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 fi
ngers. 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.
Graceland Page 33
