“Elvis’ motto,” Brady says. “Taking care of business with a flash.”
“How do you know?” I say.
“I keep up on things, Jax. So just let me do the talking.”
We change into our new shirts, buy our tour tickets—thirty more bucks. We eat in Heartbreak Café, people-watching out the window, and for a little while we’re like we used to be together.
We crack up at the middle-aged ladies with ratted hair and lots of makeup, decked out in their Elvis fan club T-shirts, their Elvis jewelry, carrying Elvis tote bags. Kids our own age—one girl wearing a jeans jacket completely covered in Elvis buttons. An ancient lady in lime green polyester pants and a matching lime green Elvis shirt, hobbles past with a walker. But then I see the piece of notebook paper safety-pinned to the back of her blouse, “Shirleen Krebs/Hampstead, VT/ELVIS ALWAYS” written on it in green Magic Marker, and I don’t know, it makes me sad.
Finally, they call our tour number, and we board a shuttle bus that takes us across the busy street, through the music gates, and up the winding drive to the house. Our guide is a college girl, winner of an Elvis scholarship, she tells us. She gives us a brief history of the house, tells us Elvis was only twenty-two in 1957 when he bought it for his mother, Gladys.
“Elvis had this thing about his mother,” Brady whispers. “He was really wacky about her.”
We file into the foyer; the dining room with a big console television and a long table set with Elvis and Priscilla’s china is on one side, and the living room with Elvis’ gold piano is on the other side. The staircase is in front of us, but the guide says we’re not allowed upstairs.
“Aunt Nash Presley—Elvis’ favorite aunt—still lives up there,” she says. “There wasn’t anything in the world more important to Elvis than his family. He put it in his will that no matter what happened, he wanted Aunt Nash to think of Graceland as her home.”
She leads us through the blue-and-yellow television room with its whole wall of TVs, six of them, so Elvis could watch all the football games that were on at once. There’s a pull-down movie screen and a jukebox, wired for twenty-three rooms. The famous soda fountain where, in the early days, Elvis played soda jerk for his pals.
“Drug shakes,” Brady cackles, falling a few steps behind the others. “Speed sundaes.”
He can hardly contain his amusement at the jungle room, which Elvis himself furnished. It’s all green and brown, the floor, walls, and ceiling carpeted for acoustics. There’s a waterfall on one end.
“Oh, man,” he keeps saying.
In the museum, we look at the display of Elvis’ clothes, and when the guide says something about the fringe period versus the jeweled period, Brady asks her to explain.
“Well,” she says, “you know how active Elvis was onstage. He’d get that fringe all caught up in his microphone! One night, it got to be such a mess, they had to stop the show and cut it free. Elvis like to died! The very next day, he called in the costume people, and they set to planning a new look for him. That was when they came up with the jeweled capes.”
She points to the cape Elvis used in the Hawaiian concert. “It’s beautiful, all right. But it weighs so much, Elvis couldn’t wear it, except for getting his picture taken.”
“Like a crown,” Brady says, with a perfectly straight face. “I mean, like, Queen Elizabeth doesn’t go around wearing her crown all the time for the same reason.”
“Exactly,” the girl says, beaming, and goes on to inform us that more people watched Elvis’ Hawaiian concert on TV than watched man’s first step on the moon.
“It’s so nice to see you young folks here,” a woman says to Brady as we turn away.
“I was raised on Elvis,” he says. “I’ve been wanting to come to Graceland all my life.”
Oh no, I think.
His mom was the ultimate fan, he tells the woman. She went to Elvis’ last concert, in Indianapolis. She even caught one of the scarves Elvis threw out into the audience that night.
“She was buried with it,” he says. “Last spring. Cancer.”
“Brady—”
He holds his hand up to quiet me. I swear, he looks like he’s about to start crying.
I can’t get away fast enough. The graves of Elvis and his family are in the meditation garden, a little grottolike place near the swimming pool. I stand there, staring at them. Elvis’ grave is piled with flowers. There’s a little plastic guitar all wound round with plastic roses. At least a dozen teddy bears. Brady joins me, bows his head.
“Hey, how’d I do?” he stage-whispers.
