Elvis and Ginger: Elvis Presley's Fiancée and Last Love Finally Tells Her Story

by Ginger Alden

  I had always admired Elvis’s voice, which was so uniquely his—it could be soulful, tender, or powerful as he chose. Now, as Elvis sang softly to me, I felt calmed by the same peaceful, comforting feeling I’d had back home when listening to his gospel albums. Elvis knew how to reach inside you and touch your soul with his voice.

  Afterward, I followed Elvis back to his bedroom, where he began talking about a car he owned, a Ferrari that he’d nicknamed the Black Mamba. “I named it after the fastest snake in the world,” he said enthusiastically and then went into more detail about the car.

  I had never even sat in a Ferrari, much less ridden in one. When he brought up his car, I thought he wanted me to see it. “Can we go for a ride in your Ferrari?” I asked.

  “Not now,” Elvis said. “I’ll decide when we take a ride in it. That car is too fast for you.”

  Ha! I thought. Little did he know how much I loved to speed down the highway on a motorcycle. I felt a little awkward at that moment, wondering if this was Elvis’s way of letting me know he liked to be in control.

  A few books still lay on the floor beside his bed. Elvis reached for Cheiro’s Book of Numbers and seemed eager to pick up where we had left off reading the previous night. Going through books again wasn’t what I had expected, but I thought it was interesting that he wanted to read together on a date.

  I felt a little less tense this time as we read to one another, and I found the subject of numerology intriguing. It wasn’t something I thought anyone could understand right off the bat, but I was open to it. Elvis seemed to enjoy teaching, and I listened closely, trying to grasp the material.

  After we’d discussed the book a little while, Elvis changed the subject, bringing up another of his cars, a Stutz Blackhawk. He mentioned taking me for a ride in it over to Memphis Aero to see an airplane he owned. (Memphis Aero was a part of Memphis International Airport for private planes.)

  I grew excited as Elvis made a few phone calls, setting his plans in motion. He even invited some cousins along, which made me wonder whether Elvis, like me, sometimes needed a safety net, just like I relied on my sisters.

  When Elvis went into his bathroom, leaving me seated on his bed, I glanced about the room and observed more details than I’d taken in during my first visit. Antihistamine bottles, a box of tissues, and two telephones crowded his night table. A closed-circuit television monitor, its power off, was close by. I wondered again if Elvis had been watching my sisters and me the night before. (I never would see it turned on though.)

  A television set with a Betamax tape player on top of it stood against the wall opposite the foot of the bed. To the left of that, a bookcase held a record player, radio, and some Betamax tapes. On top of the bookcase were a couple of framed photos of a woman I had seen in some movie magazines. I remembered now that her name was Linda Thompson.

  At that point in my life, I knew very little about Elvis’s personal relationships, other than these facts: that he’d been married to and divorced from a woman named Priscilla; had one daughter, Lisa, from that marriage; and had dated various girls, Linda among them. Now I wondered why Linda’s photos were still in Elvis’s room.

  I didn’t have time to wonder long. Elvis stepped out of his bathroom, now dressed in a coat, and said, “You know, last night while I was practicing karate, George came up to me and said, ‘Terry is very nice and Rosemary is very nice, but Ginger . . .’” He paused, shaking his head. “Then Ricky came in later, saying, ‘Man, I think you’re gonna like Ginger.’”

  Elvis’s voice was tinged with sarcasm as he went on. “I told Ricky that I’d had a lot of girls brought up to Graceland in the past few weeks, and yeah, I’m sure I’m gonna find someone I really like in Memphis on a Friday night.” He then added that his cousin Billy’s wife, Jo, had told him, “There’s someone down here you are going to like.”

  I was flattered by the attention, but slightly uncomfortable. I realized that my initial instinct about my sisters and me being scrutinized the night before had been right on target.

  It was after midnight by the time we went downstairs. A few people were waiting in the foyer, including two bodyguards and GeeGee and his wife, Patsy. We walked out onto the front porch, and I suppressed a gasp when I saw a car like none other I’d ever seen before.

