‘Mama!’
She’d known Elvis would be coming out soon; it was after four a.m. when she heard him arriving home, and he’s been in bed until about an hour ago. But she pretends not to have noticed his call. After all, it is a breezy evening, bringing a little respite from the heavy August heat. It’s been over ninety degrees for days, but it’s cooler out here, now. The wind blows the tall trees around as if they were no more than cotton plants. She could very well have missed him.
She feels her son watching her from the steps as she scoops another handful of corn, so round and full. But she won’t make it easy for him. Not today. Not with her legs in the state they are – when asked, she blames the swelling on the long hours she spent standing at St Joseph’s Hospital. Privately, she knows this to be a fiction. Her legs never gave her a moment’s worry until the family moved to Audubon Drive.
‘Mama!’
She focuses on her task, clucking to her birds as she feeds them. Let him come closer, if he really wants to. Let him smell the chicken shit.
‘Mama!’
Let him get it on his buckskin shoes.
‘Mama,’ he says, striding across the grass, ‘didn’t you hear me calling?’
‘No, son, I guess not.’
His pale face looks a little creased after another night at the Fairgrounds. He needs to blow off some steam, she knows that. And after being surrounded by those Hollywood folks, it’s good for him to spend time with his friends, just fooling around. Gladys herself used to love riding everything from carousels to Ferris wheels, and recalls fondly that feeling she would get of being on the brink of something wonderful whenever she bought a ticket.
‘Mama, can I talk to you?’
He looks paler because his hair is permanently dyed black now, like hers. He got it done for the picture he made earlier in the year, Loving You, and he’s kept it ever since. That unrelenting, thick blackness which reflects nothing. Although it suits him well enough, especially with his eyebrows and lashes dyed to match, she preferred his hair when it was the colour of wet sand. It seemed less fixed, somehow.
She knows what this is going to be about. Without meeting his eye, she scatters more corn and says, ‘Sure, son.’
‘Let’s go on inside.’
‘We can talk right here.’
He hesitates. ‘But anybody can see us.’
‘Not through them trees.’
He bends his knees a little to peer towards the gate. The fans are there. They are there twenty-four hours a day. But there aren’t that many this evening. And, anyway, this part of the grounds is mostly hidden.
‘What is it you wanted to say, son?’
He steps closer to her. ‘You gotta quit feeding them chickens.’
Her hand goes in for another scoop of corn.
‘Mama, you gotta quit—’
‘I heard you, Elvis.’
‘Colonel says it ain’t good for business.’
She turns to him, weighing the corn in her hand. ‘I just can’t see what feeding my chickens has to do with his business.’
‘It’s my business, Mama. His business is my business. It’s all of ours—’
‘Last I heard, you was an entertainer.’
His eyes look tired. ‘I am an entertainer,’ he says, slowly. ‘I’m the best entertainer in the business.’
‘What does feeding my chickens have to do with the entertainment business? I ain’t entertaining nobody.’
He looks to the ground and his shoulders sink forward. Perhaps she has been too harsh. She’s yet to have her evening beer, and hardly slept a wink last night. And this pain keeps stabbing at her calves.
‘Mama. You know what Colonel Parker said. It just don’t look good to feed chickens outside a mansion. What if the newspapermen see you?’
‘What if they do?’
‘Well, what do you figure they’d say?’
‘Don’t you like my chickens, son?’
He laughs, a little. Then he crouches down and scoops up Ruby, the one with the bad foot. Her eyes pop and she stretches her neck but he holds her tightly as he draws her close to his face. ‘I like you, don’t I?’ he says, shaking her more roughly than Gladys would like.
‘Turn her loose.’
‘Sure Elvis likes you, you stupid old hen.’ He bunches up his lips and pretends to kiss the animal on the beak.
‘Elvis. Turn that bird loose.’
He does as he’s told, and Ruby scuttles away.
‘You done scared her, now.’
