by Diane Moody
Burt escorted me to the loaner, its shiny red coat glistening despite the long afternoon shadows. “Yeah, ol’ Elvis likes his Caddies. Bought six today.”
“Six?!”
“Oh, that’s nothing. Sometimes he orders ’em by the dozen.” He opened the driver’s door for me.
“I guess I shouldn’t be that surprised. Dad said he used to come in and buy several at a time. He said sometimes they were for complete strangers. He just enjoyed giving them to folks.”
The wind whipped under Burt’s sad toupee and he quickly patted it back into place. “It’s true. Waitresses, movie theater cashiers, lawn guys—you name it. He just has a ball surprising folks. Though this time, these were what he calls his ‘guilt cars’ . . . Elvis can’t stand knowing somebody’s upset with him or disappointed in him. So if he gets sideways with anyone, even over something trivial, he has to make it right. Buys ’em a Cadillac. Can you imagine?”
I slipped into the car. “No, I can’t. I wonder if people take advantage of him just to see if he’ll give them a Cadillac.”
“Oh sure. Happens all the time. He’s just too blind to see it. But he’s a good guy. Has his faults like everyone else, but a good man. You ever meet him?”
“Dad tells me I did, but I don’t remember it.”
“That’s a real shame. You’d love the guy. We all do.”
I bet. I couldn’t imagine what the commission on those six Caddies had been, let alone a dozen. Love indeed.
“Thanks, Burt. Let me know when my car is ready.”
I drove off with thoughts of Elvis swimming in my head. I remembered the story Dad often told me of the night Elvis called, asking him to give a private showing for some of his “Memphis Mafia”—his entourage of friends and bodyguards. He wanted to let them each pick out their own cars for Christmas and special order all the extras they wanted on them. Dad thought it would be fun for Jimmy and me to meet “the King” so he let us tag along. Mom was home sick and none too happy about our little outing, especially since it was at midnight. But Dad convinced her it was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. And since Elvis was a night owl, midnight it would have to be.
I wish I remembered it, but he says I was only four at the time, so my little brain cells apparently weren’t yet cranking out the memory field at the time. He said it was like one big party, all these grown men acting like kids in a candy store. Dad was busy, of course, so he said Jimmy and I just kind of hung around and watched. Then later, when Elvis was in Dad’s office signing some papers, he said I walked in and backed along the wall never taking my eyes off Elvis. Dad said Elvis immediately took to me.
“Well, who have we here? Jack, is this little angel yours?”
“Elvis, meet Rayce. Rayce, can you say hello to Mr. Presley?”
He tells me I just stood there with eyes wide open, chewing on my pinky.
“C’mon over here and let me take a good look at you, sweetheart,” Elvis said.
Dad said I slowly approached him, twisting one foot back and forth and back and forth. When I got close enough, Elvis picked me up and sat me on his knee.
“Well, aren’t you just the cutest little thing? How old are you, Rayce?”
Dad says I whispered “four” and never once took my eyes off the King.
“Four? Well, you’re just about all grown up, aren’t you? I hope some day I have a pretty little girl like you.”
“What would you name her?” I asked.
“Well, now, I don’t guess I’ve thought about that too much, seeing how I’m not married yet. What do you think I should name her?”
“You could call her Rayce.”
He threw his head back and laughed. “Well, I just might do that. I like cars that go real fast, so maybe that would be the perfect name for her.”
Of course, Dad says I had no clue what my name and fast cars had in common.
“Rayce, maybe some day your daddy will bring you and your mommy out to Graceland to see me sometime. Would you like that?”
“What’s a grassland?” I asked.
Dad says Elvis had a good laugh at that one, then went on to explain it was where he lived. Dad said Elvis gave me a big kiss on my cheek before setting me back down.
Imagine that. I was kissed by Elvis.
I shook off the memories. Well, the memories I knew only because Dad had shared them over and over. And I tried to remember why it was that I didn’t really care that much about the superstar. I guess I should’ve, what with having met him and all. It wasn’t that I didn’t like him. I was just indifferent. Well, who knows, maybe that would all change now that I was back living in Memphis.