  It was Elvis’s Stutz Blackhawk, glistening in the soft glow from the overhead light. The car was black with chrome trim, exhaust side pipes, and wire wheels. It was so beautiful that I found myself wondering whether this was why Elvis hadn’t wanted me to ride in his Ferrari first.

  Elvis opened the passenger door for me, pointing out that the trim on the dash and throughout the car was plated in eighteen-karat gold. Patsy and GeeGee climbed into the backseat and I slid into the red leather passenger bucket seat. Elvis got behind the wheel, started up the engine, and we proceeded down the driveway with his bodyguards following in a car close behind.

  The streets were quiet as we rode toward the airport. It was about fifteen minutes away, and as we neared it, Patsy suddenly suggested we take a tour over Memphis in Elvis’s plane.

  “Let’s fly over Nashville,” Elvis quickly countered.

  I didn’t say a thing. Taking a short flight in his private plane would be an extraordinary experience for me, not only because it was with Elvis, but because I had only flown commercial one other time at the age of thirteen.

  At Memphis Aero, Elvis’s Lockheed JetStar stood alone on the tarmac. Its interior lights were aglow, the door was open, and the steps were down, awaiting our arrival. I followed Elvis into the plane, where he introduced me to a pilot with the fitting name of Milo High and his copilot, George.

  As Patsy and GeeGee took a seat on a lime-colored couch, I followed Elvis down the plane’s small aisle past yellow chairs facing each other, with small tables between them. Patterned fabric lined the walls near each window.

  I chose a lime-colored chair in the back and Elvis’s bodyguards sat nearby. I expected Elvis to sit down near me, but instead he turned around, walked to the front of the plane, and began speaking with Milo.

  After a few moments, he looked back at me and said, “I forgot something.”

  Elvis headed out the door with his bodyguards in close pursuit; I suspected he had gone back to Graceland. Patsy and GeeGee remained seated and I stayed in my chair, the three of us making small talk. By the way they were acting, like this was any other ordinary night, I got the feeling that this sort of impulsive outing with Elvis wasn’t unusual for them.

  When Elvis and his bodyguards returned, he walked down the aisle with a mischievous grin on his face and sat down in the chair opposite mine. The plane’s door closed and the engines fired up. As we began to taxi, Elvis announced that he had gone to get pajamas for everyone and we were all going to Las Vegas.

  Las Vegas! Pajamas! The thought of flying over Memphis or Nashville was one thing, but I had never been out west. Nor had I ever spontaneously left with anyone on a trip—never mind a man I’d just met! How long would it take us to get there? How long would we be gone? Where would I sleep?

  I was twenty years old but suddenly felt like I was about ten. I wanted to call home to let my family know what was happening. When Elvis asked me if this plan was all right, what could I say? “No”? “Maybe”? “It’s too far”? “Stop the plane, I want to get off!”

  Seeing Elvis’s enthusiasm, I made an effort to hide my concerns. I simply smiled, answered yes, and allowed myself to be swept away to Las Vegas.

  I was silent as we took off, and gazed out my window into the night, my mind racing. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see that Elvis was watching me. I glanced at him and he quickly turned his head, looking out his window as if not wanting me to know he had been staring at me. The cabin remained fairly quiet until a while into the flight, when Elvis looked over his shoulder toward Patsy and GeeGee and said, “You know, I would like to see Ginger i
n new clothes and jewelry.”

  Elvis stood up and took a few steps to the rear of the plane. He returned carrying a small, worn black square case by its handle. Placing the case on the table between us, he sat down, opened it, and took out a long necklace made of black plastic beads with a cross at the center.

  “Lean forward, Ginger,” he said, and gently placed the necklace over my head.

  “Thank you,” I said.

  “Hold out your wrist and close your eyes,” he said then.

  I felt something slip over my hand. Opening my eyes, I was shocked to see a gold identification bracelet on my arm with “Elvis” written in sparkling diamonds.

  “That’s better,” he said. “Now everyone will know you belong to me.”

  As I thanked Elvis for these pieces, I felt stunned that he would give me gifts so early in our relationship and unsettled that everything seemed to move so fast with him. I wondered if Elvis did this sort of thing with women on a regular basis, or whether he was serious about wanting me to belong to him.

