the best.’
‘I ain’t giving up my chickens.’ Gladys pours the liquid into the bowl and keeps her voice even. ‘And I know what you’re up to, Vernon Presley, and I also know you’re a goddamn steercotted bastard.’
She sets the pitcher down and plunges her hands into the mess, letting the buttermilk squirt between her fingers.
Vernon lets out a small noise, something between a cough and a laugh, and says, ‘What did you just call me?’
Gladys concentrates on squeezing the fat and flour and liquid together so it will come out light and soft, as Elvis likes it. As she works, she says, ‘You oughta know, Vernon, that I turned a blind eye to your other women for the longest time. The longest time. But I ain’t gonna do that no more. Elvis is grown now, and it don’t matter if he finds out what his daddy really is. In fact, I’ve a mind to tell him a few home truths about you.’
The dust of the flour catches in the lined skin of her hands, clumping around the gaps between the stones of her cocktail ring. She hears Vernon’s breathing quicken, but she doesn’t look up because she knows that if she does she will weaken, so when she feels the first blow across her head she is confused, and wonders if something has fallen from the high shelf.
But then she sees Vernon’s fist coming towards her again, and she ducks. It’s too late for him to draw back, and he thumps the metal mixing bowl, sending it skidding across the counter and smashing into the Mixmaster. He holds his hand to his chest for a second, cursing, then swings for her again, his knuckles driving into her cheek this time. The force of the blow has her staggering backwards, and her feet become tangled with the legs of a stool. As she crashes to the ground, taking the stool with her, she cries out.
From her position on the carpet, she notices the gleam on her husband’s new shoes, which look odd peeking from beneath the frayed ends of his overalls. She blinks. Her head feels as though it’s been stuck in an ice box, and she’s not sure where the rest of her body is, but she knows pain isn’t far away. Then Elvis is there, kneeling beside her and taking her head in his hands and saying, Mama. She tries to tell him it’s OK, but she can’t get her lips to move. She hears him crying and telling his daddy that if he ever touches her again he’ll kill him dead, and she tries again to say it’s OK, but Vernon and Elvis are yelling and the pain has burned a path from her jaw right into her spine. She closes her eyes, wondering where the strength of that girl who once threw the blade of a ploughshare has gone, and waits for it to be over.
When he wakes, it takes Elvis a moment to figure out whether he is in California, Memphis, or some hotel between live shows. Then he becomes aware of his own silk sheets and the pillowy quiet of the mansion, and he remembers what happened to his mama two nights ago, and he turns over, determined to lose himself in sleep. Recalling that Anita stayed in his bed for the first time last night, he reaches out for the comfort of her body, but there’s nothing beside him.
He lifts his head. ‘Little?’
She’s sitting at the foot of the bed, fully dressed in a lemon blouse and matching skirt. Even in her bright coral lipstick, she looks serious.
‘What you doing out of bed, honey?’ he mumbles.
‘It’s four in the afternoon,’ she says. ‘I couldn’t sleep any longer.’
‘Well, get yourself in here.’ He pulls back the sheet. ‘I hate to wake up alone.’
‘You’re not alone.’
She’s opened the drapes and the light is making his eyes itch. ‘It’s cold in here without you,’ he moans.
She moves closer but doesn’t get between the sheets. ‘Elvis,’ she says. ‘How am I going to go downstairs?’
‘It’s easy, honey. You just take one tiny step at a time.’
‘I’m serious. Your mother’s going to be down there, and I can’t look her in the eye. She’ll know I’ve been up here all night.’
‘Then come back to bed,’ he says, kissing her wrist.
‘I can’t. I’m expecting a call from that New York agent.’
A few weeks ago, Anita won the South’s Hollywood Star Hunt talent contest. The prize was a small role in some B-movie. Now she’s waiting on a call from the agency that signed her up.
‘I told you, don’t take them two-bit parts,’ says Elvis, now fully awake. ‘You deserve better. And I also told you about Hollywood, and what goes on there—’
‘Can’t you go down and distract her so I can slip out without her noticing?’
He groans. ‘Anita. We didn’t even do anything.’
