by Craig Davis
That Child Will Find More Rest
A scream ripped through the comic book store, and Dixie Muldoon raced out the door as best she could in her trim, knee-length dress. Poncey stood locked in place for a moment, until he realized the time to leave had urgently arrived, and he only barely made it into the car before she peeled out of the parking lot.
These were not sounds or actions likely to arise from Poncey’s mother. She was a Southern lady of the traditional type, meaning she carried herself with more refinement than she really had. Though a Baby Boomer, her breeding rested firmly in her mother’s generation: While others were protesting war and injustice, she had attended finishing school; while others burned their bras and elbowed their way into offices and careers, she married a working man twice her age; while others wore jeans and t-shirts – the more ragged the better – she studied the fashion magazines and felt uncomfortable in anything less than a dress and pumps. Poncey occasionally found old snapshots of her hidden in obscure drawers around the house, and made great fun of the outdated, faddish clothes and hair. “Today’s cream is tomorrow’s cheese,” she would say. By this time not even her fashion sense could hide the facts of middle age, and she came across as a sharp-dressed sack of potatoes.
Her Louisiana upbringing had filled her with the superficial gentility of a Southern culture wracked with guilt and change, with a dash of French Quarter thrown in for spice. That was her saving grace, and if she’d had her way, Dixie would have been more Gallic than Southern. She liked to point out that “Dixie” was itself a French name; of course, nobody believed her, but they smiled and nodded anyway as they took another finger sandwich. She was torn by nightmares of her ancestry: Her mother spun romantic tales of distant parents, aunts and uncles in the courts of the Dauphin, tales of chivalry and tragedy. Meanwhile, her father declared he was of “pirate-American” descent. She hardly knew what to expect.
But for all her pretension, the Illinois Central railroad still ran through New Orleans, and Dixie could not stifle her wanderlust. Her youth then was poured out in the futile molding of a crusty husband just home from the rail yards, and the chateau de famille she built sat in the remote town of Skullbone, far from the big city’s quaint mix of propriety and hedonism. As though in defiance, she quickly posted a bronze plaque by their front door proclaiming “La maison de Muldoon dans l'Os de Crâne,” and refused to give up the dreams inspired by her mother’s magazines. She always pictured herself slender and fit, leaning lightly against a plush couch in a modern living room. Indeed, her furniture had been modern at one time, and she did lean, but not lightly.
A difficult pregnancy and a day of tortured labor had delivered to her a boy, a son, upon whom she bequeathed all the heritage she could muster up. Over the years La Pontchartrain Stonewall Muldoon struck her as a thick, clumsy child, as if he had a piece missing, never much interested in all that she held dear: the music, the gaiety, the beautiful meaning suspended just beyond her fingertips. She had invested a lot in his name, and not even that stuck. So she felt somewhat a sense of relief when the boy, in his thirteenth year, showed an unexpected fascination with Elvis Presley. Not that she had approved of Elvis, but she’d gotten used to him over time, and thought he represented at least finally a normal pursuit for the boy.
Poncey himself couldn’t remember whether he’d heard a song on the radio, or seen a picture in a book, or something else, but his first encounter with Elvis definitely struck something deep within him. Whether inspired by the flamboyant hair, or playful snarl, or penetrating eyes, it mattered little, for the whole of Elvis grabbed him by his imagination. Immediately he determined to learn everything about the iconic singer. Poncey supposed himself and Presley to be kindred spirits, and he looked for every small detail that they might share, any link he might have to the legend that had been Elvis. When he discovered that the Presley family had moved to Memphis when Elvis was thirteen – his very own age at that moment – he knew not only that he shared an inevitable destiny with the man, but also that he himself teetered on the brink of a new greatness.
Throwing himself into his studies, Poncey mined the details of Elvis’ boyhood in East Tupelo, his attachment to family, his disconnect with peers. He followed his history into the projects of Memphis, surrounded by the rollicking culture of the black community, officially separate but burned into the young man’s soul. Poncey dug into Elvis’ secretive pursuit of music and his introduction to Sun Studios. The path continued, for both Elvis and Poncey, right into the gilded world of Graceland, and Poncey began an incessant attack upon his mother to make a pilgrimage with him to the shrine.
“If you took me, you could go shoppin’ at the big mall,” he pointed out. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
“Child, I got no time for such things,” she said in her slightly Cajun accent. “What I need I can get right here. Don’t need no trip all the way to Memphis.”
“We could go down to the river. That’d be just like back in New Orleans, wouldn’t it, Mam? Watchin’ the riverboat downtown would be just like goin’ back home for you.”
“That’s no riverboat, child, that paddlewheel just drags in the water. Not no riverboat. Memphis in’t never gonna be any N’ahlins.”
