by Ginger Alden
When we returned, I found out that Elvis and some of the guys in the group had played touch football while we were gone. I hated missing the chance to see them play, but I could tell it had gotten rough at times, because Elvis’s cousin, Billy, had a swollen knee.
I was standing in the kitchen a bit later when Joe’s girlfriend, Shirley, came in. I hadn’t spoken much with her since our shopping venture in Las Vegas, but we were always cordial whenever we saw each other. As we talked, Shirley said she’d had lunch with Priscilla Presley not long ago, and that Priscilla had asked her if Elvis and I were engaged. This surprised me; I hadn’t known she was close friends with Priscilla.
“What did you tell her?” I asked.
“I told her, ‘Well, she has an engagement ring,’” Shirley said.
I knew the news of our engagement must have circulated throughout the entire group by now, but I suddenly realized that I had no memory of ever being congratulated by Shirley, Joe, Dr. Nichopoulos, Lamar, or a few others who regularly surrounded Elvis. This certainly was strange and inexplicable.
“Have you set a wedding date?” Shirley asked.
“No.”
“You should mention marriage to Elvis, to push him a little,” she said. “You should bring it up more.”
I didn’t like this idea. I remembered Elvis once telling me that he thought when it came to marriage, it was the man’s place to ask, and Elvis had already told me a few times that God would come through and tell him when the time was right. I wanted him to be sure. A red flag went up. Was Shirley trying to help me or hurt me?
“Shirley, I don’t want to do that,” I said, feeling awkward. We dropped the subject and I left the kitchen a few minutes later. Unfortunately, now when it came to Shirley, I felt my guard had to be up.
• • •
Elvis had started rising a little earlier during the day and was spending more time in the fresh air. However, he still often wanted me to read with him inside, and when he did go out, he didn’t hang around by the pool for very long and he never seemed to want to go swimming.
With so many other people around and the strong possibility of some taking photos, I sensed that Elvis remained fully clothed because he didn’t feel comfortable about taking his shirt off. I guessed maybe he was self-conscious about the scars on his back left by some of his stage suits. But I had seen him without his shirt on and he looked good.
From time to time I tried to coax him into the water, but because I couldn’t get him into the ocean, I tried to enjoy myself anyway and usually swam with Terry.
Elvis and I had yet to try any of the local Hawaiian delicacies. He was mainly sticking with certain foods he liked—familiar comfort foods like pizza and cheeseburgers—though he did drink a fair amount of papaya juice, which was so readily available.
The first time Elvis ventured out among the general public in Hawaii was for a shopping trip to a local mall. Amazingly, we actually made it into one of the stores without anyone noticing who he was.
We browsed the aisles together and came across some large candles shaped like pyramids. Intrigued, Elvis decided to purchase a few. He also found a mother-of-pearl crucifix on a stand that he liked.
I was looking around the store with my sisters when Joe came over and told us not to show Elvis anything expensive because he would probably buy it. According to Joe, Linda Thompson had once pointed out a costly bubble gum machine to Elvis even after Joe had asked her not to show it to him.
“Sure enough, Elvis bought it, and he didn’t need things like that,” Joe said.
I wondered if Joe always managed Elvis’s spending money. On the one hand, it was nice that Joe seemed to be watching over it, but on the other hand, should Joe be saying what Elvis should or shouldn’t have? Joe didn’t know us well, but my sisters and I weren’t the sort of people who would take advantage of Elvis’s generosity or tell him to buy things. It put a little damper on the enjoyment I’d been feeling while looking at things with Elvis, because the prices on most items in the store weren’t visible and I was now afraid to comment or point out anything at all.
In a second shop, Elvis admired some amazing jeweled robes. He began choosing some for my sisters, Jo Smith, himself, and me. Suddenly I noticed people gathering outside the store and knew word must be spreading that Elvis was here. Elvis spotted them at the same time and decided it was time to leave. I certainly understood others wanting to see him, but I did wish he could have stayed out for a little while longer.