‘That’s not the point,’ she says. ‘She’ll think we did.’
‘Then I’ll tell her we didn’t.’
‘You won’t!’ She tears the sheet from his shoulder and leans over him, scowling. ‘Don’t you tell your mama I stayed all night!’
They’d fooled around some, as they’ve been doing all summer (she loves it when he kisses her up and down her spine), but when Anita had said she’d felt ready to give all of herself to him, Elvis had refused to take her virginity, saying that she should keep herself whole. Because if they did get married, he wanted it to be perfect.
‘You look pretty when you’re angry,’ he says. He reaches up to touch her face, but she bats his arm away so hard that he knocks over the glass of water on his nightstand, soaking the sheets.
He leaps from the bed. ‘Hot damn!’
‘I’m sorry—’
‘Call the maid.’ He brushes past her. ‘She’ll change them.’
‘Elvis, I—’
‘Call the maid!’ he yells, slamming the bathroom door behind him.
Once he’s relieved himself, he opens the cabinet and finds the packet of Dexedrine. He no longer has to pilfer them from his mama. And this is definitely one of those mornings when he needs two. He slathers his face with foam and starts to shave.
There’s a soft knock at the door, which he ignores.
‘Elvis,’ Anita calls, ‘I’m leaving now.’
He drags the razor up his neck and along his cheek.
‘I’m real sorry about the sheets,’ she says.
He washes the blade, then pulls the plug and watches the water disappear, leaving streaks of stubbly foam. Leaning on the sink, he studies his face, wondering if he need worry about the slight puffiness along his jawline. He considers himself from the side, tilting his head so his chin goes tight, and remembers the way his mama’s face was mashed by his father’s fist.
Then he opens the door.
‘Wait. Don’t go down there alone, Little,’ he says. ‘I don’t want you adding to Mama’s worries.’
He selects a pair of pants and a shirt from the closet.
‘We’re gonna go together,’ he says, buttoning his shirt. ‘If we see Mama, I’ll tell her it got late and you slept on the couch in my office.’
‘But—’
‘You wanted me to fix this.’ He catches her hand. ‘So I’m fixing it.’
She doesn’t protest as he leads her to the main stairs, calculating this will give him more time to get her out of the front door before Gladys appears.
As they descend, Anita taking cringing steps just behind him, Elvis feels the pills begin to kick through his blood and he races to the bottom, making her flap her hands around and hiss at him to be quiet.
In the hallway, he laughs and impersonates her, hunching his body and creeping along the carpet like a cartoon burglar. Scowling, she tries to reach the front door, but he grasps her around the waist and pins her against the wall.
‘You love me, baby, don’t you?’
She looks even prettier here, seeming to glitter for him beneath the reflected light of the chandelier.
Anita nods and holds a finger to his lips to shush him.
‘You’re my best girl,’ he says. ‘You know that, don’t you?’
Anita looks over his shoulder. Her face falls.
‘Elvie?’
He twists his neck to see his mama standing behind him, wearing her pink housecoat. Her face looks much worse this afternoon. Yesterday he’d tried to persuade her to let him fetch the doctor, but she’d refused, saying she didn’t want more trouble, and, concerned that the papers would get hold of the story, he didn’t press her. He’d sat with her all afternoon in the music room, fooling around on the piano before joining her on the couch to eat Reese’s peanut butter cups and watch her favourite shows on TV. Her face hadn’t looked too bad, then. But now the bruise has blossomed into a dark purple flower, yellowed at the edges, and her jaw has swollen, making her head look lopsided.
He releases Anita. ‘Mama.’
‘You two want something to eat?’ Gladys says.
She doesn’t touch her face or try to hide it in any way. In fact, she steps into the light of the chandelier and looks right at him. The sight of her makes him feel nauseous, but he knows he mustn’t show it, for her sake.
Anita’s eyes dart uncertainly between Elvis and his mother. She is aware there was a fight, but Elvis had told Lamar to get her out of the house as soon as he heard the commotion in the kitchen, and she hasn’t seen Gladys since. Last night Elvis told her his mama was fine; that it was just a scuffle; that his father was real sorry and everything had been straightened out.