“Come on – it might be educational for me. You could even make me go to a museum somewheres if you want to.”
“Lord, how you worry me, child. Let me be, an’ we’ll see.”
Poncey knew then the deal was done, and sure enough one Saturday when his father had to work anyway, he and his mom piled into the car and hit the road. Poncey chose the solitude of the back seat, making his mother sit alone with her thoughts in front. As the tires hummed along the highway, he idly watched decrepit fences fly by, great stretches of pasture land pan as though they were projected upon a movie screen, and electric wires rise and fall fluidly between weather-worn poles. He nestled into the dingy upholstery, his eyes just peeking through the bottom of his window.
Arching over the gentle horizon first came the slick, black hair piled high, one curl hanging down, followed by the expressive brow. Poncey lifted himself slightly, enough to prop his chin on the car door. His breath fogged the glass, only briefly against the balmy afternoon. As I-40 passed below, a production line manufacturing miles, the billboard’s huge likeness of Elvis arose like an oracle. His eyes locked with Poncey’s, and the sign said it best: “Come see me at Graceland.” Something behind the image, behind the commanding, sultry eyes, beckoned him to a spiritual liaison. The giant irises blazed an ocean blue, the pupils deep and knowing, and the billboard blew past like a comet. “Come,” he said to Poncey, “follow me.” Poncey gave silent assent, mouthing the word “yes” as he nodded in the back seat like a bobble-head.
The street in front of Graceland reminded him of the midway at the fair, the mansion and gates to one side, a strip of Elvis-themed shops to the other. The sun’s spotlight gleaming off her like a great candle, the sleek Lisa Marie drew her own veneration from a section of the milling people. Huge crowds brought traffic to a standstill, and Poncey spotted at least a dozen Elvis facsimiles, at various levels of credibility. A nearby pack of clearly German tourists spoke excitedly – for Elvis success was very easy to make, they said, like fish in a barrel you have just made shoot of. A line to the grand house stretched down the drive and onto the sidewalk; Poncey and his mother headed to the stores.
Before him lay an embarrassment of kitsch riches: A belt buckle shaped like Elvis’ sunglasses, perhaps a hundred different Elvis costumes, an American flag held by a patriotic Elvis, a cookie jar that revealed its treasure if you beheaded Elvis. “Evahthing in here ’cept for Mr. Bingle,” his mother remarked. Poncey wandered about in the abundance of adoring celebration and wondered what Elvis would look like on a crucifix. Somehow, among the novelties Poncey found a thick biography on sale, Elvis: More Than Just a Hound Dog, and laid it before the cashier.
Overcome with awe and hunger, he and his mom took refuge in a café, where Poncey ordered the
peanut butter and banana sandwich, but found he could not swallow the mush without first dousing it with “Burnin’ Love” hot sauce.
The line into Graceland awaited, and finally Poncey and his mother gave in to its call. Tinny strains of “Return to Sender” echoed over the grounds as the waiting adherents slowly climbed the hill, past the graffitied stone wall, past the gates, past the wooded lawn. At long last the mansion’s gleaming white portico loomed over them like temple courts. Later, Poncey could not recall any part of the interior except the gold lamé suit. The dazzling outfit looked to him like the raiment of an ancient king, radiating glory and authority. It grasped his eyes and impressed itself upon his brain, so that its image haunted everything he looked at afterwards, as though he had been staring at the sun. Each thread shone like an individual star in a thick celestial soup. The suit itself wore an aura that may have been Elvis’ own spirit, and Poncey stood before it in a reverential trance. At length his mother had to take him by the arm and lead him pensively back to the tour.
Unexpectedly, Poncey found himself in the daylight’s glare. The pack of tourists paused within the Meditation Garden, and the fountain blurbled its musical comforts. A statue of Christ stood in the background, peeking over shoulders as the crowd gazed upon the various graves of the royal family, carrying home in their minds that day visions of the ruin of what was and might have been. Poncey left his book in the back of the car.
Afterwards, Poncey was convinced of what he called an “undeniable fate” he shared with Elvis. All that was left to him was to search it out, a pursuit that took a number of abortive directions. First he began to comb his hair to mimic Elvis’ rich pompadour, crowning his head with a reckless flair. But the reddish hue of the coif put his schoolmates more in mind of Woody Woodpecker, and they never failed to let him know. So Poncey took to wearing a baseball cap all the time until everyone forgot about it. Next he took up karate, just like Elvis, but failing this time to make the case that lessons would be educational, he was left to learn the ancient art on his own. He dug up a library book and did some reading, and early practice runs on rotten sticks went well. But after nearly fracturing a toe trying to break a two-by-four, he gave it up. Then Poncey considered collecting badges, as Elvis did, and hobbled down to the office of Constable Crapo, the town police force. He realized on the way that he’d never actually seen Crapo’s police badge, and as it turned out Crapo didn’t have one for himself, much less Poncey, so that hobby ended abruptly. Indeed, Poncey tried on for size almost everything he could connect with Elvis except the one thing that mattered: music.