“You didn’t have to tell them Layla was dead,” I say. “That’s not funny.”
“Everything’s funny,” Brady says. “You’re losing your sense of humor, Jax. It’s a sad, sad thing.”
forty–eight
TCB in heaven.
Elvis lives!
Elvis, I wish I had known you. Even so, I miss you. Brenda.
The stone wall along the front of Graceland is covered with this kind of stuff. Paint, Magic Marker, pencil, chalk, nail polish. We move along, reading, not talking.
Boss—thanks. Rest in peace. Rock on. Dan R.
It’s midnight, and I miss you.
“He died at midnight,” a voice says.
I turn around and there’s a girl standing there, short and skinny with Dolly Parton hair. Fifteen, maybe. “He died at midnight,” she says again in her deep southern accent. “I guess y’all probably know that.” She blushes. “I’m Fay Beth Woodman, from Jonesboro. Where y’all from?”
“IndiaNOplace,” Brady says.
She gives him a blank look.
“Indianapolis.” I tell her our names.
“Wow,” says Fay Beth. “Y’all came all that way?”
“You bet,” Brady says, clicking back into his fan mode.
“You been to Graceland before?”
“No,” Brady says, and of course he gives her the spiel about his mother. In this version, we’re here because she never got here herself.
“That is just the saddest thing I ever, ever heard,” Fay Beth says. “But it’s so sweet y’all came for her. A tribute, kind of. We been coming every year since he died,” she tells us. “My mama’s president of her fan club at home; they all come down on a bus. My daddy drives down with my little brother. He says Elvis or no Elvis, they ain’t about to drive two hundred miles with a busload of women—”
“Your whole family’s here?” Brady asks.
“Yeah, we stay out at the Days Inn. It’s real nice. There’s a pool and all. Y’all want to come over there with me?”
Before I can say a word, Brady jabs me. “That’d be great,” he says.
She talks nonstop all the way to the motel. Her brother, John Elvis, was born in Memphis, premature, on the fifth anniversary of Elvis’ death. Actually, the exact same time Elvis died, it turned out: just after midnight.
“Mama meant to call him John Ray Woodman,” she says. “After her own daddy. But then when he got himself born the way he did, it seemed like a sign. So she changed and called him John Elvis. She would’ve changed it to just Elvis, plain, but she’d already told Grandpa Spivey that this baby would be his namesake. He looks like Elvis,” she says. “You’ll see. And he’s got, you know, Elvis’ way about him. He’s real spiritual.”
John Elvis is sitting on the balcony of the Days Inn on a lawn chair, plucking at a guitar that’s about as big as he is. He’s skinny like Fay Beth. He’s got on jeans and a jeans jacket with no shirt under it. I’m almost sure his hair is dyed black. It’s long and greased back like Elvis’ was in the fifties.
“Hey,” he says, when Fay Beth introduces us.
The picture window of their motel room is decorated with photographs of Elvis underneath red construction paper letters: “S.W.
A.K.”
“Sealed with a Kiss,” Fay Beth says. “That’s the name of Mama’s fan club.”
Inside, there’s an old lady with bleached bouffant hair lounging on one of the double beds, reading a magazine.
“Where’s Mama?” Fay Beth asks her.
“That laser light show over at the Pink Palace,” the old lady says. “Her and Linda and Ray Ann went.”
“Oh,” says Fay Beth. “Grandma, this is Jackson and Brady. Brady’s mama died in the spring, and he’s come to Graceland on account of she never got to.”
“My lord,” Grandma says. She peers at Brady over her half-glasses. “Honey, I am so sorry about your mama. Fay Beth, bring those boys on in, why don’t you? Give them a Pepsi or something. And there’s chips there, over on the dresser.”
She makes Brady tell her all about his tragedy. He’s really cranked up now. He’s got Layla wasting away in a hospital bed, bald from the chemotherapy. The last thing she hears in this world is the special Elvis tape Brady made for her.
All this talk about Layla dying gives me a creepy feeling; it seems like tempting fate. Plus, it’s one thing for Brady to play a joke on those ladies at Graceland in passing, but it’s mean to make a fool of this very real lady while we sit in her motel room drinking her Pepsis and eating her potato chips. And Fay Beth, too.
