Anthem

by Deborah Wiles

  Then he repeated himself. “Is this a recording studio?”

  “It is,” Birdie began. “And —”

  Norman cut her off. “And your father is in there?”

  “My almost father,” replied Birdie impatiently.

  “Really,” said Norman. “Who’s in there?”

  Birdie closed her eyes like she was in church. “The one. The only. Elvis.”

  “The Elvis?” said Molly. She couldn’t help herself.

  Margaret answered with a sigh. “The Elvis. Yes.”

  “Elvis Presley?”

  “Is there any other?” Birdie asked, then answered, “Elvis Aron Presley, The Mighty and Rightful King of Rock and Roll.”

  “I dispute that,” said Margaret.

  “Indisputable,” sniffed Birdie. “Not to mention a real movie star.”

  “I beg to differ,” said Margaret.

  “Differ away,” said Birdie. “In your heart you know it’s true.”

  “How … ?” began Norman.

  “It’s a long story.”

  “We just gave you a ride. Spill it.”

  Birdie plopped herself in the seat with Margaret, who had already moved over. “Elvis and my mama had a thing, back in the day — I’m telling you, long story, Elvis was very young —”

  “You don’t know that it was a thing,” corrected Margaret.

  “I consider it a thing,” said Birdie. “I have the letters. So I was convinced he was my father. My mother would not deny it, and she also would never tell me who my father was —”

  “But now you know,” said Margaret, like she was talking to a toddler.

  “I came up here to prove it, three years ago, only Mags and I got into some trouble —”

  “Surprise, surprise,” said Margaret.

  “— but it all worked out in the end, and Mama even wrote to Elvis and he wrote back. That could have started up everything for them again, making him my stepfather as well as my father —”

  “Stop.”

  “But he is no longer available, of course, because of Priscilla. But he and my mama are friends again, and Priscilla’s fine with it, and he invited me to come up anytime. I knew he’d be here today because he told Mama he would, so here I am.”

  “Again,” added Margaret.

  There was a sudden silence. No one spoke and no one moved.

  Then Molly popped up and began going from seat to seat, shutting windows.

  Wordlessly, everyone helped.

  They locked up and made for American Sound Studio.

  A LITTLE LESS CONVERSATION

  Written by Mac Davis and Billy Strange

  Performed by Elvis Presley

  Recorded at Western Recorders, Hollywood, California, 1968

  Drummer: Hal Blaine

  “Biiird!” Elvis Presley’s southern drawl came through the playback speakers and into the control booth. “You brought friends!”

  “Here we go,” said Margaret.

  Norman and Molly were transfixed. In the studio beyond the control room stood a man in white bell-bottom pants and a midnight-blue velvet jacket with a white shirt riding under it and a neckerchief peeking out over the shirt.

  He was tall.

  He had a jet-black shock of floppy dark hair and sideburns to beat all sideburns.

  He was Elvis Presley.

  “Let’s play it back, boys,” he said. “Take five.”

  And like that, he was out of the studio and Birdie was in his arms.

  “Been a long time, girl!” said Elvis.

  “Too long!” said Birdie.

  “Glad you caught me before I head to Vegas,” said Elvis. “I’ve got a four-week run there coming up.”

  “Take me with you!” said Birdie.

  Elvis laughed. “Can’t do that, Bird, but I can take you and your friends — and Margaret, hey Margaret honey — home tonight for fried chicken. You want to see Priscilla and Lisa Marie, don’t you?”

  “Not really,” said Birdie.

  Elvis laughed. “Lisa Marie is walking everywhere now. She’s a little beauty.”

  “I’m sure,” said Birdie, sounding completely unsure.

  “You are coming for supper, right?”

  “Right!” said Birdie, brightening. “Can we spend the night?”

  “Sure thing,” said Elvis. “Do you have bus fare home?”

  “Well … no.”

  “We’ll take care of that,” said Elvis.

  “Playback on two,” said an engineer in a hopeful voice.

  Elvis ignored him. “How’s your mama?”

  “She’s fine,” said Birdie. “She’s always fine.”

  “Who are your friends?”

  Norman and Molly had not budged an inch.

