PAT AND I ARRIVED AT THE VILLA AT EXACTLY 10:00 A.M. Elvis and the boys were sitting in the living room, ready to go.
“You’re not going horseback riding dressed like that, are you, June?” Elvis asked, knowing shorts and sandals wouldn’t mix well with horses and bridle paths in the woods.
“No way! I’ve got other clothes in the car,” I said, spinning around and running to the car, where I changed into long pants and loafers. I was ready in a matter of seconds, but we still had to wait for Arthur, who was lingering in the bathroom.
It had rained during the night, and the road leading to the stable was muddy. Our seven horses were saddled up and ready to ride. Elvis didn’t like the idea of having a guide, but unless you knew the correct route, one wrong turn and the lead horse would make a run back to the stable, with the rest of the horses following. The next time out, our guide promised, we could go it alone.
We left the stable in single file. Our guide was in front, Elvis was behind him, I was behind Elvis, and so on down the line. We started off walking, then broke into a little trot, and then a nice canter. The guide’s horse was slinging mud in Elvis’s face, and Elvis’s horse was slinging mud in my face — everyone was getting their share. One can only eat so much mud.
The canter was soon a full—fledged gallop, everyone racing for the front. It was like a mad day at the racetrack, with seven inexperienced jockeys going for pole position. Finally we slowed to a walk. Everyone, apart from the guide, was covered in mud. We were laughing at each other, and Elvis, wiping his mouth on his shirtsleeve, started singing,
“Oh, we ain’t got a barrel of money, maybe we ‘re muddy and funny, but we’ll travel along, singing our song, side by side …” We all joined in singing the familiar tune. Once we were off the road and on the trail through the woods, the ground, covered with pine straw, was nice and dry. We stopped singing and started swaying to the rhythmic sound of the leather saddles. Next came Gene Autry’s “Back in the Saddle Again,” and finally my favorite, reminding me of our trip to Houston, “Let the Rest of the World Go By.” I had sung a little harmony in school, and this song was perfect for harmonizing. With the whole gang singing, I didn’t mind making a fool of myself. Elvis and I had done a little harmonizing to one of his favorite hymns, “In the Garden,” but I was so intimidated by his beautiful voice, I had held back. Now it didn’t make any difference. I was singing as loud as I could. Red was singing the melody, Elvis switched to baritone, and sometimes bass, when he could go that low, and I was singing tenor, the only part I knew. We had quite a trio — even Elvis was impressed. The gang applauded when we finished, and we took a little bow.
“Thank you very much,” Elvis said, exactly the same way he did on stage.
We didn’t run the horses any more; we were happy just to walk through the tall pines, singing. Elvis loved singing harmony; he would have been perfectly content being one of the Jordanaires.
Climbing down from the horses and heading back to the car, we ail started to laugh: we were walking like we’d been in the saddle for at least a week.
We passed a fireworks stand on the way back to the villa and Elvis made a quick U—turn. Soon we not only had seven people crammed in the convertible, we also had two giant boxes of assorted firecrackers. We dumped the boxes in the middle of the floor and divided them into two stacks. Then we chose up sides. Soon we had two teams armed, ready, and waiting for nightfall. The eighteen—hole golf course, with wooded areas on both sides, was a perfect battleground. There were only two rules. Number one: you get hit, you’re out. Number two: keep a distance of at least fifteen feet between you and your target.
We went to the hotel and planned our strategy over lunch. I had fired Roman candles before, but never at another person.
“I can picture the headlines now,” I said, laughing. ‘“ELVIS PRESLEY’S GIRLFRIEND LAST SEEN RUNNING DOWN THE FAIRWAY, AT GULF HILLS, HER LONG DARK HAIR NOW A FLAMING RED. “IT WAS ALL IN FUN,” THE ROCK ’N’ ROLL SINGER HAD ASSURED HER.’”