Finally, Poncey found his true fellowship with Elvis in the comics. The “funny books,” as Elvis had called them, once provided a rare collegial bond for the awkward boy and his schoolmates growing up, and now also for Poncey; the world of fantasy offered the two a perfect link across time. As a typical youngster, Poncey already owned a few comics, and had no trouble digging up a dollar here or there to buy more upon every trip to Breather’s General Store. Soon a stack leaned precariously against his bedroom wall, and Dixie sighed and shook her head wearily every time she tried to clean around it.
But, of course, Poncey couldn’t leave it at that. He decided to learn everything there was to know about comic books. He researched the back stories of all the main heroes, he traced the long and tortuous falls of all the villains, he explored the similarities of all the cities protected by supernatural guardians. He steeped himself in the clear-cut superheroes of the Golden Age, through the horror comics that nearly destroyed America’s youth in the 1950s, and into the dark warriors of a later generation. He learned the histories of the different publishers, their triumphs and downfalls, their different genres and how they rose and fell in public favor. Poncey studied the nuances of graphic presentation and story-telling, the use of light and shadow, of color and white space. He read up on the careers and innovations of all the greats in the art form – Eisner, Lee, Edlund.
Before long Poncey felt drawn to join their ranks, and he began work on his own creation. He took mild-mannered Elvis Presley as his reluctant hero, applying to him the secret alter-ego Sockabilly – overalls-clad, two-fisted, syncopated defender of the down-trodden – to fight for the Southern way. Sockabilly pitched constant battle with his arch-nemesis The Square, out to conquer the world with old-fashioned values. Poncey’s drawing skills lacked a certain panache, so making one character a simple geometric shape seemed to him like a good idea, and The Square was born. Humble Sockabilly, a.k.a. Elvis, born in poverty but raised into power and righteousness, regularly defeated the evil designs of his foe, who in turn consistently honored his vow to return and once again wreak vengeance on the unsuspecting city. Sockabilly powered his way through story after story, one book after another, as Dixie looked on and worried.
“Hey, Mam, come an’ look at my comic! Lookit this panel here!”
“Poncey! You need to stop that doodlin’ and get outside a spell!”
“Aw, Mam, I don’t wanna right now. I’m workin’ on my books!” Poncey said, totally distracted by his muse.
“This hobby a’ yours is takin’ over your life,” she wrung her hands in her apron.
“I need some more markers, Mam – can we go to Rutherford an’ get some? Breather’s hain’t got nam.”
“You’re whilin’ away your whole life with that foolishness! Never known a boy to keep his head buried in books so much, an’ silly comic books at that! Can’t you find somethin’ else to burn all that time you got on your hands?”
“I like this, Mam. Elvis loved comics, an’ I don’t wanna do nothin’ else. I can’t deny my undeniable fate. When can we go?”
She sighed heavily. “Stop worryin’ me so. Why don’t you go on outside an’ look up your strange li’l’ friend? He’s prob’ly got somethin’ ya’ll could do.”
Dixie had never before suggested that Poncey find his “strange li’l’ friend,” meaning Marlin MacLenoly, not for any reason. Personally, he made her skin crawl a little. But she was feeling desperate about her son’s obsession.
This time was possibly not the best for her to begin throwing the two together, either, because “Mack,” as everyone knew him, had a more abiding love for comics than even Poncey, not driven by any agenda but simply for their sublime art and justice. Mack could pick up any comic he found and seem to deliberately drift into its world, as if he transferred himself bodily into the drawings themselves. He took such a single-minded approach, even Poncey himself had to shake his head, but more than once Mack proved he could not be swayed, neither for love nor lust. As an experiment, one time Poncey tried to distract him with some magazines filled with naked women – the old kind, when black rectangles blocked out the models’ eyes – which he’d found tucked away in a hayloft where he didn’t belong. To Poncey, the rectangles made the women’s eyes their most desirable part, but Mack didn’t care at all. He was busy reading the Flash.
“You’re disgustin’. What you gonna do next – get you summa these x-ray vision glasses?” Mack flaunted the comic’s advertisement at Poncey.
“Shut up. Those things are fake anyway.”
“A friend of my cousin’s has some. He said they really work.”
“Your cousin, or the friend?”
Mack thought a second. “I don’t know. You wouldn’t catch me even tryin’ ’em.”
“Whatsa matter? Scared of what you might see? What a goober!”
