He’s picked Gloria because he suspects she’ll scream the loudest when their wooden truck ratchets up to the ride’s highest point and tips over the edge of the seventy-foot drop, and he wants to scream right along with her. The air pushes him back in his seat, lifting his hair and pummelling his cheeks. When he opens his mouth to yell, the wind rushes down his throat, almost preventing the sound coming from him. But when he forces it out, closing his eyes and screaming for all he’s worth, it’s ecstasy, this flying through the night in a roller-coaster car with nothing to do but scream and hold on. Elvis yells and yells and yells.
That night he rides the car ten times in a row, screeching into the dark like one of his own fans. And every time he rides it, he pictures the fear on that marine’s face, and tells himself that he had every right to put it there. Any other man would have defended himself. Why should he be different? But he knows he cannot let something like that happen again. If the Colonel finds out, he’ll never let Elvis forget it. Be smart, son, and let those other fools take the rap, he’d say. He must have more guys around at all times. Armed, if necessary.
Much later, in bed, he takes two sleeping pills but he doesn’t tumble directly into oblivion. Instead he travels through several dreams in which he’s back sleepwalking in East Tupelo, the gravel road rough and warm beneath his feet. A truck’s headlamps sweep over him, and he tugs his too-small nightshirt down, aware, suddenly, that anybody could see his peter, that those lights could display everything he thought he’d hidden, and that his mama isn’t coming to save him.
It is as if, for the first time in his life, he is really going home.
At least, this is what Elvis tells himself as he races through the June night with Cliff snoring in the seat beside him. He’s impatient to see his new house, which he visited over Easter but has yet to spend a night in. Hollywood and his latest movie shoot – they had him dance in a jailhouse, which struck him as both ridiculous and wonderful – are finally behind him. Joining Highway 51 into Memphis, he imagines he can already see the glow of the new lights lining his driveway. On the phone, Vernon had complained about that many blue and gold lights making Graceland look like an airport, but he has promised they’ll be working by the time his son gets home.
Elvis guns the engine and sounds the horn, just for the hell of being back in town. He feels as though he owns the whole state. He doesn’t know exactly how much money he has now – he leaves the details to the Colonel, and the counting to Vernon – but he knows it’s more than a million dollars and it keeps on coming. Still, he wishes some special girl were here to witness him whizzing past the motels, the car dealerships and Chenault’s Drive-In. He considers picking up Heidi, Gloria and Frances, or even some girl off the street, just to give them a thrill.
Every night he’s been away, he’s called home and received a report on the latest developments in the decor. Gladys knew exactly what he wanted: purple corduroy drapes and a white couch the length of the entire front wall in the living room; his bedroom to be painted the darkest blue there is, with navy drapes, a white carpet, a mirrored wall and a ten-foot-square bed; and in the front hallway, the ceiling to be painted like a night sky, with stars picked out in tiny bulbs. When they’d moved from house to house and room to room in Tupelo and Memphis (how many times? he’s lost count, but it’s at least fifteen), nowhere had truly belonged to them. Even at Lauderdale Courts, which had felt the most permanent of his homes, the family were not free to choose the colour of the walls. And Audubon Drive, now he looks back on it, could never have been home, with the golf-set surrounding the place. Graceland will be different. He means to write his name on every inch of his new home.
Elvis unwinds his window to take a gulp of the warm, damp Memphis air. The streetlamps stain the dark sky fuzzily orange until he comes close to his house, where trees begin to outnumber lights, and the new developments run out. He slows down to take in the first sight of his mansion. Drawing close to his gates, he nudges Cliff.
‘Wake up, man! We’re home!’
He pushes the thought of the special girl from his mind, because it’s all perfect: the wrought-iron guitar man on each gate is obviously him, but could be seen as a more general symbol of rock ’n’ roll. The blue lights along the driveway lead right up to the house, which is so illuminated it seems to float, shimmering, among the trees. The columns rise up like golden fountains. And there are around thirty fans clustered at the entrance, all starting to wave and call out his name.
Cliff yawns and stretches. ‘Sorry ’bout that,’ he says.
‘Get out there and tell Uncle Vester to open up,’ says Elvis.