Everyone laughed hysterically. The louder the laughter, the more vivid the picture my mind was painting. I could always take my share of Roman candles and run and hide in the woods. When Elvis reached over to take my hand, I almost jumped out of my seat.
“It really is just all in fun, June, I promise,” he said, kissing my hand—then laughing as hard as he could.
“Hell, we got at least six hours before dark,” Elvis said, glancing at his watch. “Let’s go for a swim.” We raced down the hill to the villa to get our swimsuits on.
“Last one in’s a rotten egg,” Pat yelled, running back to the swimming pool.
We left Gene, JUNIOR, and Arthur back at the villa — they had decided they’d rather take a little snooze —so Pat, Red, Elvis, and I had the big pool all to ourselves. We played King of the Mountain, with Pat on Red’s shoulders, me on Elvis’s. We were pretty evenly matched, but I couldn’t take another scratch from Pat’s hard—as—steel fingernails.
I tried unsuccessfully to teach Elvis the basics of swimming. He did just fine as long as his face was in the water, but as soon as he lifted his head to take a breath he went straight to the bottom. He was happy with what little he did learn, though, and promised he would practice and be swimming as well as me by next summer.
The dreaded darkness arrived. We gathered our ammunition and headed for a secluded area of the golf course. Using matches to light the Roman candles was out of the question. Elvis handed us each a little wood—tipped cigar. Before doing battle, we lit a few of the candles just to test their power.
“Sometimes you get ahold of a batch that would blow off the side of your head. These seem to be working perfect,” Elvis said, strictly for my benefit.
We lit our cigars, grabbed a stack of Roman candles, and ran off all in different directions. I tried to find a big fat tree but we were surrounded by tall skinny pines. So there we were, running around with little cigars clenched between our teeth, shooting fireballs at each other. To say we were a strange group is putting it mildly. We did have a few close calls, almost setting the woods on fire, but —thank God—no one was injured. Luckily, no one called the police either; we would surely have all been arrested.
The following morning the hotel manager sent a message to Elvis. “The fireworks were beautiful, but also hazardous to our golf course. In the future, please feel free to use our beautiful sand beach. Thank you, the Management.” Evidently we weren’t as secluded as we had thought. Elvis sent his humble apologies, and promised it wouldn’t happen again.
“How do you suppose he knew it was us? We cleaned up all the empty shells,” Elvis said, wondering out loud.
There was never a dull moment with Elvis around. Walking to the ski dock, I was headed for another brand—new experience: I was going to learn how to waterski. While Elvis was showing off his skills I was at the dock getting lessons from the instructor, Dickie Waters. Having never been on skis before, I was a nervous wreck. After a few words of advice at the dock, however, I was ready to get in the water. I felt confident with Dickie at my side. The boat pulled away, tightening the slack in the rope, and Dickie raised his hand and yelled, “Hit it!” Before I had time to even think I was on top of the water and doing great. We went down and around the bayou before heading back to the dock. I was proud of myself for making it the entire way without one fall, and I had proof: my hair was still dry. Dickie, still at my side, told me to get ready to drop the rope, and we let go at the same time. We were going so fast I thought I was going to crash into the dock for sure. I didn’t know how to stop and started to scream. About ten feet from the pier, though, Dickie grabbed my arm and pulled me down. My hair was no longer dry.
Everyone standing on the pier was clapping and yelling, “Way to go!” — everyone but Elvis, that is. He was standing with his arms folded, giving me that look. Dickie apologized for not teaching me how to stop, and for wetting my hair. He told Elvis I was a natural and would do great after a few more lessons.
“We don’t have time for any more lessons. We have to go,” Elvis said, without even looking at me. He was quiet for the rest of the afternoon.
We had supper at the hotel and then walked over to the hotel lounge, the Pink Pony. A small group of tourists were there, having a nightcap. We all ordered Cokes and gathered around the upright piano. We usually started with a sing—along, but most people were a little reluctant to sing with Elvis — they were happy just to sit and listen. He entertained us with all his favorites, including some boogie—woogie. We took turns playing the bongo drums. A hush fell over the room when Elvis ended the night with a spiritual song, sung with great feeling.