  For my part, I felt suddenly special despite my anxiety. I was more excited than apprehensive though and falling “in like” with Elvis.

  Later, when I took the bracelet off, I noticed a date inscribed on the back and saw that he’d been given the bracelet in 1963. It wasn’t until after Elvis passed away that I discovered he had worn this bracelet onstage and in private for many years before generously gracing me with it as a token of his affection.

  Sandwiches were passed around, but I was too overwhelmed to eat. Shortly, the lights inside the plane were dimmed so everyone could rest, but I was keyed up emotionally and couldn’t sleep. So I sat, eyes closed, wondering what lay in store for me. My concerns eventually gave way to excitement, however, the more I thought about seeing Las Vegas.

  As we neared the end of the flight, Elvis asked me to follow him to the cockpit. I did, and as I stood next to him behind the pilots, looking through the windshield at the lights below, I suddenly felt his arm slip around my waist.

  “Isn’t it beautiful?” Elvis whispered in my ear.

  In the distance, what looked like an island of tiny shimmering diamonds surrounded by a sea of black velvet slowly began to appear as we approached Las Vegas.

  “Yes,” I replied, as it was truly breathtaking.

  We landed at the Hughes Air Terminal. As we descended the stairs from the plane, a dark-haired man in his late thirties greeted us. Elvis introduced him as Dr. Elias Ghanem, his friend and personal physician. The two of us joined Dr. Ghanem in his car while Elvis’s cousins and bodyguards followed in another.

  Riding through the streets of downtown Las Vegas, I felt like I was moving through a dream world. I was mesmerized by the city’s endless, brilliant display of lights. I couldn’t believe I was really there.

  We drove around to the back of the Hilton International Hotel, entered the building, and took an elevator up to one of the rooms. Elvis’s bodyguards brought in a suitcase and, after making sure things were secure, they left.

  I sat next to Elvis on the bed as he began chatting with his cousins and Dr. Ghanem. I would later learn that Elvis and Patsy were double first cousins. Her father, Vester, who worked as a guard at Graceland’s gates, was Elvis’s dad’s brother and Patsy’s mother, Clette Smith, was Elvis’s mom’s sister.

  After a while, Patsy and GeeGee left, and Elvis continued talking with Dr. Ghanem. Their conversation eventually turned to vitamins. Elvis mentioned that he got vitamin B12 shots regularly. Understanding they were supposed to help give energy, I told him that my mother, on occasion, had gotten them from a nurse who used to be our neighbor.

  Dr. Ghanem offered to give each of us a shot of B12. I’d never had one and was hesitant, but since he was Elvis’s doctor, I trusted him. Not knowing what lay ahead and with no sleep to fuel me, I decided a little energy boost couldn’t hurt. Elvis and I each got a shot in the arm.

  When Dr. Ghanem finally left, I was expecting that Elvis and I would venture outside, but Elvis turned on the TV and settled down on the bed. “What about television destroying the art of conversation?” I nearly said, but I held back.

  I quickly learned that Elvis liked to joke around and talk about things on television. He had a quick wit, and we were having such fun that I didn’t mind staying in the room after all. At one point, Elvis went into the bathroom and returned wearing blue pajamas.

  Just as I got my mind around the fact that Elvis was in pajamas, I realized that he held a matching pair in his hand. I hesitated as he held them out to me. The thrill of being in Las Vegas had taken my mind off some of my initial reservations about being in Elvis’s hotel room, but now they quickly resurfaced. Shouldn’t I be in a room of my own? I didn’t want him to think I was as easy as that.

  Elvis handed me the pajamas and said, “Go ahead. Put these on. You can change in the restroom.”

  I was shy about wearing pajamas in front of a man I didn’t know, and worried about how to handle what might be a too-soon sexual situation for me. Now that he’d given me the bracelet, would Elvis expect me to become intimate with him? I sensed Elvis was a good man, but I wasn’t ready to be with him in that way. Putting on pajamas would definitely send the wrong signal.