I never knew Elvis to personally carry a wallet; after he’d chosen the robes, a member of his staff got in line to pay for his items. As we stood near the counter, a man was buying something. Elvis asked who it was for and the man, understandably stunned to see Elvis standing beside him, said it was a gift for his wife. Elvis then paid for the man’s item as well.
On the way home, Elvis wanted to show us a tourist attraction, so he asked our driver to stop at an area called the Halona Blowhole. This was a natural occurrence created by lava tubes from volcanic eruptions. As we watched from a lookout area, waves crashed against the formations below us, and every once in a while some ocean water sprayed high into the air.
Before long, some of the other tourists gathered at the sight recognized Elvis and approached us. He kindly posed for pictures and signed some autographs before leaving.
• • •
Hawaii was an amazingly beautiful place, but in addition to the stunning scenery, it was also a wonderful opportunity for Elvis to relax and have fun. There was a Ping-Pong table in the house, and once I challenged Elvis to a game. I thought it would be fun and it would do Elvis good to get some exercise. I went to where he’d taken his customary pose on the bed with some books and asked him to play.
“No, I don’t want to,” he said.
Taunting him, I said, “You can’t. That’s why.”
Elvis grinned as I kept at him. Finally, he walked with me into the room with the Ping-Pong table and we started to play.
We hit the ball around a few times, but then Elvis started slamming the ball so hard at me that it became impossible to return his shots. Some of the aides were in the room with us; later, one of them told me he couldn’t believe it, as he’d never seen Elvis play Ping-Pong before.
I wasn’t sure you could actually call the game we’d been playing Ping-Pong, but it was fun while it lasted.
Another time, Elvis began showing my sisters and me some karate moves in his bedroom. Rosemary decided to challenge him and asked, “What if you were on the beach and had only one arm, and someone kicked sand in your face?”
Elvis sat on the floor and Rosemary approached him, pretending to kick sand at him. Using one arm, Elvis grabbed her leg and, trying to be gentle, knocked her off her feet. Terry and I were lying across the bed, laughing at the two of them.
Rosemary stood back up, looked at Elvis, and asked, “Okay, what if you had no arms and only legs?” She came walking toward him again.
Using only his legs, Elvis had her back down on the floor in the blink of an eye. Elvis started laughing. Still, Rosemary kept putting his karate expertise to the test by proposing various challenging scenarios.
Elvis demonstrated several moves on Rosemary while Terry and I cheered the two of them on. At one point, they were both down on the floor when Rosemary managed to get Elvis in a headlock.
“I got him!” she shouted. Meanwhile, Elvis was beginning to twist her body into a pretzel.
Terry and I had been mainly rooting for Rosemary. Finally taking a break to rest, Elvis picked up a large glass filled with ice water from his night table and began leering at me.
“I dare you to throw it,” I teased.
Continuing to stare at me, he said with a smirk, “Don’t dare me,” and before I had time to blink, I was covered in freezing water.
I went into the bathroom, dried off with a towel, an
d filled my hand with shaving cream. I kept my hand behind my back as I walked out.
Elvis was now facing my sisters. Walking up behind him, I said, “Elvis?”
As he turned around, I quickly smeared some shaving cream on his face and hauled out of there. I flew into the main room, passing the Ping-Pong table with Elvis in close pursuit. A few of the guys sitting in the room looked up in surprise as Elvis chased me around the table.
Laughing, Elvis finally gave up and walked back to his room. I waited a bit before going back into the bedroom, unsure if Elvis would have any other tricks up his sleeve. Lucky for me, all was safe upon my return.
Unfortunately, the trip was not all fun and laughter.
On the afternoon of March 9, Elvis saw a television report about twelve Hanafi Muslims taking over three buildings in Washington, D.C., and holding people hostage. I saw Elvis’s deep love for our country as he became furious and talked about offering his plane to assist in some way. He even mentioned leaving Hawaii to go to Washington so he could speak with President Carter. I reasoned with him, along with Larry and Charlie, convincing him there was nothing he could do, and that we’d have to trust President Carter to sort things out. Eventually he calmed down, and fortunately the hostages were released a few days later.