We normally walked hand in hand, but on the way back to the villa that night Elvis walked a few steps ahead of me. When we got there, Pat gathered her wet bathing suit and her car keys. It was past time for her to have her dad’s car home. I grabbed my wet suit and my purse and went to kiss Elvis goodnight.
“Where do you think you’re going, JUNE? It’s not even nine o’clock yet,” he said, holding me around the waist.
“I was going to save you a trip, Elvis,” I said, without showing any emotion.
“I don’t want you to save me a trip. I’ll take you home later,” he said, telling me what to do rather than asking. He took me by the arm and we walked Pat to her car, watching in silence until she was out of sight. Now that my only means of transportation was gone, he released my arm and stood silendy for a few seconds. He took my hand and walked me through the villa, past the guys, and into his bedroom. Still acting a little strange, he let go of my hand and sat down on the side of the bed.
“I want you next to me,” he said, looking up at me.
“Okay, Elvis, I’m here!” I answered, sitting by his side.
“That’s not what I’m talking about, June,” he said, mysteriously.
“Well, what are you talking about, Elvis? I can’t read your mind. If something is bothering you, tell me. Maybe I can help.” Caring for Elvis the way I did, my normal assertive reaction was suddenly passive: a side of me I hadn’t experienced before.
“I don’t know how to say what I’m trying to say,” he began, still brooding.
“Don’t worry about how to say it. Just say it. Tell me what’s bothering you.”
“What’s gonna happen to me, June? What’s gonna happen to us? I keep thinking you don’t care. You’re never next to me when I need you. You’re always off somewhere, talking to someone else. I’m constantly calling you to come by me. Whenever a crowd is around, you back off and stand on the outside. I’m always looking around to see where you are. I don’t wanna have to look for you, June, I want you next to me. Do you know what I’m trying to say?”
“I understand what you’re saying, but you always have people crowding around you. I don’t want to crowd you too. I’m only trying to give you room to breathe.”
“Other girls I’ve dated are always right next to me. They act like they’re proud to be with me. If I say something, they listen. If I want to say something to you, I have to find you first.”
I knew exactly what he was talking about, and I felt a little guilty. But it had nothing to do with my feelings for Elvis. I had made up my mind not to compete with his fans for his attention. I would back away, letting him flirt or whatever with all the pretty girls constantly trying to get close to him. I promised myself I would never cramp his style. I knew he loved all the attention, and I wanted him to feel free to do or say anything he wanted. And even more than that, I didn’t particularly care to see him smiling as he accepted a folded piece of paper with the name and phone number of some beauty queen, place it in his top pocket, giving it a pat, and saying, “it’s right here next to my heart, honey.” Jealousy, the green—eyed monster, could eat your heart out, and I wanted no part of it. So I was living by the old cliché — what you don’t know can’t hurt you.
‘I’m not like your other girlfriends, Elvis. I’m not going to hang on your every word, or hang all over you, either. That’s not who I am. When we first met, you said, ‘I like you, June, you’re different.’ Now, all of a sudden, you want me to change and be like everybody else. Why?”
“I don’t want you to be like everybody else, June! I just want you next to me, not off talking to someone else, I want you to be mine.”
“I am yours, my love, but I can’t live in your shadow. I need room to breathe too. I’m sorry if you’re not happy with the way I am, but I don’t think that’s the real problem. You’ve been in a bad mood ever since we left the ski dock this afternoon. Why don’t you tell me what’s really bothering you? Please? Talk to me, Elvis. I love you.”
“When we went waterskiing today, you paid more attention to the ski instructor than you did to me. I wanted you to ride in the boat while I was skiing, but you were too busy taking lessons. I wanted you to watch me ski.”
“I was watching you ski. Every time you passed the dock I waved, but you never even looked my way. I watched you until you were out of sight. I’ve never been on waterskis before and I was nervous. I was paying close attention to Dickie, so I could get it right.”
