“Oscar wrote a bright.”
“About what?” My dad usually prefers writing the hard news, not fluff pieces, and especially not the short, amusing kind.
“Growing tomatoes,” Ben answers. “He interviewed a lot of farmers, got tips from the gardeners. You know he hasn’t grown a good tomato in a couple of years?”
I did know that, but regarding his writing a piece about it, well, I have to admit, I’m a little surprised. When the news is light, Dad usually gets the funny stuff off the wire service or asks Ben to do something quick. And this update about his writing reminds me of how distracted he seemed at work before I left on this trip, how during the last week I was there he was not the first one at the office in the mornings, how he didn’t stay late on the last few Fridays, the weekly meetings in Raleigh he attended but wouldn’t discuss. I’m beginning to think something is going on with my father.
“It was real funny. Got a lot of phone calls and e-mails about it. Folks seem to like it. I think he might do a story on corn—guess he can’t grow that, either.”
“Ben, is Dad there?” I ask.
“Nah, he went for his coffee.”
I glance at the clock on the dashboard. It is ten thirty in North Carolina. So he hasn’t altered his daily morning coffee klatch with his friends at the Donut Shop.
“Does he seem okay to you?” I ask Ben, although he’s not really the one to whom I should be posing that question. He isn’t all that alert to subtle changes in people. Millie told me that his wife lost thirty pounds, colored her hair red, and got a tattoo, and he didn’t notice for a month. It’s not so hard to figure out why he’s divorced.
“What do you mean?”
Why do I bother? “Is everything all right? Does he look okay?”
“Well, no.”
I sit up and Blossom glances over in my direction with raised eyebrows.
“Why? What’s going on?” I ask.
“About what?”
“Why would you say everything’s not all right, that he doesn’t look okay?”
“Well, Al, he’s never looked okay, you know. His face is always puffy and he has all those allergies. His blood pressure has to be out of control all the time. Your father has never been a picture of health, if you know what I mean.”
I sigh. He’s right. Daddy sneezes more than any human I’ve ever known. He almost got on the David Letterman show for sneezing over twenty days straight, but after they booked him and just before he got on the plane, he stopped. Still, he is allergic to everything.
“Dixie, you got any more questions for Al?”
I hear her in the background talking, but I can’t make out what she’s saying. It sounds like she’s still having difficulty locating some things.
“I know where that is,” he tells her, his mouth away from the receiver. “No, that’s all we need,” he says to me and I can tell that he’s about to hang up the phone.
“Have him call me, okay?” I say.
“Oscar?”
“Yeah.”
“Sure thing, Al. Go to this bar downtown called Legends tonight. You’ll love it.” And he hangs up before I can tell him that I’ve already left Nashville.
chapter seventeen
“WELL, maybe he just thought it was a good idea for a story. It sounds like an interesting subject, and you said that the reporter told you that he got a lot of positive feedback. Maybe he just got a tip and ran with it. What’s that you called it again?”
“A bright.” I’ve filled Blossom in on the phone conversation and my concerns regarding my dad’s recent behavior. “Yeah, but he’s never written that kind of feature. He’s always said that if people want to read fluff they should buy a magazine, that the paper is no place for gossip or opinions. As he puts it”—and here I lower the tone of my voice a bit—“Al, the newspaper is for the news.”
She laughs a little. And I hear my father’s voice in my head and I can see him hunched at his desk, peering at me over his reading glasses, a pencil behind his ear, the latest edition of the paper in one hand, a cup of stale coffee in the other. “Al, if you want to be a real paper man, then you need to learn how to report the facts, not just entertain the masses.”
I never pointed out to him that it wasn’t really my aspiration to be a “paper man” or even a paper woman, for that matter. Running the Clayton Times and News was his passion, his love; I did it because it was set before me like our empty dinner table and math homework. Working for the paper, writing articles, doing layouts—this was not something I aspired to do; it was just the life that got handed to me.
“Maybe he’s branching out, trying something new.”
“Maybe,” I say, but without conviction. Daddy is not one for branching out. He’s been known to write enterprise copy, a story that digs a little deeper than the usual news—he even won a state journalism award for his coverage of migrant workers in the area—but mostly he prefers to stick to facts. He’ll cut anything that he thinks might require a rowback or a correction. Daddy hates risk.
“What will you do when Oscar dies?”
Blossom’s question startles me. I start to refute it, to say that’s not happening for a long time, to reply that it’s none of her business. Who does she think she is, to call my father by his first name? But after I open my mouth, I close it again. She comes with no agenda. Like everything she’s asked or said in our time together, it’s just a question. She’s just a kid making conversation.
I take in a breath and consider my options.
“I guess I’ll keep doing what I’m already doing, stay exactly where I am: selling subscriptions and ads, following the high school baseball team, taking photographs of Miss Clayton at the opening of the new Dairy Queen. I’ll hound my reporters to get their stories in on time and sweat it out every week. Pretty much the same life I have now.”
Blossom nods; but it’s more than just a nod. There’s a world of meaning in that gesture.
“What?”
“That’s cool, owning a newspaper.”
