Elvis Takes a Back Seat

by Leanna Ellis

He frowns at me. “I’m fine.”

  “Well, I’m hungry.” But I’m not. I think putting a bite of anything in my mouth will be like swallowing rocks. I hand Ben a menu and push him into an open booth. He pushes his arm outward, then toward himself, squinting down at the tiny words.

  “Do you just want a burger?” I ask.

  “Whatever,” he sounds like his daughter and tosses the menu to the side. I order us both burgers, fries, and Cokes. When I put my wallet back in my purse, I realize Ben is staring out the plate-glass windows toward the street. I can only guess what he’s thinking. Probably running through the possibilities the police began checking: the Peabody mall, twenty-four-hour restaurants, highways for hitchhiking, the airport, bus stations, hospitals …

  “What?” he says when I put my hand on his arm and give him a straw. “Oh, here. Let me …” He reaches for his wallet.

  “It’s taken care of.” I push my straw into an icy drink and notice he’s still holding his. I unwrap the straw for him and stick it in his cup. The cold drink tastes good. “It must be pushing a hundred degrees out there.”

  “Where’s Rae?”

  “She walked over to the mall.”

  Ben glances toward the door. “I don’t have time—”

  “Yes, you do. Collapsing on the sidewalk from heat exhaustion and starvation won’t help Ivy. You need your strength.”

  He’s staring at nothing, his gaze distant. “Ben? You okay?”

  He nods. “I was praying.”

  I wonder why I hadn’t thought of that. But then I know the reason: Prayer didn’t work with Stu.

  When our burgers are served, Ben eats as if on autopilot. The greasy meat lands like a boulder in my stomach. But I force-feed myself in hopes Ben will keep eating. He pushes his plate away first, half a burger and most of his fries left.

  “I should have talked to her. Like you said.”

  “Ben,” I put my hand on his arm, feel my throat tightening, “you can’t beat yourself up over that. You’ll have that talk when we find her.”

  “What if we don’t?” His Adam’s apple works up and down as he fights the emotions that threaten to overwhelm us all.

  I slide out of the booth, around the end of the table, and onto his bench. “Hey,” I put an arm around his broad shoulders, “we’re going to find her. You’ve got to believe.”

  “Is that what you told Stu?” he asks.

  Guilty, I look away, stare at the paper napkin he threw on the table. The truth lodges in my throat.

  “Do you really believe it?”

  Shifting, I wrap my arms around him. He lays his head against my shoulder. We sit that way for a minute or two, then his arms tighten. It feels as if he might squeeze the life out of me.

  I remember being in the hospital waiting room, watching other patients’ family members pace and make phone calls. Ben sat beside me. When the doctor came in wearing his scrubs, Ben stood, but I couldn’t. The doctor knelt in front of me, told me Stu had made it through the surgery but that he couldn’t be sure he’d gotten all of the tumor. Right beside me, Ben was there. I hadn’t felt it then, but I remember now his arm was around my shoulders holding me together. And so I hold onto him now, trying to be strong for him.

  But all my doubts and fears, all the possibilities, darken my thoughts. I knew after that last surgery that Stu couldn’t fight off the cancer that so wanted to eat him alive. I knew. And yet I’d said, “You can beat this.” I’d tried to be positive. I’d lied. Because deep inside I remembered the doctor saying, “We couldn’t get it all.” Those optimistic lies choke me now.

  The sounds of the burger joint creep into my conscious thoughts, and suddenly I’m aware of others glancing at us. My arms tighten around Ben’s shoulders. I want to shield him from the pain I felt when I lost Stu, when I lost my own child.

  Maybe that’s how Mother felt when I lost my baby. Did she remember how her own heart broke? Did she try normalcy to fend off the dark waves of depression that threatened to pull me under?

  Feeling Ben’s heat press into me, I smooth my hands over his shoulders and back. The hair at his nape is soft, curling at the ends. It’s been a long time since I felt a man’s arms around me. I feel the muscles along his back, the dampness of sweat. His scent is a mixture of lingering soap and the heat of the sun. I notice his neck is sunburned and remind myself to buy sunscreen for all of us braving the heat of the day.

  “It’s true what they say,” Ben pulls away, sniffs, pulls himself together.