  “They gave us a ride,” said Birdie. She gestured. “Norman and Molly.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” said Elvis. He stuck out a large hand with many rings on the fingers, and Norman tried to shake it, but his knees were trembling, so he just laid his hand in Elvis’s and Elvis shook hands for both of them.

  “Good grip you got there.”

  “Yes,” Norman said, after a small silence.

  “Yes,” repeated Molly.

  “They don’t talk much,” said Birdie. “And Molly here, she’s just like Mags.”

  “Margaret.”

  “Then she’s a good friend,” said Elvis, “just like Margaret is.”

  “We’re cousins,” said Birdie. “Nothing more.”

  “Agreed,” said Margaret.

  Elvis smiled. “I’m in the middle of something here. Do you want to stay and watch?”

  “Oh, yes!” said Birdie.

  “Right here.” Elvis led them into the studio with his finger against his lips in a shush.

  He indicated where they should sit.

  “Playback on two!” Elvis drawled.

  * * *

  Two astonishing hours later, Norman, Molly, Birdie, and Margaret were in the spacious hull of a stretch limousine with Elvis Presley, waiting for his driver to reappear with six sacks full of Krystal hamburgers.

  “I used to do this with Dewey Phillips,” said Elvis as the driver handed the drinks through the window. “We’d order up a hundred Krystals and pick ’em up at midnight, go to his house, wolf ’em down with the gang, and play pool all night.”

  The burgers were small, square, and delicious. Molly was barely hungry, but Norman had a hollow leg and could eat anytime, and Birdie seemed to follow suit. Margaret no-thank-you’d herself out of the hamburger chow-down and quietly sipped on her Coke. Molly looked out the smoked windows of the limousine at the Peabody Hotel.

  Elvis sat on one long seat by himself. Margaret and Birdie sat on the curve around the side, and Molly and Norman shared the other long seat. Sodas sat in holders. The tiny table in the middle of the compartment was littered with burger wrappers and fries. The air-conditioning hummed and the driver was invisible behind a darkened glassway. It was almost cozy. Elvis turned his attention to Norman and Molly.

  “So. Traveling across this great country in an old school bus that Bird says is gonna break down any minute …”

  “It wheezes!” Birdie choked, with her mouth full.

  “It’s fine,” said Norman. He unwrapped another square burger. It was smaller than the palm of his hand.

  “And your cousin — your brother — doesn’t know he’s been drafted.”

  “That’s right,” said Norman. He ate the burger in one bite.

  “And you’re going to get him and bring him home in time for his physical?”

  “He’s ordered to report,” said Molly. Impulsively, she added, “He doesn’t want to.”

  “Huh,” said Elvis. “I remember being drafted. And being ordered to report.”

  “You were great in the army!” Birdie piped up.

  “You were only five, Bird,” said Margaret. “You don’t even remember it.”

  “I keep up,” Birdie said. “If you did, you’d know he was great.”<
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  “Well, I was great,” said Elvis with a chuckle. “I was a sharpshooter and a jeep driver and a reconnaissance scout. And of course I was in the army when I met my Priscilla.”

  Birdie humphed.

  Molly wiped at the sides of her mouth with a napkin. “Did you go on furlough after basic training?” Norman nudged her with his knee.

  “You’d better believe it,” said Elvis. “You get two weeks to go home, and I did. The Colonel and Anita — that was my girlfriend at the time — picked me up in a Cadillac at the gates of Fort Hood at six a.m. and we hightailed it home to Memphis. Got there before midnight.”

  “Oh,” said Molly. Not at all the same as Ray’s journey, she thought.

  “Vietnam is different,” said Norman, out of nowhere. “You fight. In the jungle. It’s dangerous.”

  “My uncle went to Vietnam,” said Birdie. “Screwed him up. He hardly talks anymore. Just tends his bees and keeps to himself.”

  “He was always a gentle person,” added Margaret.

  “Well, son,” said Elvis. He tapped the glass to signal the driver to return them to the studio. “Serving your country is always an honorable thing to do. I could have gotten the special treatment in the army, could have worked in an entertainment corps, but I wanted to be a real soldier. A soldier is one of this country’s highest callings. To serve with pride is a mark of distinction and high moral character.”