‘Mama,’ Elvis says, slowly, ‘Anita here stayed on the couch last night—’
‘Well, I figured she did, son.’ Gladys touches Anita’s arm. ‘And don’t you look fresh and pretty even so, honey?’
It takes a moment for Anita to mouth the words, Thank you.
‘Now come on and let me fix you something.’
Because he can’t think of how to refuse, Elvis guides Anita into the kitchen and they sit together at the counter. All through the meal, he keeps his eyes on his plate as his mother chatters on about his next movie project, which is to be filmed in New Orleans, and how she loved it when Elvis took her there for a visit and has Anita ever been, and shouldn’t Elvis take her some time? Anita nods and swallows and nods and smiles and nods some more. When Dodger comes in to pour herself some coffee, she puts a hand on Gladys’s shoulder and says, ‘Sure is good to see you up on your feet.’
Elvis can stand no more. Almost toppling his stool in his rush to escape, leaving his food half-eaten, he tells them Anita’s got somewhere to be, and, ignoring the women’s protests, ushers his girl from the room.
He walks Anita to her car, a year-old Ford that he gave her earlier in the summer, and holds the door open.
‘I’ll call you,’ he says.
It’s hot as hell out here, and he wants to get back in his air-conditioned house and ask his mama where his daddy has disappeared to, so he can find him and make him pay.
‘Elvis,’ she says, clutching her keys, ‘your mama didn’t look so good. Maybe she should see a doctor.’
‘She won’t see no doctor.’
‘Maybe she would, if you told her she’s got to.’
‘I already told her!’ He slams a hand on the scalding roof of the Ford.
There’s a pause. Then Anita asks, in a small voice, fiddling with her keys, ‘Where’s your daddy now?’
‘Gone off someplace.’
She nods. ‘I just couldn’t stand it if I knew my daddy was hitting my mama.’
At this, Elvis has to ram his fists deep into his pockets to stop them beating on the car again. He grits his teeth. ‘Daddy’s been under a lot of pressure.’
Anita gives a little snort. ‘How can you defend him?’
He looks her in the eye, and sees her recoil as he hisses, ‘You don’t know one thing about my daddy. He’s been through more shit than you’ve smelled your entire life.’
Then he turns on his heel and stalks towards the mansion in silence.
Gladys had refused to be drawn in to a conversation about Vernon’s whereabouts, saying that her husband had to answer to God, and his own conscience, now. Her son should go out with his friends and enjoy himself while he could, because he’d be working again soon enough. She’d be just fine at home with Alberta and Dodger.
Telling himself that he’d think about it later, Elvis took another pill and did as she suggested. Now it’s past eleven o’clock, and he’s on his way to his private party at the Rainbow.
In order to get around the city without being recognised, he’s started using a truck again. It’s a beat-up old Ford, not unlike the one he drove at Crown Electric, and he keeps it parked at the back of the mansion. He refuses to wear a disguise – tonight he’s in a pair of black pants and an orange-and-black knitted shirt – but the truck itself seems to be disguise enough.
To wrong-foot the fans, Cliff puts a hat and dark glasses on and drives the purple Cadillac out of the gates. Then, while the fans are still gazing and calling after that car, Elvis races out in the truck, and heads in the opposite direction.
All evening, he’s been fantasising about smashing his daddy’s face to a bloody pulp. Maybe he could get one of the guys to do the job for him. If Red were here, Elvis is sure he’d be more than happy to oblige. Or maybe he could pay somebody to beat Vernon, and make it look like a ransom thing. He overtakes a Chevy, putting his foot to the floor to get past it before a junction. He can see the headline: Elvis’s Father Tortured in Ransom Drama. No broken bones or anything, just mess him up good, so his face gets all puffy and dark like Mama’s. When he’d looked at her before he left the house, he’d wanted to whimper and crawl beneath some porch to hide his own face. And when she’d told him she’d be fine, all he wanted was to hold her so he could comfort her, but also so he could comfort himself. For some reason, the look on her face and the way she held her body – which looked so broken, even though it was big – told him not to try it, and he’d let her usher him out of the door.