He dusts off his pants. ‘Look, Mama. You know what they’d say, don’t you? They’d say, Elvis Presley’s mother is so down-home Southern, she keeps chickens outside their big old mansion. And that makes Elvis no better than a hick. Do you want them to say that?’
She looks towards the house. The sun is getting lower, and the columns are golden. Above their heads, the leaves swirl in the warm breeze. It is a beautiful thing, to have this kind of luxury. Each day she tries to remember to thank God and her son for her luck. But she doesn’t feel lucky this evening. Lately, she keeps asking herself what is the point of such beauty, of such luxury, if she feels only boredom? One by one, her daily tasks have been taken from her. At Audubon, she’d tried to continue hanging out her laundry, but the neighbours had complained. Then Alberta had arrived, and there was no longer any need to shop or fix meals. Now there are three maids to clean, to wash her sheets, run her baths, iron her clothes and fold them into the closet. It is as if she has been removed from her own life. Her place now is to watch others work, and do nothing herself. Feeding her chickens was the last thing she had. And she loves her chickens, every one of them, even Clarence the cockerel, whose proud head hardly ever reaches for her hand, no matter how she loads it with corn.
‘It’s like the Colonel says, Mama. It’s bad for my image.’
At this, something in her snaps, and she slings a handful of corn at her son’s chest. ‘I am not part of your image!’ She is close to tears, but she won’t let them break. ‘I’m your mother! I’m a person!’
Elvis brushes down his shirt and shakes his head. If he laughs at her now she will wallop him, hard.
‘Now, don’t get excited—’
‘The fans like me! I’ve always gone out of my way to be good to them!’ She points towards the gate. ‘Why don’t we go down there and ask them if they care about me feeding chickens?’
They stare at one another.
‘I’m sorry, Mama. Really I am.’ His voice is soft. ‘But you got to quit. I’m gonna get the coop moved to the back of the house, and Daisy can feed them from now on. Daddy’s told her to do it.’
‘Daddy’s told her?’
Since when has Vernon been in charge of anything in the house?
‘And I don’t wanna hear nothing about you trying to stop her.’
Daisy. The maid. Memphis born and bred. Wears a little too much eye make-up.
‘What does a city girl like her know about chickens? They need special care and attention. You gotta talk to them, or they won’t lay.’
‘Mama. I know you love them old birds. But please understand. It’s out of my hands.’ He pauses, then smiles. ‘What would make it up to you? Just tell me what you’d like, and I’ll get it for you.’
She touches his hand, because she’s too weary to continue. All she wants is her chair by the kitchen window, and the cold beer that’s waiting for her in the refrigerator.
‘How about a little dog?’ he asks, his face brightening.
Putting down her corn scoop, she walks away from him, towards the house.
Around ten o’clock the same evening, when Elvis’s new girl and some of his other friends have arrived, Gladys sits in the kitchen, listening to him playing piano and singing ‘Little Cabin Home on the Hill’. Cliff is harmonising, and occasionally Anita joins in. Her high tinkling voice is pretty enough but, to Gladys’s mind, has no real power. Anita is a local girl, like Barbara was, but she just doesn’t have Barbara’s homeyness. G
ladys had rushed to embrace her when they’d first met, fearful that the girl would dissolve before her eyes like all the rest, and she’d felt Anita bristle at the contact.
The sound of Elvis singing one of her favourites puts Gladys in a better mood. Her legs are feeling a little lighter now, and she decides she will put some biscuit dough together, ready to bake in the morning. Alberta has gone home and Daisy has yet to appear, so she can work without being overlooked. She slips on her apron and sets about measuring the flour, butter and lard, spreading her ingredients across the counter. She also fetches herself a small glass of beer to enjoy while she works.
She has her hands in the flour when she hears the side door open and her husband’s quick footsteps along the carpeted hall. He almost passes the kitchen without stopping. Not wanting him to get away with this, she sings out, ‘Evening, Vernon.’
He stands in the doorway wearing a sheepish grin. He’s in a pair of overalls, and his cheeks are flushed.