Cliff fumbles with the handle and almost trips from the car onto the sidewalk. He inches his way through the crowd. Elvis keeps the engine running, drumming his fingers on the wheel. He smiles and waves to the fans but keeps his window up now, despite their demands. He hasn’t time for them. All he wants is to get inside his house.
Finally the gates swing open and Elvis drives in fast, leaving Cliff to walk up the driveway. He slows a little on the first bend, sounding his horn three times to let them know he’s home. Seeing his parents silhouetted in the doorway, his whole body goes weak, as if washed through, and he has to concentrate on his breathing. It’s like that time at Brother Mansell’s when he was saved. He stops the car and lets the feeling overcome him, half-wondering if he will float up into the trees. Then he lowers his head in prayer, thanking God and Jesse for his success.
Leaving the engine running, he leaps out and jogs the rest of the way, laughing and calling to them.
On the porch, Gladys opens her arms and says, ‘Welcome home, son,’ just as he’d hoped she would. He nestles himself against her and breathes in her good Mama smell.
Inside, there is no canopy of stars, and the drapes are not purple corduroy but ivory brocade, because his mother decided they would hang better. She explains how the electricians couldn’t wire in all the tiny bulbs without weakening the ceiling, but he’s not listening. He’d wanted to bring the sky inside his home, so every time he returned he could look up and see the perfection he’d created right above his head. At night, those glittering stars would have welcomed his guests, letting them know that this was no ordinary house, but a mysterious mansion on the hill, a place where magic happened. Ever since he first set foot in the place, when there was just a dusty schoolroom piano in the corner of the living room, he’s dreamed of that night sky.
His mother is kneading her hands together as she apologises, and his father is coughing nervously.
‘Couldn’t be helped, son,’ Vernon says, patting him on the arm.
Seeing his parents’ discomfort, Elvis manages to swallow his disappointment, for now.
‘What about my bedroom?’ he asks.
‘That’s just exactly as you wanted it, baby,’ says Gladys.
Before his daddy can agree, Elvis has mounted the stairs. In his rush to get there, he barely takes in his reflection on the mirrored wall.
The following afternoon, Elvis sits on his bed, watching TV and eating potato chips from a china dish. He’s just ended a call to Scotty to ask what it would take to get him and Bill to change their minds about going it alone. The Colonel and the guys at RCA aren’t sorry; they’ve long wanted Scotty and Bill gone, saying the two musicians just aren’t up to the job. Elvis is a number-one entertainer, now. He needs professional backup, not a couple of hicks who’ve barely set foot in a real recording studio. Scotty said he reckoned Elvis owed him at least ten thousand dollars by now, which made Elvis laugh. The Colonel will never agree to such a sum. Scotty, though, hadn’t laughed one bit. He’d told Elvis that he and Bill were mighty disappointed. He’d told him that without them Elvis would never have made a record. He’d said that Elvis owed them both a decent living, not the peanuts they were getting on the payroll. As Scotty spoke, Elvis looked out of the window, watching his daddy driving his new tractor round in circles on the lawn. He could think of nothing to say. He hated to thi
nk of Scotty being upset. But he hated the thought of the Colonel’s wrath even more. So he made no promises. But he knows it won’t be long before he has to leave Scotty and Bill behind.
He pops another potato chip in his mouth. His bedroom is the blue he wanted, the blue of the East Tupelo sky on a summer’s night, or a police officer’s uniform. But Elvis feels the need for a girl more keenly now. The right girl would help him forget the pain in Scotty’s voice. The right girl would make this room perfect. Without one, it’s just too cold in here.
On the screen is Top Ten Dance Party, a new local show featuring kids dancing to the latest hit records. A girl who looks like Grace Kelly but sounds like Magdalene Morgan, cloud of bobbed blonde hair displaying her long pale neck, is introducing the next record. She has bright eyes, something shy in her smile, and a waist he could get both hands round. When he worked as an usher at Loew’s State, he sometimes used to imagine the starlet on the screen pausing the movie’s action to look right at him. All he’d have to do was beckon her, and she’d step into the auditorium. Then they’d run off together, up the aisle, through the curtain, down the sweeping stairs into the lobby, and out into the sunshine on South Main.