Realising he’s close to Anita’s apartment, Elvis suddenly swerves the truck across the street, almost crashing into the stop lights. It’s all too much. He needs his girl by his side.
He has to ring the bell several times before Miss Patty opens the door. She’s wearing an embroidered housecoat and has rollers in her hair. Seeing him, she folds her arms.
‘Why are you hauling decent folks from their beds at this hour?’ she says.
‘Hello, Miss Patty. Sorry to call so late. Can I see her?’
She tuts. ‘Why should I let you, when you treat her so bad? She’s been crying all evening.’
‘I don’t know what she’s told you, ma’am, but—’
‘She don’t need to tell me nothing. I can see it all in her eyes. And I read about your exploits in the newspapers, just like she does.’
He looks up at the murky sky and takes a breath, knowing what he must do.
‘You’re right, ma’am. I’ve come to apologise. I acted plumb crazy, earlier.’
Miss Patty touches her rollers. ‘You oughta be telling this to Anita, not me.’
‘Well, I will, if you’ll let me.’
Anita must have been listening on the stairwell, because as soon as Miss Patty calls for her, she’s at the door.
‘Forgive me, Little,’ he says, and she falls into his arms.
Mrs Pieracinni, who owns the Rainbow, has done a good job of organising the party. Her nephews, all tall and broad but with the same miniature nose as her, stand by the doors to keep out uninvited guests. The Rollerdrome is decorated with multicoloured bunting and streamers, and the lights, which usually brighten every corner, are turned low. The tables beside the rink are groaning with hot dogs, popcorn, potato chips, and paper cups of Pepsi. The music’s up so loud that Elvis feels it coming through his shoes. Ricky Nelson, unfortunately.
There are already twenty or so people in the room, including Heidi, Gloria and Frances. The three girls are huddled round the jukebox, sipping their drinks and taking everything in. Spotting them, Elvis raises a hand in greeting and they all break into wide smiles and frantic waving, but only Cliff and Billy, Elvis’s younger cousin, approach.
‘You made it!’ says Cliff, slapping him heartily on the back, as if Elvis has completed the journey from overseas.
Elvis grins at Billy. He’s fifteen, and this is his first time out with the group. He’s styled his pale hair just like Elvis’s for the occasion.
‘You sure you’re good and ready for this, Billy-boy?’ Elvis asks. ‘It can get a little rough out there.’
‘I’m ready,’ says Billy, holding his freckled face still and serious.
‘Cliff, I want you to take care of Billy here,’ says Elvis. ‘Don’t let him mess up his hair.’
‘Sure, boss.’
Anita grips his hand. He can feel her scanning the room for other, younger, prettier girls. He doesn’t recognise any of them, apart from Cliff’s date and the three teenagers. Lamar has picked them all from the crowd at the gate. A few of them were skating when Elvis came in, but they’ve stopped now and are leaning on the barriers, watching him intently.
He thinks of Dixie in her white skirt and pantyhose, as he always does when he comes to the Rainbow. Of how he’d been amazed that she wanted to talk to him. He’s heard she’s settled into her own home now. He can just picture her, serving up meat loaf to some white-collar guy who has no idea how his wife’s cherry ball was fondled by Elvis Presley.
‘Let’s get the games started,’ he says, and Cliff claps his hands to gather everyone to the rink.
‘Why don’t you take the weight off, baby?’ Elvis asks Anita.
‘I’d like to skate some,’ she says.
He touches her cheek. ‘We don’t want you to chip your nails,’ he says. ‘You’re too special for this stuff.’
And he’s gone before she can protest.
They start with Crack the Whip. Not wanting to be the leader every time, Elvis lets Cliff head up the line. He tells Lamar to be the caboose at the back of the chain, and takes his position in the middle, holding hands with Frances and Gloria. Cliff gets up some good speed, then changes direction suddenly, causing the end of the whip to curl in on itself. Lamar hurtles to the ground, and Elvis doubles over with laughter.
His recording of ‘Ready, Teddy’ comes on, and the speed of the line increases, with the girls squealing when their hands slip from his. As Frances lets go, he says, ‘Too bad, honey,’ and watches her fly, arms flailing, into the railing.