  Norman raised his eyebrows at Molly, who shrugged her shoulders. She thought Elvis and her dad would get along just fine, except for the hair and the sideburns and the rock and roll. She couldn’t remember: Did Barry like Elvis?

  As they all left the limousine — Elvis, Margaret, and Birdie for the studio, and Molly and Norman for the bus — Elvis clapped Molly on the shoulder and added, “A soldier takes care of business and makes his country proud. Tell your brother I said so.”

  As they boarded the bus, Norman said to Molly, “Wait until I tell Barry he needs to enlist in the army because Elvis Presley told him to.” He closed the folding door and started the engine.

  Molly sat in the navigator’s seat behind the driver, opened her road map, and whispered, to no one, “What if he’s right?”

  EVERYDAY PEOPLE

  Written by Sylvester Stewart (Sly Stone)

  Performed by Sly and the Family Stone

  Recorded at Pacific High Recording Studios, San Francisco, California, 1969

  Drummer: Greg Errico

  Driving west in late afternoon meant the glare was blinding. Norman fished his sunglasses out of the box next to the driver’s seat, pulled down the visor, and headed the bus across the mile-long cantilevered bridge high over the mighty Mississippi River. The sun blinked through each steel truss overhead, flashing its welcome to Arkansas.

  The bus clattered over each deck plate beneath the tires. Molly craned her neck to see the spiderlike steelwork above them. It looked like something made with Barry’s old Erector set. She felt lightheaded and curiously free as the hot summer air blew strands of hair out of her ponytail and across her face. She watched the sun wink-wink-wink, bright and shining, across the expanse of muddy water far below them.

  She breathed deep and exhaled her troubles.

  Up front, Norman began to sing enthusiastically with the radio, weaving his head in time. “I … am everyday people!”

  Molly joined in and both of them sang as loud as they could. “And so on and so on and scoobie doobie doobie!” They laughed at the same time Sly Stone screamed, We got to live together!

  They had been so careful on this trip, so cautious, and so overwhelmed. It was thrilling to be swept up in happiness! The music was a better healer than any kind of talking could ever be. Just like Lady A said it was, thought Molly.

  Norman turned the radio up as loud as it would go and together they sang out the unbelievable day. Days. The craziness of the road. The amazements of the journey. The gift it was to be alive on this day and driving across the Mississippi River, into Arkansas on a great adventure.

  Molly bounced in her seat. She knew all the words, and Norman was astonished. Except for a few catchy licks, he hardly knew songs had words. He always listened so intently to the music.

  “Listen to those toms!” he shouted. “That’s a great drummer!” He matched the beat on his steering wheel with his hands and jounced in his seat as the bus rolled onto the other side of the bridge. Arkansas.

  Molly consulted one of Aunt Pam’s Triple A publications. “There are laundry facilities at the campground!” she called.

  “Great!” said Norman, with fake excitement. “Pass me a Krystal!”

  Elvis had given them two bags full of burgers and had insisted they take them. “You never know when you might get hungry. And you won’t have to cook tonight!”

  Molly opened a bag and pulled out a one-hundred-dollar bill.

  “Oh my gosh! Norman!”

  “I see him!” Norman crowed. He turned off the radio and flipped on his right turn signal.

  A boy was hitchhiking on the side of the road, walking backward, facing them, arm held high, thumb out.

  “No! Norman!”

  “No what?” He sounded so happy. “We’re picking up a body in need! That’s what I promised Ray I’d do. And we’ve got hamburgers!”

  He pulled the bus off on the shoulder as traffic whizzed by. He opened the folding door. The boy trotted toward them. Molly tucked the bill into her shorts pocket and hoped fervently she wouldn’t lose it.

  The boy had a fresh haircut, short and neat. He wore crisp khaki slacks like Norman’s and a striped pullover shirt. He stood at the bottom of the stepwell, looked up at Molly and Norman, and blurted, “Thanks a lot!”

  “Where to?” asked Norman in his most friendly voice.

  “Little Rock, or as close as you get to Little Rock.”

  “That’s where we’re going,” said Norman. “Hop in.”