  “What’s that?”

  “You never walk alone.”

  Even though I’ve felt alone in my own grief, I realize others—Ben, Rae—have been there with me. “That’s right. I’m here.”

  A wry smile tilts the corner of his mouth. “I know. But I meant God. I feel His presence in this.”

  A knot tightens around my throat, choking off any response.

  Ben swipes his hand over his face. Then together we leave the shop, separating in search of his daughter.

  * * *

  ABOUT THREE O’CLOCK I hand a Japanese couple a flyer about Ivy, then enter a souvenir shop. In the window are coffee mugs with Elvis’s face on all sides, a Russian matryoshka doll in Elvis’s likeness, a ceramic frog with a pompadour and leather jacket, foot-tall busts of B. B. King, even Elvis and Priscilla salt and pepper shakers. In the corner a small bust of Elvis catches my eye. Its similarities to the one in our hotel room cannot be ignored.

  Johnny Cash sings “Walk the Line” as I enter the open door. The store smells musty. Along one wall are old magazines, newspapers, and record albums. Covering the walls are posters of the young, svelte, hip-swinging Elvis in a suit right alongside those of the weight-battling Elvis in a formfitting jumpsuit. A rotating display case holds a wide assortment of Elvis-styled shades. I should have brought some of Stu’s souvenirs and sold them here. Maybe at least I could get an idea about what some of his things are worth. Stu has a pair of sunglasses the King himself supposedly wore.

  Waiting for the clerk, I glance at a record from the movie Roustabout with a whopping price attached. My mouth actually drops open. Blinking, I look again and shake my head in disbelief. I consider taking pictures of Stu’s souvenirs and posting them on eBay to sell.

  “Looking for something specific?”

  I turn toward a woman with an Aunt Bee hairdo. “Actually, I’m searching for a young girl. A teenager. Her name’s Ivy.” I show her a picture. “She’s been missing since last night. Have you seen her?”

  The woman studies the picture carefully. Most people only glance at the picture and turn away, not wanting to get involved. Or else they start asking nosy questions. But this woman really looks at the picture as if she’s memorizing Ivy’s features. Hope billows inside me as if a wind of change has taken hold. I hold my breath and wait.

  “Sorry. I’m pretty good at faces, but I haven’t seen her. I know a gal who’s psychic if you’re interested.”

  “I’ll let you know.” I’m desperate but not that desperate. Not yet anyway. But if we decide to hire a psychic to find Ivy, maybe the psychic would give us a two-for-one deal and lead us to the owner of the Elvis bust.

  I notice a rotating stand with reading glasses perched on little spiky arms. Smiling to myself, I pick up a pair that has tiny red fake stones spelling out “Elvis” across the top and buy them for Ben.

  “I’ll post that picture in my window with the girl’s description if you want,” the woman suggests, “and I’ll keep an eye out for her.”

  “I’d appreciate that.” I turn toward the door, purchase in hand, but pause when I see the small replica Elvis bust looking out the store window. This bust has Elvis wearing a blue jumpsuit, not white like the one Stu found. “Excuse me?” I glance at my watch, knowing I should keep moving. The more people I talk to about Ivy, the better. But I have to know about the bust. “Could you tell me about that bust in the window?”

  “Which one? B. B? I get lots of requests for that one. And th
e frog.”

  “Elvis. In the corner.”

  “That’s my favorite.” The woman smiles proudly. “It’s a copy.”

  “Really? Of a famous one?” Interested, I walk across the store to take a closer look.

  “Elvis. You’ve heard of him?”

  I try to get a read on her if she’s joking with me or serious. “I think I have heard of him. Singer, right?”

  “Oh, an actor, too.” She laughs and lovingly caresses the top of Elvis’s head. “They’re really a dime a dozen. You can find them most anywhere. They don’t make too many

  anymore. Not in much of a demand.”

  “No one wants Elvis on their coffee table?”

  “I suppose. Folks buy them more for gag gifts nowadays.”

  “I’m sure.” Is that what the bust is from Stu? A gag gift?

  “There was a rumor way back that the ghost of Elvis had been seen stealing old souvenirs like this. People will believe anything.”