Heck, we’re practically neighbors.
Chapter 8
Tucker called later that evening. We only talked a few minutes. Apparently one of his friends had a family emergency come up and Tuck was going to have to cover his shift for him the next night. Which meant he wouldn’t be able to make it to Bible study. Which meant I wouldn’t be going either.
After I hung up, I uttered a quick prayer of thanks for that resident’s family emergency.
Then I uttered a quick prayer for forgiveness for thanking God for that resident’s family emergency.
I decided to go downstairs and watch some TV, but as I left my room, I could hear Sandra crying in her bedroom. I tapped on her door. “You okay?”
She was sitting in bed with a book on her lap, her face buried in her hands. She mumbled something in Spanish as I took a seat at the foot of her bed. “Sandra, what’s wrong? What’s the matter?”
She wiped her face with the edge of her bedsheet, sighing and carrying on and on. I braced myself, trying to figure out what in the world could have happened in the ten minutes I was on the phone with Tucker.
“It’s just . . . it’s just . . . oh, it’s just so sad. I can’t bear it.”
Someone must have died. A family member back in Puerto Rico? Sandra was the only member of her family who lived in the states. She’d come to America to go to college, graduating from Mississippi College, a Baptist women’s school not far from Memphis. I’d had trouble imagining my spunky little roommate at a women-only school. She was so high-spirited and expressive—and oh, how she loved to flirt. She took the art to a whole new level. I couldn’t even begin to imagine her towing the line at a small Baptist college with no male students.
“Sandra, did someone die?” I asked quietly.
She shot me the strangest look. “What?”
“I mean, you’re obviously upset and crying and—”
Her mouth formed a long, oval “O” just before she broke out laughing. “No!” she said, sucking in air between her guffaws. “No! It’s Anna Karenina! She’s in this impossible situation, and she’s pregnant with the count’s son but her husband refuses to give her a divorce and warns her if she leaves him, she’ll never see their son Seryozha again. Then the count’s horse falls, throwing the count off, and the horse has to be shot and . . . and it’s all so terribly tragic, I can hardly bear to read another word.” Sandra blubbered through the woeful tale, hardly taking a breath as she rambled on.
I swatted her leg and rolled my eyes. “Don’t do that to me! I thought something bad had happened.”
“It did! I just told you! Anna is in this impossible situation and—”
“Well, don’t let me interrupt.” I stood up and headed toward the door. “I wouldn’t want to intrude on your heartache.”
“Oh, stop,” she teased, still cackling. “I can’t help it. It’s the most beautiful love story. Hey, I’m starving. Want to go to Frankie’s for some fried pepper rings?”
Sandra could switch gears faster than anyone I knew. I loved that about her.
“Be still my heart,” I quipped, dashing to my room to find my flip flops. “Do they have fried green tomatoes too?”
“To die for!” she yelled. “In fact, we’ll get the Fried Sampler Plate and try them all!”
I could feel the fat jumping on my thighs with the mere
thought of it, but that didn’t slow me down. Less than fifteen minutes later, we were sitting in a booth at the cozy pub. We placed our order and sipped our drinks while we waited.
“I’m pretty sure the waitress was smirking when we ordered these diet drinks with that plate of fried veggies,” I noted.
“Yes, but did you see her?” Sandra whispered. “She hardly has room to talk. How many chins did she have? Three? Four? I lost count.”
I flicked her wrist. “Stop! That’s so mean. We’re in no position to make snarky remarks about someone else’s weight issues. Well, at least not me. How is it that you eat so much and never gain an ounce?”
She took a sip of her Tab and sat back. “Don’t I wish. I’ve got to start running again now that the weather’s so nice. I’ve gained half a pound since Christmas.”
“Half a pound?” I scoffed. “Please. I gain half a pound just thinking about food.”
“So we should start getting some exercise. Do you play racquetball?”
“Love it. I played all the time in college.”
“Great. I’ll get us a court time. They have four courts at your church, you know.”
“My church? I don’t have a church here.”