“Dickie? You even know his name?”
“Yes, I know his name! He’s been the ski instructor at Gulf Hills for the past two summers.”
“Have you ever been out with him?”
“No! I’ve never been out with him! Okay, okay, now I know what this is all about. You’re wondering just how many guys have made out with me, and when one of them will show up to brag about it. Right?” I knew I’d hit the nail on the head when he didn’t answer.
“Elvis, I told you when we first met that I’ve been out with lots of different guys, but I’ve never been serious about any of them. I’ve been waiting for the right one to come along. And, believe it or not, you’re it! I love you, Elvis Presley!”
“You’d better love me, June Juanico, You better!” He pulled me down on the bed and kissed me. “Stay here with me tonight, June. I’ll take you home first thing in the morning,” he said, between kisses.
“I can’t stay all night, Elvis. My mother will be worried,”
“No she won’t, June. She knows you’re with me.”
“She also knows I need to be home.”
“Okay, baby, I’ll take you home. In a little while.”
Lying in his arms, I remembered a book I had received for a graduation present. The Prophet, by Kahlil Gibran, always had a soothing effect on me. Maybe reading something other than the newspaper would do him good. It might even calm him down. I was confused by his new possessive attitude. All of a sudden he wanted me under his thumb. He didn’t seem to trust me anymore, if he ever had. My guess was he’d been exposed to more than his share of loose women. He’d always shy away from this type, but some of his companions, his entourage, didn’t. Getting a piece of ass in every different city was fast becoming the norm. Was he thinking that all females were the same?
As soon as we pulled up in front of my house I ran inside, grabbed the book, and brought it out to him.
“Here, read a little of this. It might make you see things a little differently. Who knows, it might even make you a little wiser,” I said, leaning in the car, kissing him goodnight.
“June. I love you! More than you’ll ever know. I’ll call you in the morning, before I leave for Memphis.”
“You’re leaving in the morning? Are you coming back?” I asked, crushed by the sudden news.
“I’ll be back before you realize I’m gone,” he said, reassuring me.
And he was, too—driving a new car. He’d decided that the convertible, especially with the autographed top, was too noticeable for any privacy. The new car, a lavender Lincoln, was much more conservative, and less likely to attract attention. Wearing a hat and sunglasses, I didn’t realize it was Elvis parked in front of my house until he stepped out of the car.
“You must be making a shit—sack full of money,” I said, laughing and rubbing the smooth upholstery.
“I’m doing okay for a country boy,” he said, leaning over to open the glove compartment and show me the copy of The Prophet.
“June, I love the book! Can I keep it?”
“It’s yours, my love, I knew you’d like it.” I could tell by the way he was talking he’d had a chance to do a little reading while he was gone.
When we got to Gulf Hills, Elvis passed the villas and drove into the driveway of a two—story house at the end of the road.
“How do you like it?” he asked, grinning. I didn’t realize he was talking about the house until I saw the boys walking out to meet us.
“I’ve rented it for the rest of the summer. I might even buy it later, who knows?” he said, still grinning.
The house was owned by a family named Hack, so the boys nicknamed it the Hack house. Elvis showed me around, saving his upstairs bedroom, which had a balcony overlooking the living room, for last. Not only was it private, it was also very romantic.
Elvis’s parents were suppose to arrive in Biloxi that night. “I need to get in touch with Mr. Bellman, June. Do you know—where I can find him?” he said, anxious about his parents’ arrival. “No, but my mother is home. I’m sure she knows where he is.” We drove to the back of my house and parked the Lincoln in the alley. Mama had the day off and was cooking red beans and rice.
“Hi, Mrs. Juanico,” he said, inhaling the aroma. “Sure smells good in here. Will you do me a favor? Will you get Mr. Bellman on the phone? I’d like to talk to him about taking my parents deep—sea fishing.”