Elvis lifts his hand, the signal for everybody to stop, and goes to check on her. A kiss on the forehead and a couple of the painkillers he gets from his dentist seem to make everything all right again. The pills are strong enough to allow him to play these kinds of games without hurting too much.
After a few more rounds of Crack the Whip, he peels off his sodden shirt and plants it in the trash. Anita brings him a clean one from the truck.
‘I wish you’d let me play,’ she says, grasping him around the waist. ‘I’m lonely here.’
He kisses her on the mouth. Then he whispers in her ear, ‘Will you wait for me, Little? Till I’m through this crazy part of my career? Then we can be together, really together. I meant what I said, about marriage and all.’
She looks up at him with shining eyes, and he wants to take her back to the mansion right away and tell his mama he’s going to marry this girl. It would make Gladys so happy. She’d embrace him, and everything would be good again.
Lamar calls out, ‘Knock Down!’
Elvis looks over to the rink. Everyone is clapping and chanting for him.
Anita sighs. ‘Go on and play with your friends.’
First, he hands out some painkillers, because this one can get a little rough, and is for the boys only. The aim of the game is to knock everyone else on the rink down. Whoever is left standing is the winner.
The girls line up along the barrier to spectate, Anita included. Elvis skates around the edge, avoiding the blows for a while, letting the others get started. Cliff and Billy are the first to be knocked down, but they get up and skate towards one another again. Billy goes down once more, knocked to the floor by Cliff, and drags himself to the side. Elvis skates over to his cousin. ‘Don’t feel bad,’ he says. ‘Bound to happen. You’re the youngest.’
While he’s talking, a friend of Cliff’s – Elvis doesn’t know his name – skates past and whacks Elvis with his elbow, making him yell and stumble backwards. Righting himself, Elvis skates as fast as he can at the first body in his path. It’s Cliff’s, and he falls easy. Elvis hears the smack of Cliff’s head on the floor, even over the din of his own music, but he doesn’t stop skating. Picturing Vernon in those goddamn overalls, he heads for George, walloping him with his whole body and sending him spinning across the floor. A cheer rises, and Elvis looks up to see all three hundred pounds of Lamar coming towards him like a bull, head low, shoulders hunched. Elvis stops skating and laughs. He stretches his arms wide and says, ‘Come on, man! Come get me!’, figuring he can skate out of Lamar’s path. But as he twists away, his skate comes loose, and he stumbles. Lamar slams into him, pushing him backwards. They travel together for a few seconds, Lamar holding Elvis by the shoulders and grunting.
‘I’m gonna kill you, you son of a bitch!’ Elvis yells.
They smash into the railing. Luckily for Elvis, his friend goes down first, breaking his own fall.
With his face squashed against the folds of Lamar’s sweating, fleshy neck, Elvis considers biting down on it as hard as he can. But then he remembers the girls at the barricade and he swiftly disentangles himself from Lamar’s big body and holds up his hands so that everyone can see he’s all right. Using Lamar for ballast, he scrambles to his feet. Then he skates across the rink, turning circles and waving despite his trembling legs.
He feels absolutely no pain.
Lamar manages to sit up. ‘You OK, boss?’ he calls out.
‘No damage at all, Buddha,’ Elvis calls back. ‘Not one scratch.’
Everybody applauds, lightly. He glances at Anita, who is watching the other girls.
Perhaps there’s no need, he thinks, to rush into a marriage proposal.
* * *
After Gladys’s bruises have disappeared and Elvis has left for another tour, Lillian visits Graceland.
‘Vernon must sure be worried about you, if he’s calling on me,’ she says, patting at her hair, which looks like it’s got a stiff new permanent on it.
It’s a Sunday afternoon in October, and they are sitting in the dining room, sipping tea from crystal tumblers. Gladys knows her sister would be more comfortable in the kitchen, but it’s been months since her last visit, and something made Gladys want to subject Lillian to the fancy room, with its uncomfortable modern chairs and relentlessly glossy tabletop.