‘Why in the world are you wearing those?’ she asks. She hasn’t seen him in such dirty old clothes since he worked at United Paint.
Glancing down at himself, he chuckles. ‘Well,’ he says, ‘folks notice Elvis Presley’s daddy out on the street. And I’m kinda tired of the attention. So I figured I’d try me a little disguise.’
He’s never mentioned being tired of any of it, before.
He runs a hand down his front and eyes her mixing bowl. ‘You know you don’t have to do that stuff no more, Glad.’
She continues rubbing the lard and butter into the flour, stirring in the baking soda.
‘Well,’ he says, stretching his arms to the ceiling. ‘I’m about beat. Reckon I’ll turn in for the night.’
She asks, as lightly as she can, ‘Where you been?’
Vernon sighs. Then he steps into the kitchen and leans on the counter next to her, breathing all over her flour. The scent of perfume hits her, and she recognises it as the same one she’s smelled at the breakfast table. She notices, too, how shiny his eyes are. He is apparently unaware of how he smells.
‘Had to see a man about a dog. You know how it is.’
‘Oh, I know,’ says Gladys, reaching across him for the buttermilk.
‘Elvis told me he talked to you about them chickens,’ he says. ‘I reckon it’s for the best.’
‘I ain’t giving up my chickens.’ Gladys pours the liquid into the bowl and keeps her voice even. ‘And I know what you’re up to, Vernon Presley, and I also know you’re a goddamn steercotted bastard.’
She sets the pitcher down and plunges her hands into the mess, letting the buttermilk squirt between her fingers.
Vernon lets out a small noise, something between a cough and a laugh, and says, ‘What did you just call me?’
Gladys concentrates on squeezing the fat and flour and liquid together so it will come out light and soft, as Elvis likes it. As she works, she says, ‘You oughta know, Vernon, that I turned a blind eye to your other women for the longest time. The longest time. But I ain’t gonna do that no more. Elvis is grown now, and it don’t matter if he finds out what his daddy really is. In fact, I’ve a mind to tell him a few home truths about you.’
The dust of the flour catches in the lined skin of her hands, clumping around the gaps between the stones of her cocktail ring. She hears Vernon’s breathing quicken, but she doesn’t look up because she knows that if she does she will weaken, so when she feels the first blow across her head she is confused, and wonders if something has fallen from the high shelf.
But then she sees Vernon’s fist coming towards her again, and she ducks. It’s too late for him to draw back, and he thumps the metal mixing bowl, sending it skidding across the counter and smashing into the Mixmaster. He holds his hand to his chest for a second, cursing, then swings for her again, his knuckles driving into her cheek this time. The force of the blow has her staggering backwards, and her feet become tangled with the legs of a stool. As she crashes to the ground, taking the stool with her, she cries out.
From her position on the carpet, she notices the gleam on her husband’s new shoes, which look odd peeking from beneath the frayed ends of his overalls. She blinks. Her head feels as though it’s been stuck in an ice box, and she’s not sure where the rest of her body is, but she knows pain isn’t far away. Then Elvis is there, kneeling beside her and taking her head in his hands and saying, Mama. She tries to tell him it’s OK, but she can’t get her lips to move. She hears him crying and telling his daddy that if he ever touches her again he’ll kill him dead, and she tries again to say it’s OK, but Vernon and Elvis are yelling and the pain has burned a path from her jaw right into her spine. She closes her eyes, wondering where the strength of that girl who once threw the blade of a ploughshare has gone, and waits for it to be over.
When he wakes, it takes Elvis a moment to figure out whether he is in California, Memphis, or some hotel between live shows. Then he becomes aware of his own silk sheets and the pillowy quiet of the mansion, and he remembers what happened to his mama two nights ago, and he turns over, determined to lose himself in sleep. Recalling that Anita stayed in his bed for the first time last night, he reaches out for the comfort of her body, but there’s nothing beside him.
He lifts his head. ‘Little?’
