by Micah Nathan
ALSO BY MICAH NATHAN
Gods of Aberdeen
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2011 by Micah Nathan
All rights reserved.
Cover design by Claudine G. Mansour.
Cover photograph © Bettman Corbis
Published in the United States by Broadway Paperbacks, an imprint of the Crown Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.
www.crownpublishing.com
Broadway Paperbacks and its logo, a letter B bisected on the diagonal, are trademarks of Random House, Inc.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Nathan, Micah.
Losing Graceland: a novel / Micah Nathan.—1st trade pbk. ed.
p. cm.
1. Young men—Fiction. 2. College graduates—Fiction. 3. Older men—Fiction. 4. Presley, Elvis, 1935-1977—Sightings—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3614.A86L67 2010
813′.6—dc22 2010012376
eISBN: 978-0-307-59136-4
v3.1
For Mom and Dad
Every time I think that I’m getting old, and gradually going to the grave, something else happens.
—Elvis Presley
Contents
Cover
Other Books by This Author
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Epigraph
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Acknowledgments
About the Author
1.
en Fish stood on the front porch of the old man’s house and squinted in the morning sun. It was a small brick ranch, three windows with miniblinds and crooked flower boxes set along the front. Across the street children ran and screamed through a sprinkler shaped like a fire hydrant. Ben pushed the doorbell. He took a deep breath. He looked back over his shoulder, at a towheaded child in orange shorts sitting on the neighbor’s lawn. The child held his knee and cried while pulsating water soaked his hair and dripped down his arms.
The old man rapped on the inside of his window and spread the miniblinds apart. Ben saw the faint outline of a mouth, and the pads of his fingers pressed to the dusty glass.
“You Ben?” The glass fogged as he spoke.
“Yes, sir.”
“Tell me what happened to that boy.”
“Pardon?”
“The crying boy. Sitting in the sprinkler. What happened to him.”
“I don’t know,” Ben said. “I think he hurt his knee.”
“His knee, huh.”
Ben heard the clack of a dead bolt and the door creaked open. He saw the sliver of a dim living room, books stacked waist high. Pools of scattered papers. A brown plaid couch. The edge of a black robe. The man’s face stayed hidden behind the door, but his voice was clear and strong, with a whisper of Southern accent. Every word ended softly.
“How’s the boy now?”
Ben glanced across the street. The towheaded child laughed, arms held straight overhead, back arched. He screamed with pleasure as he splashed through puddles on the sidewalk.
“He looks okay,” Ben said.
“Tough kid. You tough?”
“I guess.”
“You guess. Well, that’s a big and fast car in my garage. I need someone who can handle big and fast.” The old man poked his head around the edge of the door. Half his face stayed hidden in shadow. He narrowed his eye.
Ben fumbled in his creased leather bag and took out a sheet of paper with a photocopy of his license paper-clipped to the corner.
“Driving record?” the man said.
“Yes, sir. I should explain the stop sign—”
A wrinkled hand snatched it from Ben, and he saw the flash of a ring, a wide gold band with a lightning bolt. The door clicked shut. Seconds later it creaked open again. The eye returned.
“Says here you ran a stop sign four years ago.”
“That’s what I was trying to tell you. I was seventeen.”
“That an excuse?”
“Yes.”
“Good excuse,” the old man said. “Meet me in the garage.”
Ben stood by the old man’s car. It was a long, low car from the fifties, and it looked like it hadn’t been driven since—dull white-walls, flat tires, pitted chrome runners, and yellowed headlights with glass thick as Coke bottles. Ben peered through the passenger window. He saw cobwebs running from black leather steering wheel to black leather driver’s seat. A set of golf clubs sat in the back, dusty irons and woods packed into a leather bag that looked like it would break apart at the first touch.