“Eddie’s on his way over now to eat some red beans. Have you ever had red beans and rice, Elvis?” Mama asked. “No ma’am, I can’t say I have.”
When Eddie arrived, Elvis went to meet him at the door.
“Mr. Bellman, it’s good to see you, sir. I’ve talked to my parents and they’re all excited about going fishing. They’ll be here tonight. Do you think you can arrange another trip?”
Eddie went straight to the phone and dialed, but got a busy signal. Dishing out a big plate of beans and smoked sausage, I suggested we eat now and call later. Elvis and Eddie dove into their plates,
“I’ve never tasted anything quite like this before, Mrs. Juanico. This is delicious. You’ll have to teach my mother how to fix this when she gets here.”
“May’s a great cook, Elvis. That’s why I’m over here so much.” Eddie went back to the phone and got through to Captain Thornton.
“Will tomorrow morning be okay, Elvis?”
“Yes sir! What time should we be there?”
“Same time, same place. I’ll take care of everything else.”
“Thanks, Mr. Bellman, I sure appreciate this. My parents are gonna love it, and I can’t wait to do it again. It was the best time I’ve ever had!” Elvis said, shaking Eddie’s hand the entire time he was talking.
Mr. and Mrs. Presley checked into the Sun ‘n’ Sand Motel as soon as they arrived in Biloxi. They called my house and talked to Elvis. We were to pick them up at 6:00 A.M. the next morning. My mother even made arrangements to take the day off, something she had never done, to go fishing with us. She was anxious to meet the Presleys too.
My mother and the Presley* hit it off right from the start. Mama thought Vernon was one of the most handsome men she had ever seen. She told them that Elvis got his good looks from both his mother and his father. In her opinion, Elvis had his father’s strong features, and his mother’s deep—set eyes. Mrs. Presley was complimenting Mama for raising such a fine daughter, and Mama was saying the same thing about Elvis being such a fine young man. By the end of the day, they were teasing us about having little blue—eyed grandbabies.
Red, Vernon, Elvis, and I were the first ones to try our luck fishing. Sitting in chairs across the back of the boat, Elvis was showing his dad how to let the line out and set the drag. Elvis had only done it once before, but by this time he was doing it like a pro. Mrs. Presley busied herself making Elvis peanut butter—and—banana sandwiches. When he started catching fish and had to keep both hands on the rod, she held his sandwich for him, giving him a bite every now and then. Mama had made some deviled eggs, and the boys were eating them whole. I yelled “Save one for me!” and Elvis took one from the box and shoved the whole thing in my mouth.
It wasn’t long before Mr. Presley was letting his line out and setting the drag like a champ. He wasn’t about to stop and eat. The deviled eggs were only an appetizer for Red, so when he got up to fix himself a sandwich, he gave his chair to Mrs. Presley. She didn’t want to fish at first, but after pulling in a few she was loving it too.
In the beginning we’d been catching bonitos, but then we got into a school of big jack crevalles. Mrs. Presley, relaxing between fish, her line still over, suddenly got a strike. The fishing line was resting on the side of her wrist. When the fish struck out, the line went zing, cutting her right across her arm and wrist. Sitting next to her, I saw the cut, still white, just before it started to bleed. The same thing had happened to me once before, and I remembered the burning pain. I took her rod and yelled for Elvis, who was standing only a few feet away. The big fish was taking the line out fast. I gave the rod and reel to Red and took Mrs. Presley to the Captain’s quarters to find the first—aid kit. Elvis sat down on the bunk next to his mother and put his arms around her. I was on my knees, trying to be careful not to hurt her as I put on a bandage. When I finished she kissed me on the top of the head.
“Thank you, little Satnin, it’ll be all better now,” she said, trying to ignore the pain.
The boat was rocking from side to side, and Mrs. Presley began looking a little pale. I told Elvis to take her outside in the fresh air, and I sat with her until she was feeling better. I remembered moaning and groaning when the same thing happened to me, but she never once complained. Red finally landed the big jack fish responsible for the accident, Elvis picked up the gaff, hooked in the fifty—pound jack, and showed it to his mother.