  “Cool!” said the boy. He sat in the front passenger seat so recently vacated by Margaret and Birdie. He carried a knapsack like Ray’s. He pulled a canteen from it and offered Norman and Molly a drink.

  “Thanks,” said Norman. He swigged from it and passed it to Molly. She shook her head. “No, thanks.”

  “Want a hamburger?” Norman asked.

  Molly checked the bags for anything else Elvis might have left them before offering one to the boy. He took two Krystals and his canteen. “Thanks a lot!” he said again. “My name’s Kyle. You?”

  “Florsheim,” said Norman, without thinking. Then he blushed.

  “That’s a shoe,” said Kyle.

  Molly was direct. “He’s Norman, I’m Molly. Why are you hitchhiking?”

  “I was visiting my dad in Memphis,” said Kyle between bites of burger. “I wanted to go home.”

  “Can’t he drive you?”

  “Not today,” said Kyle, and Molly left it at that.

  Norman merged back onto the highway with a grinding of gears and a stutter of the engine.

  “Sounds bad, Florsheim,” said Kyle. “Want me to look at it?”

  Norman checked his gauges. “It’s finicky,” he said. “I think it’s all right.”

  They rode in silence. Little Rock was ninety-four miles away, sixty-six miles away, forty-two miles away, twenty-nine. The bill in Molly’s pocket felt heavy, like the world’s largest diamond or a sack of ball bearings.

  As they rounded a curve and passed a sign that told them Little Rock was sixteen miles away, they heard a crunch-like pop from the front of the bus. Norman looked up into the student mirror and saw Molly gazing at him in worry. She turned to Kyle. “Are you a mechanic?”

  “No, but I know a lot about engines,” said Kyle. “It’s a hobby. I’ve got a ’64 Pontiac Tempest GTO Hardtop in my mom’s garage in Little Rock.”

  “Wow,” Norman said, hoping his lack of enthusiasm would stop Kyle from saying more, as Norman knew nothing about cars.

  “Yep!” said Kyle, proud. “A Gran Turismo Omologato. First musc
le car of its kind. Got a screamin’ 389 V8 under the hood. And a four-speed manual transmission, probably similar to the one in this bus.”

  Norman doubted it. Kyle was boasting now.

  “Why aren’t you driving it?”

  “I can’t have it in Memphis. My dad won’t let me drive there.”

  They drove fifteen more minutes and were closing in on Little Rock when, as if on cue, the engine began to smoke.

  “Norman!” screamed Molly. “We’re on fire!”

  “We’re not!” Norman yelled back. “Calm down!”

  The smoke was white and billowy, rolling over the windshield and coming in through the open side windows.

  “There’s an exit ahead,” said Kyle. “Pull off!”

  * * *

  An hour later, the bus still sitting on the shoulder of the exit ramp, Kyle gave up poking around in the engine and proclaimed they needed a tow. “It’s something with the oil — if you keep having to add so much, you’ve got a leak.” He looked up the ramp to where a gas station beckoned. “I wouldn’t drive it. I’ll call my mom, and she can send a tow truck.”

  “We’ve got Triple A,” Molly answered. “I’ll go call from a pay phone at the service station. Somebody has to stay with the bus.”

  “I’ll do it,” said Norman. “I’ll call.”

  “No, I’ll do it,” said Molly. “I need to call home, too.”

  “Then I’ll call Triple A.”

  The three of them walked to the service station to make their calls. They got drinks from the machine. They waited for a tow. The sun began to dip below the Arkansas pines. The campground was on the far side of Little Rock.

  Molly and Norman sat on the curb while Kyle used the phone. They sighed at the same time, side by side. The river and the bridge and the song had been a gift. Now they were back to the grinding unknown.

  * * *

  “More meat loaf, Norman?” Kyle’s mother, Phyllis, held the spatula over Norman’s plate in anticipation of a yes.

  “Yes, please,” said Norman. “It’s really good. Thanks.”

  “Well, good!” said Phyllis. “I am very glad I can provide a hot meal while you two are on the road. You must stay here tonight, all right? We don’t know how long that bus is going to be in the shop!”