He unrolls his window to let the warm air in and get a better view of his house. And there they are, waiting for him. Every time he comes home he worries they’ll be gone and he’ll have to walk through his new gates alone, unwatched. As fast as this thing began, it might disappear. The girls will scream at somebody else. They won’t be merely indifferent to him, they’ll hate him. He’s heard them booing the warm-up acts to his show, just because those entertainers are not Elvis Presley. Pretty soon, he might not be the Elvis Presley that they want.
But, for now, here they are, and he can’t help grinning. There are more girls than usual: maybe forty, aged from around thirteen to sixteen, some clutching gifts, all in their best clothes. They’ll have heard that Elvis will be back in town; he’s playing Russwood Park tonight. A few of them touch the new fence lovingly; some do not take their eyes from the house, drinking in the place where he lives. Mostly, though, they are chatting among themselves, clearly not expecting to see him at this hour.
‘What’s going on here?’ asks the driver, laughing in disbelief at the sight of so many young ladies crowding the pavement.
‘That’s my house, sir.’
The driver swivels his head around. ‘It is?’
‘Maybe drop me a little way along the road.’
As the car comes close to the house, a few of the girls recognise Elvis, and there are squeals. Some rush to the kerbside, waving and calling his name. Others stay back, clutching the gates for support, jaws open.
The cab pulls in just beyond ten thirty-four.
‘Who they waiting for?’ the driver asks.
Elvis pushes a few bills into the driver’s hand. ‘Sir, I have absolutely no idea,’ he says, climbing out.
On the sidewalk, the girls come to a halt a few yards before him, suddenly shy. One bites her own hand. One lets out little yelps like a pup. But mostly they just stare. Forty pairs of young female eyes are on him, and they are hungry for detail.
‘Well, good morning, ladies,’ Elvis says, holding the acetates loosely by his side. ‘It sure is good to see y’all.’
This is not like after a show. Here the girls stand and gawp and giggle, but they keep a respectful distance. And it is a wonderful thing, to be so observed, so loved, by these young women. All thoughts of his aching feet are gone. He keeps walking towards his house, and they part to let him through. He’s learned that it’s important to keep moving, so you don’t have to push anybody out of the way. That would be bad manners. After all, they have done this for him. It is thanks to them that he can ride home in a taxi to his new house on Audubon. It’s what he says in any interview the Colonel allows him to give (and they are getting fewer): Without them, I’d still be driving a truck.
‘Elvis!’ A plump girl, younger than the rest, gasps and touches his arm with damp fingers.
‘Hello, honey.’ He smiles, letting his eyes rest on hers for a moment. And keeps moving.
Record sleeves are thrust towards him. He signs each one with his now-practised flourish, and thanks the girls for buying his music. And keeps moving.
‘Whatcha got there, Elvis?’
‘My new records, honey. Y’all be able to buy them soon enough.’
Another squeal. He laughs at the strangeness of it, that high-pitched wail of female hysteria splitting the polished air of Audubon Drive before ten in the morning.
One of them, he notices, is petite, dark-haired, bright-eyed in the way he especially likes. Around fourteen, he guesses. Dressed in a pretty little cap-sleeved blouse and blue skirt. Reaching the gate, he stops and holds his hand out to her, and she clasps it.
‘Thank you,’ she mouths.
‘My pleasure, sweetheart.’ He kisses her surprised cheek, letting his lips linger there. She exhales a shuddering breath, which smells powerfully of bubblegum.
‘What’s your name?’ he whispers.
‘Frances,’ she gasps.
Then he straightens up and waves. ‘I gotta go see my folks, girls.’
They stay respectfully behind the iron gates. Halfway to the house, he turns and waves again, and the girls, glassy-eyed, give a collective squeal.
By now Vernon is opening the front door. They shake hands and clap one another on the back. Vernon wastes no time in stepping beyond his son, gawping at the girls and waving. Elvis lets it go, because Gladys is waiting in the hallway.
She’s wearing the new summer dress that he bought her, and her smile is bright, but, seeing the shadows beneath her eyes, he has to look away. He puts his acetates on the hall table, then falls gratefully into her embrace.