Elvis had been drinking papaya juice excessively that day. He woke up shortly after going to bed, requesting more. He had consumed quite a bit of juice right before going to sleep, and my mind flashed to his problem with fluid retention and bloating.
Against my better instincts, I went into the kitchen to get him more papaya juice, but there wasn’t any left. I came back and told him we had run out. Elvis then wanted me to wake an aide and send him out to get more. “Can it wait, Elvis?” I asked.
In a more normal situation, I would have been happy to see that he got some juice, but I felt it would be better for his health if Elvis curbed his intake. I was hoping he would just doze off again, but he became increasingly adamant about getting some more juice.
I remembered that Vernon had once asked Elvis if I did little things for him. I usually did, but I decided to resist this request for his own good. “Elvis, this much juice isn’t healthy,” I said.
I could tell he was angry by the way Elvis left the room without speaking and went into his cousin’s bedroom, shutting the door.
I hadn’t expected this reaction, and wondered what Elvis would tell Billy and Jo. Now I felt anger welling up inside me, too. Here I was, trying to do the right thing for him, but Elvis was behaving like a little boy. I stood firm and didn’t follow him.
A little while later, Billy came into my room. “Ginger, Elvis wants to see you,” he said.
I thought it was odd that Billy didn’t bother to ask what was going on. I followed him back into his room and saw Elvis seated on the bed. Hoping he’d calmed down, I was prepared to tell him again that I was just trying to help. But, before I could say anything, Elvis looked at me and announced, “We’re leaving Hawaii because of you.”
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Were we actually going to leave Hawaii over papaya juice?
I glanced at Billy, but he and his wife sat quietly, watching the drama unfold. I wondered what Elvis had said to them and what everyone would think. But I was determined not to back down. Meanwhile, Elvis was clearly bent on staying mad at me. He started saying some unkind things, insinuating that I didn’t love him because of this. This shocked me; I was standing up to him because I did love him! His reaction hurt me deeply. I had been trying to do a good thing, and this wasn’t the Elvis I loved. I was pretty sure now that the medication he had taken must be responsible for the inexplicable change in his personality.
My confusion and embarrassment were overshadowed by my anger and hurt over Elvis actually saying we’d leave Hawaii because of this. I walked out of the room while Elvis was still talking, shut the door, and ran down the hall to our room. I closed that door as well, hoping Elvis might return to normal if I gave him time to calm down.
I sat down on the bed. Moments later, I heard Billy’s door fly open and heavy footsteps marching down the hall. Our bedroom door flew open, Elvis stormed into the room with a wild look in his eyes, and slapped me on the side of my rib cage. “No one ever walks out on me when I’m talking!” he said.
I started crying, more surprised by his furious action than hurt by the sting of his open hand. I was afraid to move on the bed. Who was this person? Where was the Elvis I loved?
When he saw how upset I was, Elvis quickly realized what he had done and bent down to put his arms around me, saying he was sorry. He told me we really weren’t leaving, but that he had just said that.
Why? I wondered. Had Elvis just said that to scare me, and what was the purpose in that? I continued to cry in his arms. Although Elvis hadn’t hit me hard, he had done the inconceivable: He had hit me. This was more traumatic emotionally than physically.
I could tell by his voice that Elvis was deeply remorseful for having struck me. Still, he didn’t say what I needed to hear: “I understand you were only trying to help me.” He had been used to getting his own way for so long, that I think Elvis honestly felt he knew what was best for his own health.
The dark mood that had transformed Elvis into someone I didn’t recognize reminded me of the incident in Palm Springs over the yogurt. There, too, I’d only been trying to help him. If this was his reaction over yogurt and papaya juice, how could I ever say anything to him about his sleep medication?