  This from a woman who believes in psychics. But I’ve been desperate enough to believe in the unbelievable. And now I see that desperation in Ben. “Yes, they will.” I need to get back out on the streets. “Well, thanks.”

  “Sure thing. Good luck finding that girl.” She waves the flyer of Ivy. “You know …”

  I pause at the door. “What?”

  “There’s a chapel near here. Friends of mine own it. Real nice folks. Down-home, you know? They mean well anyway. Their doors are open 24/7. They’ve offered help to the homeless and destitute. Just good folks wantin’ to help those down on their luck. Lord knows there are enough of those to go around.”

  I nod, thinking it’s worth a shot, wondering if Ivy would go into a church.

  “They got it all decked out with Elvis stuff. Play his music day and night, too. Not the rock or country stuff, just the pure gospel. Gospel is the only music Elvis won a Grammy for, don’t you know?

  “And where did you say this place is?”

  “Oh, it’s just down the block. Turn right on Third Street and you can’t miss it. Right there. Like I said, it’s open day and night. Faithland Chapel.”

  “Faithland?” My heart skids to a halt. Stu wrote “Faithland” in his note to me. Maybe it wasn’t a mistake. Maybe he meant Faithland, not Graceland.

  “Well, I wish you luck. I’ll be praying that girl’s safe. And if you wanna call my friend the psychic—”

  “Thanks,” I say with a wave as I rush out the door. Reaching for my cell phone, I head in the direction of the chapel. I redial Ben’s number. “Any news?” I ask when he answers. “There’s a chance—”

  “I’m at a place called Faithland. Ring any bells?”

  “Yeah. I just heard—”

  “Get here. Fast.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Crying in the Chapel

  I call Rae’s cell phone and explain where to meet us at the chapel. The wood-and-stone chapel is squeezed among dilapidated buildings and blues bars. A stained-glass window depicts a man kneeling in a church, crying.

  From the street, Elvis’s “Crying in the Chapel” competes with Jerry Lee Lewis’s “Whole Lotta Shakin’ Goin’ On.” Radio stations played the heartbreaking tune incessantly the week Elvis died. Only thirteen at the time, I wished they’d played something, anything else, especially by Andy Gibb. Stu asked for the same depressing song to be played during his funeral. I agreed but refused to listen. Instead I played my own version of “The Hustle” loud inside my head to keep from curling up on the church pew and covering my ears. I realize now there are a lot of things I did for Stu, things that made me uncomfortable, things he wanted. Was that how it was? Me bending my needs to meet his?

  A carved stone above the arched doorway displays the name of the chapel. Faithland. I never imagined it was an actual place. I thought it was just another mix-up in Stu’s failing recall.

  Could Ivy have come here? Stumbled onto this place? Recognized the name from Stu’s note? I draw a steadying breath, swipe the sweat off my brow with my forearm. My skin feels grainy. I heave open the heavy door.

  “I’m calling the police right now!” Ben is punching numbers into his cell phone.

  “Sir, please!” An older man, with his hair pulled back in a gray pony tail, tries to calm him. “Listen to me.”

  “Ben?”

  His gaze swerves toward me. His eyes widen with fear, anger, disbelief. “She’s here! They so much as admitted it. But they won’t let me see her. My own daughter!”

  “Did they say why?” I place a hand on Ben’s arm, feel the tension in his taut muscles, the heat of panic on his skin. “Hello,” I say to the older man who’s wearing jeans and an Elvis T-shirt. “I’m Claudia.”

  “Guy Larson.” He holds out a hand. His handshake is firm, his palm callused. Light from the variegated windows splotches his face with unexpected colors, but his expression seems open and friendly.

  “His wife’s back there with Ivy, but the door’s locked!”

  “It’s our safety precaution,” Guy explains. “Sometimes we get women who’ve been abused. They need a safe place from—”

  “I have not been abusing my daughter!” Ben yells, his voice filled with rage like he might start abusing some latent hippy any minute.

  “Ben, he didn’t accuse you of that. It’s a precaution. It’s for Ivy’s protection, too.”

  “Yes,” Guy says, “you can call the cops. We’ve already spoken with them. We’ve worked with them many times with runaways. They were about to contact you when you burst in here.”