  But what else could I do? I was alone with Elvis in a hotel room. I had to follow my instincts and trust him.

  Taking the pajamas, I walked into the bathroom and slowly began to undress, my fingers trembling a little. I had lost all track of time, and knowing my parents thought I was still in Memphis, I felt I should at least tell them where I was. I walked out and sat on the bed. “Is it all right if I call home?” I asked. “I need to let my parents know where I am.”

  Elvis understood. I phoned our house, waking my mother. When I told her where I was, she was shocked, to say the least! I was filling her in on how the trip came about when Elvis suddenly motioned for me to hand him the phone.

  Confused—why would Elvis want to talk to my mother?—I complied and gave him the receiver. Elvis began speaking with my mother, often calling her “ma’am,” which I found endearing. He seemed a bit nervous, actually stuttering a little as he assured her that he would take good care of me and see I got home soon.

  Handing me back the phone, Elvis settled under the covers and continued to watch television while I finished saying good-bye. When I hung up, he took my hand and again I felt uneasy. Although I wasn’t a virgin, I certainly wasn’t about to leap into bed with anyone right away, even Elvis. My mind began to race for something to say, a way to explain my hesitation.

  But Elvis didn’t make a move beyond holding my hand. I gradually relaxed and lay back beside him, watching television. He went to sleep holding my hand. By then daylight was visible along the edges of the closed curtains in the room. Exhausted, I finally fell asleep beside him.

  • • •

  Upon waking, Elvis ordered room service. GeeGee brought in the food, laying a towel in front of us on the bed and placing trays with our food on top. Elvis sat cross-legged and I followed suit as we ate, talked, and watched television.

  When I finished eating, I walked over to the curtains and pulled them aside to peek at the view. The lights of Las Vegas were shining brightly. Anticipating the prospect of experiencing the city, I went into the bathroom and changed back into my clothes. When I came out, Elvis was on the telephone and I heard him arranging our return to Memphis.

  Had I done something wrong? I thought it would be rude to ask if we were going sightseeing, but to fly all the way here without seeing Las Vegas seemed odd. I tried making sense of it. Maybe he had to get back for work? Or maybe Elvis just did this at times, flying someplace because he relaxed better with a change of scenery?

  I may not have understood Elvis in those moments, but I consoled myself with the thought that at least I’d gotten a chance to spend more time with him. I’d flown on his plane and received beaut
iful gifts, and all the while Elvis had remained a gentleman. Reflecting on this, my disappointment about not seeing Las Vegas began to evaporate.

  We reconnected with his cousins in our room, and what had started as a Saturday night “date” for me lasted until our return to Memphis in the early hours of Monday, November 22. We drove back from the airport to Graceland, where Elvis asked me to stay for a while. I followed him up to his bedroom, where he sat on the bed, turned on the television, and began flipping through channels with a remote control.

  He stopped when a newscaster reminded us it was the anniversary of John F. Kennedy’s death. Elvis talked briefly about Kennedy’s assassination, thinking many were involved rather than there being a single shooter, and then he moved on to talk about self-defense.

  At one point during this conversation, Elvis leaned over the side of his bed and sat back up with a gun in his hand. It startled me; I hadn’t noticed it on the floor before. My father owned a revolver and rifle at home, but I wasn’t used to seeing a gun up close and out in the open like this. Elvis said it was a Colt .45 and proudly showed me its turquoise handle with the initial E on one side and P on the other.

  “It’s for protection,” he explained, and told me about a threatening letter he had received once while getting ready to perform in Las Vegas. “My daddy came to me one night with tears in his eyes, asking me not to go on,” he said. “I told my daddy, as a performer, the show must go on, so they tightened the security and I took the risk. Luckily, the letter turned out to be a fluke.”

  Speaking of yet another incident during a Vegas show, Elvis told me about three thugs approaching him onstage and how he’d defended himself using karate. He laid the gun back on the floor and I could only imagine how many other frightening experiences he’d had to deal with in the past. I appreciated him sharing these stories, and was newly aware of the fear he obviously lived with on a daily basis. I understood how that fear could bring him to a point where he felt in need of constant protection.