A push broom leaned against the garage wall, under the light switch, next to a bag of mulch and a garden spade with dried dirt pasted to its blade. The old man ran his hands along the car’s hood. Thick dust piled against his fingers. He wore sweatpants and a black terry-cloth robe, brown leather belt cinched around the waist. His shoes were brown leather loafers with tassels. He tossed a key to Ben without looking at him and clapped his hands clean.
“Nineteen fifty-eight Ford Fairlane Skyliner,” the old man said. “They don’t make this color red anymore.”
He had to be an Elvis impersonator, Ben figured. His hair, his mannerisms, the way he talked; it added up to a decrepit version of Elvis, a copy of a copy of a copy, faded and creased, but its source material was unmistakable. And he even looked a little like Elvis, as much as an old, fat Elvis impersonator looks like anything other than an old, fat Elvis impersonator. Puffy cheeks, thick wide nose, jowled chin dusted with baby powder. Thinning hair dyed black as tire rubber, greased into a high wedge, a line of dye ringing his high forehead. He had the hint of an involuntary sneer, a wrinkled curl to his upper lip. Or maybe, Ben thought, he just saw it that way because the sneer was synonymous with Elvis. You couldn’t see one without thinking of the other, and you couldn’t think of one without seeing the other.
“Colors are made from formulas,” the old man continued. “And this cherry red was a secret some sonofabitch scientist took to his grave.”
“It’s impressive,” Ben said.
“Goddamn right it is. Now start her up.”
He slid in through the passenger door, smelling old cigarettes and dry leather. The seat creaked. A napped layer of dust blanketed the dashboard. Ketchup packets lay beneath the brake pedal, next to paper cups, fast-food wrappers, and crumpled receipts.
Ben turned the key and nothing happened. He turned it again and looked at the old man through the windshield, shrugging.
The old man pulled his robe closer. “Pop the hood.”
He lifted it with a grunt, then stepped back and put his hands on his hips.
“Sonofabitch,” the old man said. “I can’t remember who I loaned the engine to.”
They took Ben’s car, a little Honda hatchback that the old man cursed at while he squeezed himself into the seat.
“How much did you pay for this piece of shit?” the old man said.
“Two grand,” Ben said.
“In 1962 I paid five for that Fairlane. Take a right on Porter.”
The morning sun ricocheted off the Honda�
��s hood and Ben put on his sunglasses, but the old man stared straight into the glare, tapping his fingers on one knee. He’d changed into red sweatpants and a matching red sweatshirt. He still wore his brown loafers. His gold lightning bolt ring glowed.
“You know Sal’s?” the old man said.
“I’m not that familiar with this area—”
“Five miles down. Can’t miss it. Big old sign says ‘Sal’s.’ ”
“What’s at Sal’s?”
“Something to replace my Fairlane. We got a lot of driving ahead.”
Ben saw the ad two days ago, buried in the classifieds under telemarketing jobs and offers for home massages:
DRIVER NEEDED SEVEN DAYS EXCELLENT
PAY NO DRUGGIES DRUNKS OR FELONS.
He called the number on a Tuesday night after he’d had a few beers. The old man told him to show up at his address at eight A.M. sharp, and when Ben asked if he should bring anything, the old man said a driving record. How about my résumé, Ben said, and the old man said a man’s face is his résumé, then he hung up and left Ben wondering if he should bother.
But he bothered because for the first time in his life he had no other plans. His final semester was over, Jessica had still dumped him, and his options—going back home, or staying in town and working another summer at the Palisade Mall folding ties at Harold’s—would lead to an existential crisis. A genuine existential crisis, not like the trust-fund kids who wander Europe, searching for authenticity in hostels. He wouldn’t emerge from his summer mall job a better person; he’d emerge defeated, having thrown up his hands at the age of twenty-one. An office job by twenty-three, married with one child by thirty, living in his hometown, feigning interest in lawn mowers and gutter guards, and forever lamenting the missed opportunities of his youth. His midlife crisis would come early, the outcome preordained.