I wait.
“The Newport News folded a couple of months ago. I went to put in the announcement about Grandma marrying Tony and they told me they were calling it quits. Sure enough, a few weeks later they were selling off everything there. Sold the building to a T-shirt screening company.”
“And your point being?”
She shrugs. “I guess you could move it online, right?”
“You’re saying that I’ll be taking ownership of a dinosaur.”
She turns to me with another shrug.
I slouch down in my seat. I am listening to the economic forecast of my family’s business from a seventeen-year-old—a seventeen-year-old waitress who practically dropped out of high school—and the sad thing is that she is right. When Daddy dies, the Clayton Times and News dies, too. And I’m fooling myself if I somehow think I am going to avoid either one of these impending deaths.
“I thought I wanted to be a carpenter one time,” Blossom tells me. “I went with my dad to work sites, picked up nails, helped him measure wood, painted corners, that kind of thing. I was eleven, just about to finish fifth grade.” She smiles. “He even bought me a little tool belt for my birthday; it had a pink hammer and a pink screwdriver, a set of paintbrushes. I carried on like that for months and he liked it. I knew he liked it.” She takes a hand off the steering wheel and leans her elbow on the door; and I can see how she’s enjoying the memories of being with her father, doing his work. I think of my dad and me standing in front of the open hood of his truck. “Here’s the dipstick,” he told me and I leaned as far as I could across the engine and put my hand on top of his.
“I learned a lot,” she adds.
She moves into the fast lane and we both stare at the horse trailer we are passing. Two men are in the truck, one old, one young, and they sound the horn and wave once
we get by them. Blossom signals and merges ahead.
“What happened? You smash your finger or finally just get bored?”
“What?” She doesn’t seem to be listening to me; she’s grinning and waving at the cowboys behind us.
“Did something happen that made you lose interest in building things, or did you just finally realize that you were only trying to spend time with your dad, that you didn’t really enjoy carpentry work?”
She shakes her head. “Oh, no, nothing like that. I was working mostly in the summer and then school started and then he lost his job and eventually moved out west. I always liked the carpentry work. Still do.”
I watch her and wonder if a job working with her father is what she thinks is waiting for her in Texas. I turn back to the road ahead of us and remember how it was to be her age, how I went to the university just a half hour away and got a degree in journalism. I think about how I stayed at home, kept my job at the paper, sitting next to my father, never really considering whether or not it was what I wanted to do. And I suppose that is exactly what Blossom is doing, too. She is going to Texas to be with her father and fall back into what she remembers as being interesting and natural. I wonder if this will make her happy, and then I realize that I don’t know what that means anyway, being happy.
I watch as we drive past tall green trees, pines, I suppose, maybe cedar, all lining the Tennessee highway. The rows are full and deep, making it appear as if the interstate was cut right through a forest. I think about travel before automobiles and four-lane highways. I think about the horse and buggy, the miles southerners walked just to get beyond the woods that hemmed them in. The men, the women, the babies born on the journey, all of them seeing nothing but a dirt path stretched before them, wide dark patches of firs and oaks, poison ivy and snakes, fighting the unbearable heat in summer, the elements, snow and ice in winter, just trying to leave.
How many people have taken this path? How many of them left the familiar East and South for parts unknown, for lives they couldn’t even imagine? Sons and daughters refusing to do what their fathers had done, throwing aside the scripts written and handed down, letting go of the burdens; men and women, young adults, teenagers leaving their grieving mothers and heading west? Traveling light?
I close my eyes, no longer watching where we are going.
chapter eighteen
“SHE said they close at five.”
We have arrived at Graceland.
I glance at my watch. It is just after four.
We are late to Memphis because we took our time driving from Nashville, stopping at a few sights along the way. Just after we left Music City, Blossom wanted to see Loretta Lynn’s Ranch and Coal Miner’s Daughter Museum slightly east of Buffalo, in a little town called Hurricane Mills. We took a few photographs of the ranch, and we walked inside the estate but didn’t take the tour. We set Roger on a fence to share the view, spent a little time in the doll museum, and bought a Loretta Lynn CD so that Blossom could sing along to her favorite tunes.
We drove a little farther and pulled off because I promised Casserole we’d stop at Sugar Tree and let him roam around Kentucky Lake. We bought snacks at a convenience store and had a picnic at Natchez Trace State Park, where there’s a wrangler camp and miles of hiking trails and more than a couple of lakes. After lunch, we headed west and then south from Brownsville to see the Hatchie National Wildlife Refuge because I read in a newspaper I picked up at Natchez about the first nesting pair of bald eagles recorded in that county in Tennessee. It was late in the fledging season, but I was hopeful we might still get a view of the newly formed feathered family.
When we arrived, the ranger told us where we might find the pair with the fledglings, but a thunderstorm gathered over us, and if the birds were out, they quickly returned to their nest, refusing to make an appearance no matter how many times Blossom tried to call them to us. We had already walked at least a mile searching for the large nest before the storm came. We stood under the cover of tall trees near the river, but unfortunately there was no evidence of the eagles. Finally, when the lightning struck very near to where we had landed, we gave up and headed back to the car.