“Okay, fine, whatever. First Baptist. Didn’t you go there Sunday with your friends?”
“Well, yes, but it’s not my church.”
Sandra pursed her lips. “Well, it’s not mine either, but I play racquetball there all the time. I also have dinner there on Wednesday nights. Best deal in town. Only $3 for a full-course dinner including beverage and dessert. Lots of the girls in the office go.”
“You’re kidding me. Just for the food?”
“No, silly. Several of them attend church there, but there are a few of us who just come for the bennies.”
“Bennies?” I asked.
“Benefits. Oh, here we are!” The waitress placed an enormous platter in the center of the table. “Get a load of these babies!”
It was easily the biggest appetizer platter I’d ever seen. But I had a feeling we’d make a serious dent in it. Fried green and red pepper strips, fried green tomatoes, fried mushrooms, fried pickles . . . all surrounding a small bowl of buttermilk dipping sauce. Heaven!
Once we got past the initial moaning over the delectable flavors, we continued our conversation.
“So, Wednesday after work,” Sandra began, wiping her mouth with her napkin, “we can just go straight from the hospital to the church. They start serving at 5:00. You’ll love it. We fill up a whole table. Well, not just girls from work. Some of the singles too.”
Uh oh. I wondered if Tucker and Cassie were Wednesday night regulars.
“Wait, I just remembered,” I said. “I have a 4:15 appointment with Dr. Love.”
Her brows arched up her face. “Dr. J. Thomas Love? The pastor?”
I felt my face warm. “Well, yeah, I met him on Sunday and . . . it turns out he knows my dad and wanted me to stop by and say hello.” I said that last part a little too fast. Well, it’s true. All of it. No reason to tell her more, right?
“Oh,” she said, clearly perplexed. “That’s fine. You can just come downstairs and join us when you’re done.”
I dragged another pepper strip through the dressing, eager to change the subject. “Tell me how you ended up in Memphis, of all places. You were born in San Juan, right?”
“Born and raised. I have two brothers and three sisters, all younger than me. They’re all still there with Mama and Papa. My father has a sugar cane farm. He does very well. At least by Puerto Rican standards, anyway. But when I was about to graduate from high school, he told me he wanted me to come to the states to go to college. He had ambitions for his children, particularly his girls.”
“How did you know which school to go to?”
“We had some good friends who were missionaries in San Juan. They were originally from Mississippi and spoke so lovingly of it, I knew it’s where I wanted to go. In fact, Aileen was an MC grad, so I never really considered going anywhere else.”
“Mississippi College. But it’s a girls’ school. I’m still having trouble visualizing you in a girls’ school.”
She laughed. “I know! I don’t exactly fit the profile, do I? But it was really an easy decision. Papa said I’d either go to a girls’ school or not at all. He had ambitions for me, but he’s also very, very protective.”
I tried to picture this man, wondering what he was like. I’d seen a few photographs in Sandra’s room, but hadn’t paid close attention. “Is he short like you? Your father?” I asked.
“Who says I’m short?” she barked. “Back home, I’m not short. Papa, he is much taller than I am. At least 5’5”. But every inch of it muscle and determination.”
“That explains a lot. And your mother?”
Sandra’s smiled widened. “Ah, mi madre. As wide as she is tall with a heart to match. Oh my goodness, can she cook. Someday I should take you home with me. Just so you can taste her tamales. She’s known for them. Famous. Oh, what I would give to have one of those right now.”
I tossed my napkin on my plate. “How can you even think of food right now? I’m so full, I can hardly breathe.”
She forked another green tomato. “That would be fun—you coming home with me sometime. We’ll have to do that one of these days.”
“I’d like that. I really would,” I said, trying not to belch.
“Ah, then you’d get to meet Pedro . . .” she teased, her eyes waggling mischievously as she chewed.
“Pedro? Is he one of your brothers?”
She cackled again, high and loud. “No! Pedro is my boy. My man. El amor de mi vida.”
“Your boyfriend?”