He knew he couldn’t live with his mom back home, because remnants of his dead father lay all over the house. His dad’s winter wool jacket still hung in the garage. His old sneakers were buried in the front closet, his razor sat in the medicine cabinet, his stained sweatshirt waited on the washing machine, collecting lint and dark globs of spilled laundry detergent. His ghost sat at the kitchen table and listened in on Ben’s conversations with his mom. His ghost opened the door to Ben’s old room and peered in, before disappearing into shadow and dust.
Sometimes Ben dreamt of his dad, quiet dreams where no one spoke. They just walked, Ben along a dirt road, his father up ahead. Past dark blue forests, their steps marked by the crunch of gravel and the chants of cicadas hidden deep within the brush. He could never catch up and his father never slowed down. The first few times Ben had tried to shout but found his voice lost. Choked and suffocated; no breath for a whisper. In subsequent dreams he learned to only trudge along, looking for evidence of his dad in footprints.
No one had warned him how frustrating grief was. How it lingered long past its welcome, past the first few months when it cleansed like a fast. At first he’d felt special, almost chosen. Not anymore, Ben realized. In the year since his father’s death, the grief had gone rotten; he could smell its stink everywhere, like foul meat carried in his pocket.
Ben pulled his Honda into Sal’s Used Cars, where hopefuls lined up with balloons whipsawing at the ends of string tied to side-view mirrors and antennas. The old man told Ben to wait in the car. He pulled himself out with a grunt, smoothed back his hair, and tugged at the bottom of his red sweatshirt.
Sal was halfway across the lot before the old man made it to the first row.
“Morning, chief,” Sal said, blue tie flapping in the wind. “You ready to sell that Skyliner?”
“No,” the old man said, “but I need a car.”
Sal eyed the Honda. “Trade-in?”
“Ain’t mine.”
“Then how about that Skyliner.”
“Now listen,” the old man said. “If you ask me again—”
Sal waved him off. “I’m just doing what I do, chief. You know I’d kick myself if I didn’t ask twice.” He flashed his bleached teeth and rubbed the lobe of his plucked ear. “That cherry red gets me hard. Some son of a bitch scientist took the secret to his—”
“I know the story,” the old man said. “I’m looking for something big and fast. Low miles. Good AC.”
Sal turned on his heels and surveyed his lot with a frown. He repeated “big and fast,” over and over.
“How does an ’eighty-six Olds sound?”
The old man shook his head.
“ ’Ninety-eight Pathfinder?”
“That an SUV?”
Sal nodded.
“I’m driving to Memphis,” the old man said. “Not the jungles of Zaire.”
“Well, then, I’m afraid all I got left is a 1965 Cadillac El Dorado Seville. Custom supercharged V8. Wisteria on white, stainless and chrome.”
The old man thought for a moment.
“All right, Sal. Let’s see the goddamn thing.”
He sat in the driver’s seat, in the far corner of the lot. Sun had warmed the steering wheel; the leather smelled like summer.
“What’s wrong with it?” the old man said.
Sal grinned. “Nothing. Start her up.”
He revved the engine. He closed his eyes and revved again. He knew he was in the back lot of a used-car dealer in Cheektowaga, New York—the kind of town where strip malls were mountains and a puddle of sprinkler water on a suburban sidewalk the ocean—but he saw her anyway. A laughing beauty queen sitting next to him, her long legs dangling out the window and the wind caressing her auburn hair. Pink polish on her pink little toes, a glittering anklet, pink shorts hiked up to the top of her smooth tan thighs. She’d been a dancer; a winner of local pageants; a churchgoing girl. When she sang hymns, her perfect little mouth turned into a tight O and her red lipstick looked like the color of fresh roses after a spring rain. She squeezed his arm and he pressed the pedal, head thrown back, howling.
Back when I rambled, he thought. A rambler roaring through the world, drinking oceans dry and chopping down mountains.
“Hey, chief. Watch the RPMs.”