Fay Beth’s grandma starts in telling us about how all the fan clubs are working together to get the government to let them have a big birthday celebration in Washington, D.C., next year. “Lord,” she says, “I can’t imagine why they’re being so difficult. There was no better friend of the American government than Elvis Presley was. Didn’t he serve his country when he could’ve been making millions of dollars making records and movies instead? And he was a personal friend of President Nixon’s, you know. Are you boys eighteen?” she asks.
“Yes, ma’am,” Brady says.
She whips out a petition and says, “Good, then you can sign this. It says you believe the government ought to say yes.” Brady signs his name and puts Layla’s address beside it. I sign, too.
Pretty soon three blond women about my mom’s age come in. “Mama!” Fay Beth says, and runs over to hug the one that looks exactly like her.
“Who’s our company, honey?” her mother asks, smiling over Fay Beth’s head at me and Brady.
“It’s Brady and Jackson, Mama,” Fay Beth says. “You know, I told you I was going down by the wall this afternoon? Well, that’s where I found them, and—”
“It’s really nice to meet you,” I say, standing up. “Fay Beth’s been so great, bringing us back here to show us all the stuff at the motel. And Mrs.—”
“Lureen,” Fay Beth’s grandma says. “Honey, just call me Lureen. Everybody does.”
“Lureen,” I say. “Listen, thanks a lot for the Pepsi and all. But, really, we should be going. You must have things planned for this afternoon.”
“You’re welcome to stay,” Fay Beth’s mom says, winking at Fay Beth. “I think Fay Beth would like for you to.”
“Mama,” Fay Beth says, blushing.
“Patsy,” Lureen says. “Now don’t you tease her.”
I look at Brady, who’s smiling this dangerous little smile. He seems rooted to the orange motel chair. I stare at him, hoping he’ll see in my eyes that I mean business. “We’ve still got those tickets to see the Lisa Marie,” I say. “And the tour bus.”
“I would like to see those things,” he says. “But, gosh, Jax, being here is so much like being with my mom again. I really hate to leave.”
I keep staring at him, as if my eyes could say, look at these people, you idiot. They’re serious fans. Look at them, with their pink fan club T-shirts—“S.W.A.K.” printed in big red letters over a pair of sexy red lips. With their hair rolled up in curlers so it will look good at the candlelight ceremony tonight. There’s no way you’re going to get away with this crap with them.
But he just keeps smiling. At me, at Fay Beth, at the ladies. He’s like an emaciated Buddha sitting there, so serene.
Patsy puts an Elvis cassette in the boom box on the dresser. “Love Me Tender” comes on; she sighs. Fay Beth’s grandma—Lureen—pats the empty side of the bed, and Patsy plops down on it. Linda and Ray Ann stretch out crossways on the other bed, facing them, their elbows bent, cupping their faces, looking like those pictures you see of teenagers from the fifties.
“Tell about your mama,” Lureen says to Brady. “You girls listen, now, and see if this isn’t just the sweetest thing.”
Brady launches into his story again, this time ending with the fact that he’d brought a picture of Layla and left it with all the other offerings on the grave.
“Oh, it is sweet,” Patsy says, wiping her eyes. “She’d be so proud to think you’d do that, I know. I just hope my John Elvis would be moved to do the same thing for me.”
“God forbid he’ll have to,” Lureen says, and Patsy’s friends agree.
Ray Ann asks Brady what fan club his mom was in.
Here it comes, I think—but he doesn’t miss a beat. “She wasn’t in one,” he says. “Elvis was such a personal thing with her. Also, she raised me by herself, you know. My dad, well—he took off before I was born. So Mom had to work a lot. She said we didn’t have enough time together as it was. She didn’t like to leave to go off to meetings and stuff.”
“I can understand that,” Ray Ann says. “I don’t know what I’d do without our meetings, though.”
“It’s a lot of fun,” Patsy says. “Plus, it makes you feel so good about yourself. Last year we raised five thousand dollars for the children’s ward in the hospital.”
“That is so cool,” Brady says.
Patsy beams. Then she glances at her watch and says, “My lord, ladies, we’ve got to get our rears in gear. You boys’ll stay for supper, I hope.”