‘Son,’ she says. ‘It’s been so long.’
‘Baby.’
It’s been ten days. But now he’s home he feels he’s been away for years. He closes his eyes and inhales her scent. It is the only thing that is familiar about this house, and he tries not to notice that other smell on her, the one that’s been there ever since he started making records. She’s drinking more and more, he knows it. He’s seen the empty bottles of Schlitz beer, stashed in paper sacks beneath the drainer. As if paper could hide them. It’s like she wants him to know.
‘We saw you on the TV show last night. You were wonderful. We’re so proud of you.’
She’s said it so many times now, but every time it makes him smile.
‘Funny thing, singing to that dog,’ says Vernon.
Lifting his head, Elvis says, ‘About as funny as a crutch.’
‘You must be hungry,’ says Gladys.
‘I ain’t had nothing but sandwiches since I left. I didn’t want to touch a thing you ain’t made for me.’
‘I’ll fix you some breakfast.’
‘I wanna get in the pool first, Mama.’
‘There’s a problem with the pool, son.’ Vernon has shut the door and is beckoning Elvis to look out of the kitchen window.
‘Thing won’t fill. I tried everything.’
Elvis stays exactly where he is, close to his mother. ‘There’s no water in the pool?’
‘It just won’t fill.’
A pause. ‘Where’s Barbara?’
‘She’s on her way,’ says Vernon. ‘We didn’t think you’d get here till later. Colonel said—’
‘What use is a pool without water?’
Gladys steps in. ‘Maybe Elvis can fix it. Why don’t you two go take a look together?’
‘Not now. Let me use the bathroom first.’
His voice is sharper than he’d intended, and the look descends onto Gladys’s face. Since that time she’d carried him from the stage, something has shrunk within her, and now she wears this look more often. It’s the look of a woman lost in something she cannot understand. Sometimes she stares into space for the longest time with this look on her face. Even in the beautiful house he’s bought her, standing on this thick carpet, she wears this look! It makes him mad to see her pull it now, after he’s been gone so long.
Vernon steps aside to let his son pass. But Elvis can’t remember how the house is laid out, and he pauses, unsure.
‘It’s at the end of the hall, son,’ says Gladys, quietly. ‘First on the right.’
There are seven rooms in this house, and Elvis has yet to work out what they’re all for. The one next to his is full of the hundreds of teddy bears he’s received from his fans. Gladys has told him she goes in there when he’s away and shakes the dust off each one, patting down their synthetic fur and rearranging them so they don’t get misshapen. Sometimes she plays the tunes they have hidden in their bellies. He knows some of them arrive wrapped in girls’ underthings, and that Gladys keeps those, too, in a trunk out beneath the car porch. He’s not sure if she can’t bear to put them in the trash, or if she just doesn’t want him looking at them.
He closes the door to his bedroom, which is at the back of the house. The room still smells of the earthiness of new plaster. Gladys had it decorated, as he’d asked her to, with pale yellow paper, flecked bright blue and orange. He wishes he could peek at the girls – he can he
ar the buzz of their voices from here – but instead he has a view of his father, son-of-a-bitching at the pool as he wrestles with the hose. When Vernon stumbles on a cinderblock the construction people have left in the yard, he curses louder.
Elvis sits on his bed and removes his sport coat and shirt, then flings them in a corner. His mother will pick them up later. She’ll be glad to do it, after he’s been away for so long.
On the flouncy white coverlet is a stuffed blue dog. Gazing into its sad, slightly uneven eyes, he thinks again of singing to that basset hound on The Steve Allen Show. At first, he hadn’t minded wearing the tux the producers had insisted upon: in it, he’d felt sharp and powerful. He could be Dean Martin in that tux! He could be better than Sinatra! Everyone in the New York studio would respect him in such clothes. They’d know that he meant business. But then the director had greeted him with a firm handshake and the words, ‘What are you doing to my daughter?’ His gaze snagged on Elvis’s hair. ‘You’re driving my little girl to distraction.’
‘I’m sure sorry to hear that, sir—’
‘Are you aware of what you do, onstage? All that grinding. You can’t be, can you?’