It dawns on him now that he can realise this fantasy. He can reach into the TV screen and pull that girl right out.
He calls a new friend, Lamar Fike, who Cliff has brought to the Fairgrounds a couple of times. Lamar is smart, full of jokes, and must weigh around three hundred pounds. Elvis has decided to call him Buddha, because he is fat and thinks himself wise. He’s also decided to count on him for a few things, and see how it turns out.
When he dials the number, Lamar’s mother answers.
‘Hello, Mrs Fike. This is Elvis Presley, calling for Lamar.’
There’s a pause, and then he hears her yell, ‘Lamar! It’s Elvis Presley for you again!’
There’s some murmuring before Lamar comes on. From the crashing and banging, Elvis figures that the phone in the Fike household is next to the stove.
‘Hi, Elvis! How’s it going, man? I heard you were back in Memphis.’
‘Buddha, you need to get your own line.’
‘What I need is to get my ass out of here,’ Lamar says in a low voice. ‘Sorry about my mother. She’s a little tired this afternoon.’
‘I’m gonna get another line installed for you. You want one in your bedroom?’
‘Naw! I mean, that’s kind, but—’
‘I’ll have my daddy take care of it. He’ll have it all installed for you in a couple of days. Your mother would appreciate that, wouldn’t she?’
There’s another loud crash.
‘I guess she would.’
‘Well, OK, then.’
‘Thanks, man.’
Elvis smiles to himself and shifts closer to the TV. ‘You watching WHBQ?’
‘Sure am.’
On the screen, the girl is pulling a sweetly puzzled face at something her co-host is saying. Elvis decides that she’s a virgin. He can tell by the way she holds herself; there’s something pure about her posture.
‘You see that blonde on there? The hostess?’
‘Anita Wood. She’s a Memphis girl. Real beauty queen.’
‘I want you to set up a date with her for me. Call her up, will you?’
There’s a pause, then Lamar says, ‘Sure, Elvis. I can do that.’
The show’s end credits start to roll. Elvis says, ‘Give her an hour or so to get home. Then call. And, Lamar?’
‘Yeah?’
‘Tell her she’s special. Tell her I’m real serious about this.’
Because Anita already had plans to see somebody else, it took Lamar a couple of weeks to set up the date, but now that Elvis has got her in the Cadillac, he sees this as a good thing. It proves that Anita is loyal, and she doesn’t take other people’s feelings lightly. On the front seat, she looks contained and pale, holding her white hands in her lap and keeping her knees pointing away from his. Her perfume smells expensive and her pink dress seems to be made of satin. When he picked her up, her landlady, Miss Patty, insisted on Elvis coming to the door himself before she’d let Anita out. Bounding up the steps to meet her, he’d wondered if a velvet shirt was such a good idea for a hot night in July. When he took off his motorcycle cap and ducked his head at Miss Patty, he’d felt Anita’s eyes taking all of him in, and he sensed it would work out just fine.
On the back seat are Lamar and Cliff. They are heading to Chenault’s for burgers in the private dining room, but on the way Elvis takes a detour to the Strand to show Anita the enormous cardboard cut-out of himself outside the theatre. It’s part of the advertising display for Loving You.
He draws up to the kerb on the opposite side so they can get a good view.
‘Nobody’s torn it down, Elvis!’ says Cliff, laughing.
‘Not yet,’ Elvis says. He turns to Anita to explain. ‘The theatre manager had to replace it five times this week already, because the fans keep stealing me.’
‘That’s what he thinks,’ says Lamar. ‘Truth is, Colonel Parker comes up here every night and rips him down.’
‘Hush your mouth, Buddha,’ says Elvis, without looking at him.
‘What’s it like,’ Anita asks, ‘in Hollywood?’
Elvis hangs his head for a moment, as if considering her question deeply. The truth is that most of the time he’s in Hollywood, he longs to be back in Memphis; he’s just never been able to shake the feeling that people there are laughing at him.
‘Well,’ he says, ‘it’s just wonderful, honey. It’s my dream come true. But folks out there are kinda strange. Some of them are downright insane! So I figure it’s better just to get my work done, then come on home.’
‘It must be a lot of fun, meeting all those movie stars,’ says Anita, her eyes shining.