She shook her head, her dark curls bouncing wildly. “No, no, no. Pedro is not my boyfriend. Pedro is my parrot.”
Now it was my turn to laugh. I’d been envisioning some dark, handsome young man, suitable for my little friend here. “Your parrot?”
“Oh, he’s gorgeous, my Pedro. He’s a Yellow Headed Amazon. Smart as a whip. Next time I call home, I’ll let you talk to him.”
“He talks?”
“Good heavens, he talks more than I do. Never shuts up until we cover his cage at night.”
“You mean he just carries on conversations, like you or me?”
She took a long sip of her Tab. “Oh, you should hear him. He’ll ask about your day, ask you what time it is, tell you how beautiful you are—I taught him that one, of course.”
You would have thought she was talking about her firstborn child the way her face beamed with pride. Then again, you’d rarely see her without a smile lighting up her face and those dark lashes accenting eyes that rarely stopped dancing.
“I’ll show you pictures when we get back to the townhouse. He’s ridiculously handsome, but he knows it too.”
“Is it hard teaching a parrot to talk?” I asked, pushing my plate aside.
“Not at all. You just start early, and never let an opportunity pass without talking to him. Tell him what you’re doing, what you’re feeding him, where you’re going, that sort of thing. Eventually he starts mimicking you. It’s hilarious. Of course, at first it just sounds like babble. Then gradually it gets more distinct. He’s quite brilliant, if I say so myself.”
“Has he ever embarrassed you? Said something you weren’t expecting in front of someone else?”
She laughed again. “Oh my goodness, yes. But the funniest is when he flirts.”
“Gee, I wonder where he learned that?”
“Not from my brother Carlos, that’s for sure. Carlos taught him all kinds of dirty stuff. Well, not dirty like obscene, so much. More suggestive, but silly, you know what I mean?”
“Like what?”
“Like, when one of Carlos’ girlfriends visits, Pedro will ask her what color undies she’s wearing.”
I almost fell off my chair. “No!”
“Or he’ll pester them saying, ‘What yo’ number? What yo’ number?’ Then, ‘
Dump the loser, call me! Dump the loser, call me!’”
I couldn’t stop laughing, as much at her imitation of Pedro as his antics.
“And if he’s really feeling bold, he’ll say, ‘One on the lips. One on the lips. Dump the loser, one on the lips!’ Sometimes we laugh so hard we need oxygen.”
She ordered another Tab and told me more of Pedro’s adventures and boisterous vocabulary. I was about ready to ask for a canister of oxygen myself. Finally we left our fried heaven and made our way home, sufficiently covered with grease and aching from so much laughter.
We climbed in my loaner and headed home.
Sandra rubbed her hands together. “Next time I’ll tell you about Pedro’s secret mission. You see, he’s actually my secret weapon . . .”
Chapter 9
Wednesday, as soon as we got off work, Sandra and I drove the short distance to First Baptist. She was planning to camp out in the library since she was on the hunt for a book she’d been trying to find. I made my way down to the church offices where I told the receptionist I had an appointment with Dr. Love. She introduced herself as Dorothea Foster. I think? I’m pretty sure I counted fourteen syllables in her first name alone. Thickest Southern drawl I’d ever heard.
“He-uhll be raughhht wee-uth you, Shehhhlby,” she said.
I pressed my lips together to hide my smile, then thanked her.
“Juhhst hayuv uh sea-uht ovah thayah on the sohhfah,” she said with a wink.
I took-my-seat-on-the-sofa, wondering how in the world different dialects came to be. I loved a good Southern accent, but sometimes it felt like you needed waders just to tip-toe through the pronunciation. I often thought many of them were affected and put-on. It was a common practice for some of the girls I’d known growing up in Birmingham. And Samford had more than its share of accents with a side of thick. But I had no doubt that the delightful melody accompanying Dorothea’s greeting was 100 percent the real deal.
Less than a couple minutes later, Dr. Love welcomed me into his office. The comforting scent of cigar lingered in the well-appointed room. Instead of sitting behind his large desk, he came around to sit across from me in two face-to-face leather wingback chairs.