She’s sitting at the foot of the bed, fully dressed in a lemon blouse and matching skirt. Even in her bright coral lipstick, she looks serious.
‘What you doing out of bed, honey?’ he mumbles.
‘It’s four in the afternoon,’ she says. ‘I couldn’t sleep any longer.’
‘Well, get yourself in here.’ He pulls back the sheet. ‘I hate to wake up alone.’
‘You’re not alone.’
She’s opened the drapes and the light is making his eyes itch. ‘It’s cold in here without you,’ he moans.
She moves closer but doesn’t get between the sheets. ‘Elvis,’ she says. ‘How am I going to go downstairs?’
‘It’s easy, honey. You just take one tiny step at a time.’
‘I’m serious. Your mother’s going to be down there, and I can’t look her in the eye. She’ll know I’ve been up here all night.’
‘Then come back to bed,’ he says, kissing her wrist.
‘I can’t. I’m expecting a call from that New York agent.’
A few weeks ago, Anita won the South’s Hollywood Star Hunt talent contest. The prize was a small role in some B-movie. Now she’s waiting on a call from the agency that signed her up.
‘I told you, don’t take them two-bit parts,’ says Elvis, now fully awake. ‘You deserve better. And I also told you about Hollywood, and what goes on there—’
‘Can’t you go down and distract her so I can slip out without her noticing?’
He groans. ‘Anita. We didn’t even do anything.’
‘That’s not the point,’ she says. ‘She’ll think we did.’
‘Then I’ll tell her we didn’t.’
‘You won’t!’ She tears the sheet from his shoulder and leans over him, scowling. ‘Don’t you tell your mama I stayed all night!’
They’d fooled around some, as they’ve been doing all summer (she loves it when he kisses her up and down her spine), but when Anita had said she’d felt ready to give all of herself to him, Elvis had refused to take her virginity, saying that she should keep herself whole. Because if they did get married, he wanted it to be perfect.
‘You look pretty when you’re angry,’ he says. He reaches up to touch her face, but she bats his arm away so hard that he knocks over the glass of water on his nightstand, soaking the sheets.
He leaps from the bed. ‘Hot damn!’
‘I’m sorry—’
‘Call the maid.’ He brushes past her. ‘She’ll change them.’
‘Elvis, I—’
‘Call the maid!’ he yells, slamming the bathroom door behind him.
Once he’s relieved himself, he opens the cabinet and finds the packet of Dexedrine. He no longer has to pilfer th
em from his mama. And this is definitely one of those mornings when he needs two. He slathers his face with foam and starts to shave.
There’s a soft knock at the door, which he ignores.
‘Elvis,’ Anita calls, ‘I’m leaving now.’
He drags the razor up his neck and along his cheek.
‘I’m real sorry about the sheets,’ she says.
He washes the blade, then pulls the plug and watches the water disappear, leaving streaks of stubbly foam. Leaning on the sink, he studies his face, wondering if he need worry about the slight puffiness along his jawline. He considers himself from the side, tilting his head so his chin goes tight, and remembers the way his mama’s face was mashed by his father’s fist.
Then he opens the door.
‘Wait. Don’t go down there alone, Little,’ he says. ‘I don’t want you adding to Mama’s worries.’
He selects a pair of pants and a shirt from the closet.
‘We’re gonna go together,’ he says, buttoning his shirt. ‘If we see Mama, I’ll tell her it got late and you slept on the couch in my office.’
‘But—’
‘You wanted me to fix this.’ He catches her hand. ‘So I’m fixing it.’
She doesn’t protest as he leads her to the main stairs, calculating this will give him more time to get her out of the front door before Gladys appears.
As they descend, Anita taking cringing steps just behind him, Elvis feels the pills begin to kick through his blood and he races to the bottom, making her flap her hands around and hiss at him to be quiet.
In the hallway, he laughs and impersonates her, hunching his body and creeping along the carpet like a cartoon burglar. Scowling, she tries to reach the front door, but he grasps her around the waist and pins her against the wall.
Graceland Page 35