‘Well, I—’
‘Don’t get me wrong. I wish you all the luck in the world, son, and I’m glad to have you on the show but … personally? I’m not sure what you do is suitable for young Americans. Think about it. Would you let your own daughter watch something like that on television?’
There was a pause. Then Elvis said, very quietly, ‘Sir, I think you oughta give your little girl what she wants.’
The director’s gaze fell squarely on Elvis’s face. ‘My little girl already has exactly what she wants. Enjoy yourself, now.’
And then they’d brought the dog on. The thing was sweating and terrified and kept letting off the most gut-turning farts. But even that had amused Elvis, at first. He’d goofed around in rehearsal, still enjoying the tux, putting the dog’s top hat on his own head. Everybody had laughed, the director perhaps the most. When the cameras rolled, Elvis grabbed the dog by the mouth and got a handful of warm slobber. He felt the stuff slide beneath his new ring. Wiping his fingers on his black pants, he suddenly saw himself as Gladys would see him that night on her television set: wailing to a stupid animal, trussed up like a turkey. Nobody would remember the song. They’d just remember the dog in the top hat.
He punches the stuffed dog on the nose, once, twice, driving it into the coverlet. Then he holds it close to his face and whispers, Sorry, doggie, I’m sorry. The thing is a present from a fan, after all, and has hearts and kisses drawn on its label.
The doorbell chimes, and, hearing Barbara’s voice, he throws the dog to the floor and dashes from the room.
She is waiting for him in the living room. Next to her sits Dodger, who has taken to the new house better than any of them, and appears relaxed on the cream couch, even though her ramrod face hardly ever cracks.
He kisses his grandmother’s loose cheek first. ‘Where’s Mama?’
‘Where do you reckon? In the kitchen, fixing you something good to eat.’
‘Hi, sweetheart.’ He kisses Barbara, right in the dip between her earlobe and neck, just below her pearl-cluster earring, which makes her draw back. She’s looking, he knows, at his bare chest, and is clearly embarrassed to see him in such a state of undress with two ladies in this pristine room. But he won’t apologise. She ought to have been here when he arrived, as she’d promised.
The wood panelling in here makes it shadowy, even on a bright morning, and Elvis moves impatiently around the room, flicking on all the lamps. When he’s on the road, he sends one home from every town, selecting the most elaborate models he can find. He wants his mama to have every corner of every room lit up; there should be no gloomy spots in this house.
Then he produces his acetates from behind his back and puts one on the turntable. ‘You wanna hear my new recordings?’
‘Sure I do,’ says Barbara, smoothing her white dress over her knees.
‘This one’s called “Don’t Be Cruel”.’
As the bass line hits, he hovers next to the player, then, seeing nobody else is moving, sits on the couch. Barbara and Dodger stare at the black-and-gold standing ashtrays as if the furniture is singing the song, not him. He leans back on the nubbly fabric, pretending not to care. He can’t help glancing at Barbara’s face, though, watching for signs of indifference. When he hears himself make the low, slightly comic, Hmmm! he’s disappointed that she doesn’t smile. She just stares at the ashtray, fiddling with her earring.
He knows that whatever she says won’t be enough to convince him that she loves it as much as she should. Barbara likes it best when he sings ballads. Sometimes they sit at the organ together and try her favourite duet, ‘Make Believe’ from Show Boat.
He’s up before the song finishes, changing the acetate to ‘Hound Dog’. This time he stands over her, willing her to move or react. He winces slightly when he hears a note he wishes he’d sung better, but he knows it’s a good record. At his urging, they’d done thirty-one takes, and, for once, everyone in the studio had listened when he told them what he wanted, what he thought the song could be, if only they could get it right.
By the second chorus he can stand it no more. He grabs Barbara by the wrists and yanks her to her feet. ‘Dance with me,’ he says.
She rocks back and forth on her heels, ducks beneath his arm when he holds it out, and smiles. He takes the opportunity to plant a wet kiss on her mouth but she pushes him gently away, glancing at Dodger.
Dodger tuts, then hauls herself from the couch. ‘An old woman can tell when she ain’t wanted,’ she says, leaving the room.
The two of them look at each other and laugh.