I had never spoken to Elvis about the concern I had over that. When I had first become aware of the sleep packets being left for Elvis each night, I had questioned whether Elvis’s insomnia was just in his mind. In my experience, I’d never known anyone who couldn’t sleep. My view was confirmed when, one night, I had witnessed Elvis going to sleep without taking his nightly packet at Graceland. If Elvis could do that once, I believed he could do it again. With practice, I thought Elvis could learn to fall asleep unaided by sleep medicine over time, especially if he got out and exercised more. I began to question whether anybody had ever seriously tried to wean him off medication.
I wanted Elvis to try going without the pills, or to at least try cutting back on the dosage. This definitely wasn’t the time to bring up that tender subject, though. I knew this wouldn’t be easy, but I loved him deeply, and I wasn’t going to let over-the-top reactions like these deter me from trying to help him.
I didn’t say anything to my sisters about the juice incident. It was over and Elvis was in a better mood. I was disturbed, however, that his cousins had seen Elvis angry, yet had never tried to intervene or asked me what happened.
These people would become my family when Elvis and I were married. I wanted to feel close to them, but I was the newcomer. I wondered why they didn’t go out of their way to approach me. I only had Elvis’s best interests at heart and wanted them to know that. In this moment, however, I was simply too embarrassed to confide in them, so I let things slide.
• • •
On March 11, Ed Parker set up an evening for us at the Polynesian Cultural Center at Brigham Young University so we could enjoy a night of Hawaiian dances. Elvis had his hair styled and wore a gorgeous two-piece black-and-white outfit with Native American beadwork on the cuffs and at the waist. He looked so handsome, I wanted to take a picture, but I was out of film and so were my sisters.
When we arrived at the center, we discovered that word of Elvis making an appearance had spread fast. Fans were milling about outside the roofed amphitheater, eager to see him. The show was already in progress when we walked inside; thanks to the dim lighting, we were safely ushered to our seats.
However, as soon as I sat down beside Elvis, a few audience members looked our way. Slowly, other heads began turning to stare. Many people seemed more interested in seeing Elvis than they were in watching the show.
A man seated in front of us sud
denly turned around, plopped his young daughter in Elvis’s lap, and requested a photo. Elvis politely obliged.
As Elvis held on to the little girl, he leaned my way, shrugged his shoulders, and joked, “He’s not getting her back.”
I laughed and was glad that others in the audience who had also become aware of Elvis’s presence were courteous and let him enjoy the show.
It was quite the spectacle, too! I’d never seen anything like it! There was a wide stage, tropical landscaping, waterfalls, and a spectacular mountain backdrop with volcanoes. Performers from all of the islands, in full costume with body and face paint, danced to the beat of drums and used fire, spears, and fans in their routines.
Close to intermission, we were escorted to a private room so Elvis wouldn’t be disturbed. After visiting with a few people, we returned for the second half of the show, but left shortly before the finale to avoid the crowd. Still, as we were walking toward the car, we suddenly became enveloped by fans.
The driver opened the car door and Elvis was able to make his way inside along with my sisters, but I got caught in the group. I panicked as the car slowly began pulling forward. Luckily, the rear door was still open, and a guard was able to help me push through the crowd. I scrambled into the car. It had been an amazing night and I’d had a great time. I could tell Elvis had, too, since he talked about the show almost all the way back to the beach house.
Yet the next day, Elvis again seemed to experience another inexplicable mood swing. I was standing in the kitchen talking with Rosemary when his stepbrother David Stanley walked by and playfully punched me on the top of my arm.
“Keep your fucking hands off her!” a voice exclaimed.
Turning around in astonishment, I saw Elvis standing in the center of the hallway. Glaring at David, he angrily said, “You don’t punch a lady. That’s redneck shit!”
I was shocked by his fury. Where had that come from?
David was stunned, too. “I was only joking!” he yelled back at Elvis, then retreated.
Elvis returned to his room and I followed him. His prior good mood had completely evaporated. He started talking about “rednecks hitting ladies,” and I tried to reassure him.