‘Know what was most fun?’ he says. ‘Seeing my mama and daddy on the set. They were real proud.’
‘I’d love to go there some time.’
Elvis leans closer to her. ‘Anita,’ he says, ‘what goes on in California is what goes on in hell. Ain’t no place for a good little girl like you.’
She giggles, but when he fixes her with what he hopes is a serious stare, she composes herself.
‘I mean it,’ he says. ‘I’d hate to think of a pure girl like you getting led astray.’
By this time, a group of girls on the sidewalk have noticed him. One of them puts her face close to his window, where she gapes like a fish on a hook. Then she slaps the glass and yells, ‘It’s him! It’s really him!’
Elvis puts the car into drive, revs the engine, then winds down the window. ‘Bye, girls,’ he says, blowing them a kiss before pulling away.
The car squeals off down South Main, and Anita squeals with it.
At Chenault’s, the sun glaring through the pitched glass roof lights up Anita’s hair. Her dress complements the pink leatherette seats and white vinyl tables. She nibbles on an order of fries and tells him quite freely about her job at WHBQ and her lack of steady boyfriends. She’s not ready, she says, to get serious with anybody.
Back at the mansion, it isn’t long before he invites her upstairs, to see his office. She murmurs her approval of his leather swivel chair and huge walnut desk, and listens politely as he takes her through his collection of gold records.
Grabbing her hand, he pulls her down the corridor, past his closets, and into the adjoining room.
‘And, well, you can guess what this room is,’ he says, sitting on the bed. He tugs at her fingers. ‘Take the weight off, honey. You can trust me.’
She sits next to him, but when he moves his face close to hers, she puts a hand to his lips to stop him.
‘Elvis,’ she says, ‘it’s like you said. I ain’t one of those girls.’
He tries to nibble one of her fingers, but she inches away and curls her hands in her lap. Back at Chenault’s, she’d seemed confident and full of talk. In fact, he’d wondered if she had too much to say for herself. Now she seems y
ounger, and a little lost.
Since he’s been in the movies, he’s found these moments with girls have taken on an unreal quality. He wants to act like a star, and he senses that the girls want that too. But the whole thing can make him nervous, and he sometimes gets the feeling that what he’s doing is being recorded somehow. He wishes he could slip away from her and take another pill.
The air conditioning whirrs, and she gives a shiver. She’d removed her shoes before coming upstairs, and he looks at her naked feet, pale as moons.
‘I like your sooties,’ he says. ‘You got a chip on the polish there, though.’
Anita bends to examine her toes.
‘Seems a shame to spoil perfection, don’t it?’ he says, laughing.
She straightens up. ‘Do you always notice girls’ feet?’ she asks.
‘Only pretty ones, like yours. Ones like tiny flowers.’ He takes her by the shoulders and notices her glance at his diamond pinkie ring.
‘Will you keep them perfect for me?’ he says. ‘Just like you, little one?’ He kisses her forehead, and tastes salt. ‘That’s what I’m gonna call you. Little,’ he murmurs into her hair.
She draws back. ‘Like a doll?’
‘Exactly.’
Anita laughs.
‘What’s funny?’ Perhaps he’s made a fool of himself. Perhaps he’ll have to try another girl, if Anita is going to laugh at him. ‘Don’t you like me?’
Instead of replying, she plants a long, wet kiss right on his lips.
Before Elvis can speak again, she says, ‘You can take me home now.’
* * *
It’s six o’clock in the evening, and Gladys is in front of the mansion, feeding her chickens. Her flock chuckle and flutter around her slippered feet as she pushes her hand into the bin and savours the cool, pearly feeling of corn slipping over her fingers. Tossing a handful onto the grass, she reflects that there’s more pleasure in this act than there is in touching the real pearls her son has bought her. She has so much jewellery now that she’s embarrassed to look at it. On her dresser, it hangs on a silver contraption which is moulded to look like a tree. It is also crammed into mahogany boxes, inlaid with more jewels. It is stashed in velvet purses among the handkerchiefs and lavender sachets in her top drawer. And still it spills over. She has told him, many times now, to stop. Just stop. She has enough. But he won’t listen.
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