Lillian lowers her voice. ‘He said you been drinking more than you oughta, Glad. Is that true?’
It is useless to deny it. Her sister always could see right through her.
Lillian sighs. ‘I just don’t understand it,’ she says, leaning back in her chair. Her gaze lingers on the new TV console in the far corner. ‘You got it all, Glad. Every little thing.’
Gladys eyes her sister – still thin, still upright, still getting on with her life, and a deep shame seeps through her body, weakening her aching limbs.
‘You want something?’ Gladys asks, hauling herself upright. ‘I got more jewellery than I know what to do with, Lillian. You can have it. I’ll go fetch it for you right now.’
‘Sit down,’ says Lillian, quietly.
‘How about a Mixmaster, then?’
‘No, thank you.’
‘Or a new vacuum cleaner?’
‘Glad. I don’t want none of your stuff. I came to check up on you, is all.’
Gladys sinks into her chair. ‘Well. You can see with your own eyes. Your sister is low-down miserable.’
‘But how come?’ asks Lillian.
How can Gladys explain anything about her own existence to her sister, who still lives in a small duplex across town, works regular hours at Fashion Curtains, and – unlike many other members of the family – doesn’t come knocking on Elvis’s door for handouts?
‘Is it Vernon?’ Lillian asks. ‘I know he can be kinda cold sometimes, but that’s just how men are.’ She gives a little laugh. ‘You never could understand that, could you, honey? Seems like you always expected more.’
Gladys shakes her head. ‘Elvis ain’t cold. Never has been.’
Lillian sighs. ‘Elvis ain’t here.’
Gladys stares at the window, which is lit golden by the setting sun. There’s a long silence.
‘Here’s what we’re gonna do,’ says Lillian, pushing her tea aside and grasping Gladys’s hand. ‘I’m gonna come visit every day, just to see how you’re getting along. OK?’
Gladys nods, but keeps her eyes on the window. If she looks at her sister, she fears she may weep. Or draw her hand back and slap Lillian’s face.
* * *
Elvis is alone in his dressing room, shrugging on his gold lamé jacket. The full tuxedo – named ‘the ten-thousand-dollar gold suit’ by the Colonel – is, he thinks, a joke. Made from $2,500 worth of gold leaf by Nudie Cohn, who has designed suits for Hank Williams and any number of exotic dancers, it has diamanté-encrusted lapels and cuffs, and comes complete with a gold belt and gold lace tie. When he’d first worn the full outfit, the Colonel had warned him not to perform any knee slides, in case the gold wore off the lamé pants. Elvis had felt like he’d stepped into a magician’s box and was about to get sawn in half.
Tonight’s show at Los Angeles’s Pan Pacific Auditorium is important enough for him to want to wear the jacket, though, because nothing shines quite like it. Onstage, it’s as if the jacket is lit from the inside. He can wear it with black pants and a black shirt.
The Colonel says half of Tinseltown will show up. Hal Wallis. Debra Paget. Nick Adams. Carol Channing. Sammy Davis. Tommy Sands. Vince Edwards. As usual, the critics have panned Elvis’s new movie, Jailhouse Rock, calling his acting effort ‘grotesque’. Tonight he means to show Hollywood what he’s really made of.
He’s applied his own make-up, having perfected his technique with guidance from the artist at Paramount, and sculpted his hair. Cliff and Lamar ought to be back from the Pepsi machine by now. Elvis stares at the dimples in the cinderblock wall, trying to control his breathing. It’s always like this before a show, no matter how well the last one went. In fact, he thinks that maybe it gets worse, every time. Every time he fears he will have no voice at all out there; that his body will betray him by collapsing; that his mind will go blank and he’ll become a limp, empty ghost, like Noreen after Preacher Brown rid her of her demon. He swallows a couple of Dexedrine before pointing at himself in the mirror and clearing his throat. ‘My name is FEAR!’ he says, with as much menace as he can muster. ‘People tremble and shake when I am near!’
Finally, unable to sit any longer, he knocks on the band’s door. Although they’ve officially resigned, Scotty and Bill have agreed to play on this short tour for a flat fee. So far, they’ve stayed in their hotel room at the Knickerbocker (Elvis is in the plusher Beverly Wilshire) and have done their work without saying a word about their resignation letter.