At first, I thought Blossom might complain that the trip had been futile and pointless, taking us so far out of the way from our pilgrimage west with nothing to show for our trouble; but over these last couple of days I’ve learned that Blossom rarely complains, at least not with me, and at least not on this journey. Plus, since she heard the story of the ashes I am taking to New Mexico, she has chosen to take on the role of Roger Hart’s keeper, making sure to bring him along into every ranch or store we visit, to every restaurant where we dine, and along every path we walk. In Nashville she brought him to every bar where we listened to music.
She even takes pictures, holding up the box with his ashes at all of our stops. She reminds me of the school project in which a student brings a paper doll on all her trips and takes photographs of the doll, or sends it to extended family members living elsewhere and they take photos, to prove that it’s traveled all across the country. We did a similar story last summer, asking readers to bring along a copy of the newspaper on their vacations and to take a picture holding up the edition wherever they went. We called it “The Clayton Times and News Covers the World.”
It turned out to be a good story until Ray Barber sent us a digital file of his edition showing up in all the strip clubs in Myrtle Beach. He labeled the attachment “The Clayton Times and News Covers My World,” and there were photographs in which the paper was used to hide various female body parts, and, well, that put an end to our traveling news story right then.
Daddy immediately killed the running feature and disposed of the attachment; but I think Ben managed to keep a copy of Ray’s file. I’ve found him and James William on more than one occasion sitting at his desk, giggling and whispering. When I’ve asked what they’re doing, Ben always replies, “Just checking some local coverage,” and then he and James laugh hysterically like it’s the funniest thing they’ve ever heard. I quit paying them any attention about three months ago when I finally figured out they had forwarded the e-mail before it was deleted. Obviously they never grew tired of Ray’s retort.
“We can come back tomorrow,” I say to Blossom now, thinking we can spend the night in Memphis and drive to Graceland on our way out of town.
“It’s kind of important that I visit today,” Blossom replies, her voice trailing.
I glance over at her and she’s facing the mansion behind us and I follow her eyes.
We talked about our trip to Memphis, both agreeing that Graceland was a significant stopover; but we never discussed the expected day of our visit. I check the date on my watch. As far as I know, this day in June isn’t important to Elvis. I don’t understand why Blossom needs us to stop at Graceland today, but I suppose it’s okay with me to pay for the ticket, visit the last hour of the day, and see what we can see.
I shrug. “Well, let’s go, then,” I tell her. “We don’t have to stay long.”
We find a shady place to park so that Casserole can enjoy an afternoon nap. Blossom, now clearly accustomed to bringing Roger along, sticks his boxed remains in her oversized purse. We pay at the shop, and as the last ticket holders of the day we move through the gates and enter the estate of Elvis Presley by ourselves.
We casually make our way through the foyer and living room, beyond the kitchen, to the TV room and pool room. As we move from location to location I watch as Blossom takes Roger out and sticks him under her arm. She stops occasionally, placing the box where she finds an empty spot, and takes a few photos with her phone. Finally, we wend our way upstairs to the Jungle Room and in a few minutes Blossom leaves my side and I am standing alone in what has been reported to be Elvis’s favorite part of the house.
Originally added to the back of the residence as a screened-in porch in the 1960s, the Jungle Room was close
d in only a few years later. Elvis chose to decorate the space with green shag carpeting and furniture that was said to be reminiscent of his film scenes shot in Hawaii. I look around and smile. This must have been where Elvis gathered with friends and family members for some of his more happy times.
I take in the dark walls, the thick green plants, the exotically carved wood, and think of him sitting in one of the large chairs, drinking a beer, telling stories, feeling so proud of what he has accomplished. I figure Elvis’s pride didn’t have so much to do with the fame and the money. I don’t even think it had to do with the music he made, the songs he shared, the films in which he starred. I think he must have been the most proud of what he had been able to give to his parents, what he had ultimately been able to do for them.
The stories that I’ve read all report that Elvis intended to make a lot of money and buy them the finest place in Memphis. With his earnings and newfound celebrity, he planned to rescue them from the impoverished life they led. Graceland was the fulfillment of that promise. And even though his mother, Gladys Love Presley, died only one year after the house and grounds had been purchased, there must have been some great sense of satisfaction for her famous son that at least she’d known luxury for a time. At least he had made good on his promise.
Vernon, his father, stayed on at Graceland even after Elvis died in 1977, eventually joining his wife and son in death a couple of years later. Once sentenced to three years in the Mississippi State Penitentiary for forging a fourteen-dollar check, a man estranged from his own father for most of his adult life, a man who’d been kicked out of the house when he was only sixteen years old, Vernon Presley had eventually been on the receiving end of a son’s immense generosity.
And for some reason, standing here in this place, I get the feeling that this late addition—which resembles no other part of the house—must have captured and mirrored the huge shift of fortune they both knew but could not fully comprehend. The Jungle Room represented the new lush and luxurious life, their strange new normal, which would always feel like a wilderness adventure they could never have imagined.
Traveling Light Page 8