“Look at the size of this thing! There’s no way you could have landed him by yourself, Mama.”
“I would have if he hadn’t gotten me first. Just give me a minute, I’ll get another one!” she yelled, still looking a little pale. I asked her if she had eaten anything yet, but she said she wasn’t hungry. I fixed her a sandwich and insisted she eat, telling her what Mr, Bellman had told us about keeping a full stomach on the water. Within thirty minutes, her color was back and she was fishing again. It took her a while, but she did manage to land another big one, and all by herself too. Elvis kept trying to help her but she kept pushing him away.
“If I’m strong enough to handle you, I can certainly handle this fish.”
We were at least two hours from shore by then, so at three o’clock in the afternoon the Captain turned the boat and headed for the coast. We watched a school of porpoise swimming along with the boat. Even though everyone was tired and sunburned, it had been a great trip. We’d landed over fifty fish.
About five miles from shore, another boat signaled us to stop. The Captain, thinking they had engine trouble, pulled up next to them, and two members of the press jumped on board as their boat pulled away. Elvis was so mad about the intrusion he refused to talk to them. We stayed on the front of the boat, with Red and Arthur standing in each walkway, making sure they couldn’t squeeze in.
We pulled in to the dock to find hundreds of fans waiting. We stayed at the dock long enough to have a few pictures taken from the pier. The reporters then got off the boat, thinking everyone was getting off as well, but when the boat pulled out, Mr. and Mrs. Presley, Elvis, and I, along with the Captain, were still on board. The fans all ran to their cars and followed the boat all the way down the coastline. We managed to lose them on the east end of Biloxi, when the boat went behind the seafood factories lining the shore. Mr. Bellman was waiting for us at one of the factories with both his car and Elvis’s car too. Elvis couldn’t figure out how he’d managed it.
“The fans were following the boat. They didn’t know where you were going, but I did. I’ll drive your mother and father back to the hotel. You wait here for ten or fifteen minutes, then you shouldn’t have any problems getting back to Gulf Hills.”
“Thanks, Mr. Bellman. You’re a hell of a nice guy. If I can ever do anything for you, I hope you let me know.”
“It was my pleasure, Elvis, my boy. I’m one of your biggest fans,” Eddie said, proudly extending his hand to Elvis.
During all the excitement, Elvis had forgotten to tell his parents he’d reserved them a villa at Gulf Hills, Instead of going there he drove to my house and parked in the alley out back. He called his daddy and told him to check out of the hotel: he was going to meet them, so they could follow us to Gulf Hills. Mrs. Presley got on the phone and told him not to come.
“The parking lot is filled with people. They think you’re here in my pink Cadillac. It’s so crowded, I’m afraid to go out.”
“Stay right there, Mama. I’ll think of something and call you back.”
Elvis came in the kitchen and told us what was going on. Eddie came to the rescue again.
“Don’t worry about a thing, Elvis. I’ll make sure they get to Gulf Hills, And take care of the fans, too.”
Within twenty minutes Eddie was in the parking lot talking to the fans. He explained the Presleys were just passing through on their way to Florida to spend some time with Elvis, and that Mrs. Presley was fearful of crowds. They all backed away from the pink Cadillac, and Eddie went to the Presleys’ room to help them with their luggage. The crowd waved from a distance. Several fans were shouting, “We love Elvis! We love Elvis!”
The Presleys waved back to the fans and drove off behind Eddie, arriving at Gulf Hills without one single fan following. Elvis and I helped them get settled in their villa and the four of us went to the hotel dining room. Elvis’s parents had both missed their afternoon caffeine break and were dying to have a cup of coffee.
“Maybe this coffee will help me stop rocking back and forth. I feel like a newborn calf trying to find his legs,” Mrs. Presley said, still swaying from the long day on the boat.