  My gaze shifts toward the front of the chapel, and my breath catches in my lungs. It’s just as I imagined it would be. At the front of the chapel sits a shrine with silk flowers in the shape of a guitar. A deep-set impression in the wall arcs like the stained-glass windows in front. A pedestal holds the place of honor. It’s empty, yet large enough to hold an Elvis bust.

  “Of course, it’s just a precaution,” Guy says, picking up on my comment. “Myrtle, my wife, is makin’ sure your daughter is okay. We wanna know she ain’t gonna run again. We don’t want her goin’ anywhere. She’s safe here. We’re gonna get all this straightened out and get her the help she needs. You’re gonna have to trust me, sir.”

  “Why would I do that?”

  “Because you don’t have a choice.” His frank, open manner is disarming. “Now if you want me to call the cops on you, sir …”

  Ben steps back, but the tautness remains. His cell phone rings. He answers, speaking tersely into the receiver. “Okay. I understand.” When he disconnects the call, he looks drained. “That was Detective Berringer. He said you’ve handled these situations before.”

  Guy nods.

  “You better know what you’re doing.”

  The door near the raised dais opens, and a woman with short, spiky red hair enters the chapel. She’s wearing a tight-fitting white shirt and snug jeans on her overly curvaceous body.

  “Now don’t you worry, Daddy-o.” Myrtle, I guess, waves her hand as if shooing a lazy fly. “We’re doing just fine back here. Just fine. Ivy’s calm now. I actually got her to eat a little something.” She winks and smiles, showing a gold eye tooth. “Popcorn. Works like a charm with teenagers.” She sees me and stops. “Are you mama bear?”

  “No, just a friend.”

  “How-do. I’m Myrtle.”

  “Claudia. Could I see Ivy?”

  “Not right now.” Her answer is firm.

  The front door opens, and we all turn as Rae breezes inside, her hair loose around her shoulders in a carefree way. “You found her?”

  I nod and make quick introductions. Focusing on Myrtle, I ask, “How is she?”

  “Oh, she’s better. She was a pure mess last night. But she managed to sleep a little this morning. She wouldn’t tell us who she was or where she come from. That’s why we hadn’t contacted you personally. Besides, we always contact the police. They know us. When these things happen, and they have many a time, we like to make sure our guest
s are safe and comfortable first. Then we try to find out what has happened to cause them to run away. Sometimes they’re a bit reluctant to say. Sometimes they’re more open, desperate to talk.”

  “And Ivy?” Rae asks. “Was she reticent?”

  “Actually no. She’s very open about her situation.” She waves her hand toward the pews lining the chapel. “Why don’t we all have a seat?”

  “I want to see my daughter.”

  “Of course you do, Mr. Moore.” She pats his arm. Ben’s frown deepens. “And you will. You will.” She moves toward the front pew and sits on the front step leading up to the altar and empty shrine.

  I want to ask about the pedestal, what went there, if it was an Elvis bust, but I don’t dare. Ivy is more important than the Elvis bust. Still, I can’t help staring at the blank, empty spot that reminds me of the hole Stu left in my life. I suppose Ivy feels the same hole in her own life, the one her mother left behind.

  “Mr. Moore,” Myrtle says, “Why don’t you tell us what’s been happening with Ivy lately?”

  Ben slumps in his seat, seeming deflated. “I don’t know.” He taps his thumbs together between his knees. “I really don’t. For so long it’s just been Ivy and me. Her mom left when she was three.” He shrugs. “And I thought we were doing okay. You know?”

  He looks first to Myrtle, then to me, as if seeking confirmation. I offer him an encouraging smile.

  “I’m sure things were just fine,” Myrtle’s voice soothes like a hot cup of tea. “But Ivy’s growing into a woman. When did you first notice some changes?”

  “About six months ago. Her grades started to slip. She became kind of sullen. Not as talkative as she used to be.”

  Rae nods as if she suspected as much, and I can almost hear her thinking, Drugs. Or is that my mother speaking inside my head?

  Myrtle listens, her head tilted to the side as if she’s heard it a thousand times before—not in a jaded, callous way, but knowledgeable. “Yes, yes.”

  “When this trip came up, I thought it might do Ivy some good. To get away from me for a while, to be around other women, you know, mature women who might be maternal toward her.”