Scotty opens the door, but doesn’t invite Elvis in.
‘Everything OK for tonight?’ asks Elvis, leaning on the door frame, tapping his foot. The jacket is already scratching at his wrists.
‘Yep.’
Elvis can see Bill sitting behind Scotty. When their eyes meet in the dressing-table mirror, Elvis tries a grin, but Bill says nothing.
‘Was there anything else?’ asks Scotty. His wide face remains smooth, the ironic smile still in place.
‘Just, you know, I’m real glad you fellas are gonna be out there with me.’
Elvis offers his hand for a shake. Scotty considers it for a moment, then pumps it up and down, firmly.
‘And,’ says Elvis, ‘as Sam would say, don’t make that guitar too damn complicated!’
Scotty smooths his hair. ‘It ain’t complicated,’ he says. ‘We just follow your ass.’
“Love Me!” he commands.
There are over nine thousand people in the auditorium, and it seems that they are all screaming. As he sings, he pulls the gold jacket from one shoulder and shimmies towards the audience, then circles his hips slowly, going up onto the balls of his feet to bump his groin towards the mike. The girls in the front rows are out of their seats, but that’s not enough for Elvis. He wants the whole of Hollywood on its feet. He wants Carol Channing and Debra Paget to grip their own flesh and scream the hell out of their lungs. He wants Hal Wallis to split his britches, begging for more. He wants Nick Adams to bark like a dog.
He turns to check on Scotty, who returns his grin. Bill does likewise. Perhaps they don’t hate him, after all. He shrugs and winks at the audience, who roar and whistle back.
He clasps the microphone in both hands as if it’s a woman, hooking a leg around its body, touching the mesh of the mike with his lips. The New York songwriters, Jerry and Mike, told him they wrote this one as a kind of joke, but tonight Elvis can see nothing funny about it.
Bending at the knees, he pulls the mike stand between his legs, running the metal against his thigh. The crowd rise as one, and their noise billows up to the wooden rafters and down to the concrete floor. Then he sees a flash of red hair, and his already inflated heart rises to his throat. He blinks and stumbles on the lyric about begging and stealing, because this girl’s hair springs from her head like flames and for one second he’s convinced that it’s Noreen. The girl makes her hands into fists and brings them to her face and bellows his name, and it seems that maybe he’s undone whatever it was the preacher did all those years ago. He’s told Anita that being onstage is like making love, but now he realises it’s better than that, because it’s not one girl but nine thousand, and he’s setting the whole lot of them loose. When he looks again at the crowd, he sees them all: Noreen, Magdalene, Betty, Dixie, Barbara, Dottie, Anita, and he feels he has enough for everybody. If he can give them this song, they’ll love him for ever. He’s sure of it.
He promises the audience that if they ever go, he’ll be oh, so lonely, and then he’s on his knees, reaching out to them. They return the gesture.
To finish, he introduces ‘The Elvis Presley National Anthem: “Hound Dog”’. On the side of the stage, as always, is his record company’s mascot, a three-feet-high plaster dog called Nipper. Halfway through the song, Elvis starts singing to the dog, but not in the way he sang to that basset hound on The Steve Allen Show. Instead, he slides to his knees and takes it by the neck, then rolls on his back with the dog in his arms, still singing. From the corner of his eye, he can see Scotty and Bill glancing at one another nervously. On the final slowed-down verse, Elvis rolls over, taking the dog with him. With one leg slung across its back, he grinds himself against the creature. He sings the chorus as slowly and as wildly as he can, scattering sweat and gold leaf across the stage. He sings it again and again and again, slower each time, clasping the dog to his zipper as he howls the words. Each time he sings it, the uncertain, disbelieving, thrilled pause in the crowd’s whooping becomes longer. When he’s finally through, he lets the song’s last words come out of his mouth in a laughing rush, releases the dog, and lies with his arms and legs spread out on the stage.
When he looks up at the lights, he half-expects them to explode, along with the audience.