“Sure,” Brady says. “Gosh, that’s really nice of you.”
“Honey, it’s no trouble,” she says. “I’ll just tell Travis to get extra from Kentucky Fried when he goes. Lord, it’s beastly hot, isn’t it? Maybe y’all ought to take a swim till it’s ready.”
Brady glances at me. “We didn’t bring bathing suits,” he says, “but there’s a Kmart across the street. I bet we can buy some there.”
forty–nine
Fay Beth sticks with us like glue at the Kmart, holding Brady’s hand, babbling, so there’s no way I can get a word in about why we should get the hell out of here before her dad shows up and nails us. They stay together in the pool, too. I stretch out on a chaise lounge, watching Brady swim up under Fay Beth and lift her, making her giggle wildly. She thinks he likes her; I can tell by the way she looks at him. When he kisses her, I look away. I think of the divorce club for the first time in a while and remember how close we all were, how Brady would fall all over himself trying to make us happy. I’ve never known him to hurt anybody on purpose—except his parents. Now I feel like I should warn Fay Beth against him, but I know it wouldn’t do any good.
Why did I let him talk me into this? I should be at home right now, packing my stuff for college. I lie there in the sun, my thoughts dull, my eyes heavy. I could leave, but what would happen to Brady if I did? I’ve pretty much given up the idea of saving him, but it seems to me that I ought to stick around, at least until I can get him back to the Dead. He’ll be safe there, or as safe as it’s possible for him to be. I guess I fall asleep worrying, because the next thing I know, Brady and Fay Beth are standing above me, dripping cold water on me. “Daddy’s back with dinner,” Fay Beth says. “Come on.”
They’re all in Lureen’s room now, helping themselves to chicken and all the trimmings that are set out on the side of the sink like a buffet. Her dad, Travis, is a big guy, a Vietnam vet with “Chu Lai” and a bleeding heart tattooed on his forearm. Fay Beth introduces us, and he gives us a suspiciou
s look and a death-grip handshake. It’s perfectly clear to me. When he finds out what we’re up to, he’ll simply kill us.
Thank God, just as Brady finishes his story—before Travis gets a chance to give him the third degree about it—John Elvis appears dressed in the black satin jumpsuit Patsy made him.
“Honey, look at you!” she says. “Lord, Elvis himself would be thrilled to see you.”
“John Elvis is going to be an Elvis impersonator when he grows up,” Fay Beth says. “When he was little, Daddy built him this bed that was a stage. It was bunk beds, actually, but with no bottom bunk. That was the stage part. It had curtains Mama made out of this gold material with little records on it.
“John Elvis was so cute,” she says. “He’d get his little toy guitar and sing his heart out. Then he started getting tall, and he’d crack his head every time he got under there. Now he has to practice in the garage. He’s good, too.”
“He is,” Lureen says. “John Elvis, honey, why don’t you play just one thing for us before we leave?”
The kid doesn’t have to be asked twice. He picks up his guitar, shakes his hair down into his face, and launches into a fairly decent rendition of “Love Me Tender.”
I imagine Grandma saying “Good grief!” to this whole scene, erupting into one of her what-is-this-world-coming-to tirades.
John Elvis winds down, and Patsy and Lureen make a big fuss, hugging and kissing him. Then the two of them leave to take the members-only fan club bus to Graceland.
“Daddy,” Fay Beth says. “Can Brady and Jackson ride over for the candlelight vigil with us? Please?”
He gives us that look again, but he agrees that we can, so we all pile into his pickup truck. Travis and John Elvis sit in the cab; Brady, Fay Beth, and I in back. I feel weird, like I did one time when I was driving on an icy street and my bus slid and just barely missed hitting a parked car. My heart is racing; I can feel the blood pounding through my body. The cool breeze caused by the truck moving is a relief. I take some deep breaths to calm down, and I start trying to figure out how I’m going to trick Brady into losing ourselves in the crowd so we can get away from these people before all hell breaks loose—then somehow get ourselves back to the Days Inn to my bus. We’ll find a place to park and get a decent night’s sleep. In the morning I’ll drive him back to the place where the Dead will play, give him some food money, and head for home.
Wish You Were Here Page 27