The old man opened his eyes. He took a deep breath, staring at his hands still gripping the steering wheel. Wrinkled hands the color of sand patched with wet spots. Hands that had once dipped into the primordial ooze and brought up life leaking from between his fingers, running down his arm, dripping onto his shoes. Life everyone wanted. They’d kill for a teaspoon of that muck. A fistful of that ooze.
“Now, is she a beauty, or is she a beauty,” Sal said.
“The most beautiful thing I ever seen,” the old man said, and he wiped the tears from his cheeks and reached for his wallet.
2.
MEMPHIS, Tennessee—Nadine Emma Brown, the long-rumored illegitimate granddaughter of Elvis Presley, was reported missing last week from the Taste O’ Sugar gentleman’s club, where Ms. Brown worked as an exotic dancer. In an exclusive DAILY DISH interview, a source close to Ms. Brown revealed that Ms. Brown had possible connections to the Memphis underworld.…
ou finished?”
Ben nodded, and the old man folded the magazine clipping, delicately slipping it back into a coffee-ring-stained manila envelope. Then he asked the waitress for another vanilla Coke and took a few bites of his apple pie.
They sat in an imitation 1950s diner, in a cracked red booth against a wall marked with penciled graffiti and dried spots of food. The 1965 Cadillac El Dorado Seville waited outside the front window. Ben watched a steady string of cars zip down the boulevard, stragglers from the morning commute.
He thought about his meeting last month with the college career adviser, a portly middle-aged man wearing a faded pinstripe shirt stretched to its limits. He’d taken one perfunctory look at Ben’s transcript and asked him what sort of career he wanted.
“I don’t know,” Ben said.
“Well, you majored in anthropology. What about graduate school.”
“I’m not re
ady for a career,” Ben said. “I want to travel, maybe live in Amsterdam for a while.”
“In an anthropological context?”
“What?”
“Isn’t that what anthropologists do? Live in different cultures, take notes …”
“Yeah, but I don’t want to be an anthropologist. I just want to hang out.”
The adviser leaned forward, his chair creaking in protest. “Son, if you don’t want to be an anthropologist, then why did you major in anthropology?”
Ben shrugged. “I liked the professors.”
The waitress set down the vanilla Coke and the old man smiled at her. She blossomed red and walked away, looking over her shoulder, but the old man was focused on Ben.
“I cut that article from a gossip rag,” the old man said. “And I’ve been holding on to it for the past month, trying to figure if it’s true or not. Now, a gossip rag is a gossip rag, and most of what they print I wouldn’t waste on a broke-dick dog. But I always knew I had a granddaughter that never knew me.”
“Nadine,” Ben said.
The old man sipped his Coke and crunched an ice cube. “That’s right. Until last month I thought the days were punishment. Then I was standing in line at the store and on the magazine rack I saw that headline”—he patted the manila envelope—“and I realized that sometimes the days are gods. They bless us with opportunities for redemption, even if we don’t deserve them. Especially if we don’t deserve them. Which brings us to now.”
Ben looked down at his cheeseburger, half eaten with a glob of ketchup squirted out the side.
“I’ll pay you ten thousand to drive me to Memphis,” the old man said. “I’d drive myself, but my eyes aren’t what they were, and we can’t take the highways because everyone goes too goddamn fast. We can’t afford an accident. You understand?”
“Ten thousand?”
“Five thousand now, five thousand when we get there. Cash. However you want it. Twenties, fifties, hundreds. Nickels, dimes, quarters. In a sack or lined up in a briefcase. I’ll cover all expenses—food, drink, hotel. But we won’t be stopping much because we don’t have the time. If something happened to Nadine, we need to get down there quick before the trail grows cold. If I had to guess, I’d say she got herself mixed up with some amateur gunslinger, some low-rent thug looking for young tail and no commitments. Probably had her dealing drugs on the side, pushing profits to him. I been leaned on pretty goddamn hard by those sons of bitches. Back when I didn’t know any better. Back when low-rent thugs looked like high-rent rollers.”