‘That wasn’t nice, Elvis. Poor Mrs Presley.’
‘Forget her. What do you think of my records?’
‘They’re wonderful. The best yet.’ Her black eyes shine.
‘Do you really think so?’
‘I do.’
‘They’re for you, baby.’
Then she lets him hold her tightly, and doesn’t resist when he runs a hand up her skirt.
Elvis takes Red to the Mid-South Fairgounds to spend some time throwing balls at bottles; knocking coconuts off plinths; shooting targets; riding the Pippin, the Whip and the Tumblebug; and winning teddy bears. Aware of how difficult it will be to do this unnoticed, he wears a trilby pulled down low and a pair of sunglasses. Seeing him, Red smirks. ‘You look just like Elvis Presley in that,’ he says.
It’s the night after the Russwood Park show. It isn’t long before a crowd gathers, alerted to Elvis’s presence by the roar of his Harley-Davidson, and it takes Red and him an hour to reach the shooting gallery. All the way, Elvis knows that Red is keeping one eye peeled for trouble, but he also knows that his friend is watching him as he thanks his well-wishers, signs anything they hand over, and kisses almost every cheek offered, while Red himself is ignored or pushed aside. So it comes as little surprise to Elvis when, after they’ve managed to get to the Walking Charlies and he’s aiming to smack another moving dummy with a baseball, a fight breaks out.
‘He ain’t no fucking faggot!’ he hears Red yell.
By the corner of the stall, Red has a blonde boy, no older than fifteen, by the collar, and he’s raising his fist.
Elvis makes a lunge for his friend, grabbing him round the waist, trying to drag him back.
But Red digs his heels into the grass, twists free, and lands a right hook on the boy’s jaw. Elvis hears the crunch of bone on bone. The boy collapses into the canvas side of the stall. Just moments ago, the crowd had been cheering for Elvis as he tried to sock those Charlies right in the mouth and win a teddy bear for anybody who asked him. Now everybody goes quiet.
Elvis backs away from his friend.
Red glares at him. ‘What do you expect?’ he yells. ‘Your mama asked me to protect you!’
On the grass, the boy holds his bleeding face and whimpe
rs. Several older women have clustered about him, making dismayed noises. Behind, the dummies keep rolling along, grinning.
Before Elvis can decide whether to check on the boy, yell at Red, or turn and run, the stall’s owner appears, flanked by a couple of heavy-looking guys. ‘Mr Presley,’ he says, an excited expression on his leathery face, ‘your friend here better come with me to see a police officer, don’t you reckon?’
As he’s led away, Red doesn’t look back, and Elvis doesn’t call after him.
* * *
When they’d worked together at Britling’s Cafeteria downtown, Gladys had been impressed by Alberta Holman, even though the two women barely spoke. Gladys had poured the coffee and taken the orders while Alberta assisted the chef in the kitchen. Alberta always wore her hair in a red net and kept her apron cleaner than the other cooks did. She was careful to arrange food neatly on a plate, and not to let tomato juice slop over the lip, or leave grease smudged on the underside. Gladys noticed, too, that Alberta kept the dishes warm but not overheated; she never burned her hand on one of Alberta’s plates. Like the other coloured workers at Britling’s, Alberta addressed Gladys as ‘Miss Gladys’, and never initiated a conversation with a white member of staff. But when Gladys had asked her during one brief lull in the lunchtime shift about her family, Alberta had told her that they’d moved from the country, too, in search of more regular work, and a better life.
So when Vernon suggests that now is the time for the Presleys to hire a housekeeper, Gladys thinks of Alberta.
‘I’ll call Britling’s,’ she says, ‘and offer her the job.’
It is early evening, and they are hiding from the August sun beneath the umbrellas on their patio. Elvis is away again, having recently left for California to make his movie – the first of seven he’s signed up for – but there are still a handful of girls peeking through the fence which runs around their backyard. Vernon has dragged an electric fan out and occasionally it blows the front of his unbuttoned shirt open, revealing the sweaty folds of his stomach. Gladys eyes them distastefully, but decides against chiding her husband in the presence of the fans.
Graceland Page 29