“I don’t care what women got. They can jus’ keep it to theirselves, for all a’ me.” Mack turned red just not talking about it.
“You’re jus’ a little pantywaist, ain’t you? You’ve never seen anything, I’ll bet!”
“I seen plenty, enough to let it alone. I was happier before I knew – I used to never think about it, didn’t even know to think it, and then I seen, and I started to think about it all the time. I couldn’t stop. I was happier before.”
“Really?” Poncey almost believed him. “How come you were to see?”
“Oh, my ma, she’s always – she tole me.”
“But ain’t you interested at all? Don’t you think it’s kinda fascinatin’?”
“Fascinatin’ is another word for chains a-clankin’.”
“So you don’t ever want a girl, or a wife?”
Mack turned silently back to his comic book. He preferred to absorb himself in a world of the obviously unattainable – things draped in possibility always just disappointed him. Poncey stared at him with an apathetic empathy – Mack’s got no appreciation of what mattered in the world, he thought. Poncey entered into a daydream of events, him and Mack patrolling Skullbone, combing the alleys and back streets for miscreants. Mack, accustomed to the dirty underbelly of the town, knows his way around the gritty lair of wickedness. There in the shadows, a scuffle and muffled scream arise, and Poncey spots an armed goon accosting a girl as helpless as she is buxom. Mack can do no more than point, while Poncey wheels into action. He goes for the gun first, wrenching it from the attacker’s hand and sending it clattering to the concrete. The jarring impact sends a shot flying with a sudden explosion, and Mack is hit! Poncey lands a quick punch to the throat, rendering the malefactor impotent, but falling to his knees just within reach of the hot, eager pistol. As the crook groans and stretches painfully for the piece, Poncey nonchalantly kicks it skittering down the sidewalk, the girl hanging upon his shoulder, and Mack can do nothing but watch from a distance. Yes, that’s just how it would happen.
“Whatcha readin’?” Poncey consented to change the subject.
“The Flash. My pa was the Flash,” Mack said.
“Shut up!” Poncey reasoned.
“Well, everyone called him The Flash. He played a lot of sports, an’ the fans started to call him The Flash. He ran fast.”
“I thought he worked in the circus.”
“No. What? Oh! That was later.”
“Fast, huh? Sure they didn’t call him ‘Flash’ for some other reason?”
“Nope, that was it,” Mack drawled. “He was fastest man on the Harvard team. He set a record for touchdowns scored on kick returns.”
“No kiddin’? How come I never heard of him?”
“Oh, well, one day he was walkin’ to class an’ saw a buildin’ on fire. He got there afore anybody else, an’ when he saw a mother with two babies screamin’ out a winda, he ran up an’ grabbed ’em. Carried down the babies like two footballs first, then ran up an’ got the woman. But on the way down with her, he got injured an’ couldn’t play no more. His shirt burned off, but he didn’t let the woman go.”
“So after that did they start callin’ him the Human Torch?” Poncey smirked.
“No. An’ he didn’t get burned, just his shirt did. But he broke his arm. He stopped to take off his jeans an’ wrapped ’em ’round the arm, then carried the woman the rest of the way down. She’d fainted an’ all from the smoke an’ him takin’ off his pants. Later, he told the medical college all about it, an’ they turned aroun’ an’ invented the soft cast for broken arms an’ stuff. My pa didn’t get a penny out of it.”
“Your pap did all that?”
“Tha’s right. My ol’ pa.”
The ancestral fortress of Sockabilly’s father, Ver-Non, lord of a distant planet, had been infiltrated by The Square. There he installed a division of minions, mind-numbed automatons appointed to impose his law upon the masses. He sat within the inner rooms of the palace, violating the mysterious meditations of ages past with his evil scheming.
Sockabilly threw a table across the room. “How dare you pollute these hallowed halls?”
“I run things here now,” The Square scowled.
“I’m here to pass out teddy bears and kick some booty, and I’m all out of bears,” a smeared Sockabilly retorted. Poncey needed a new eraser.
“What right do you have here? I’m the ruler of this castle!”
“I’ll teach you to respect my father’s fortress!”
“My army of peons will soon defeat you, then you’ll have to obey my every command!”
“When I’m done with you, you’ll be rockin’ my jailhouse!”
Sockabilly jumped into action, flinging his guitar like a polo mallet. He caught The Square squarely on one corner, sending him twirling through the ceiling and well out of the story. The super Elvis then made quick work of the robotic soldiers with his scuffling, bare-knuckled, bare-footed fighting.
“I’ve cleared out that pack of thieves, my father.”
“Your father will have a fit seein’ you drawin’ that foofaraw,” his mother said.
“Aw, Pap don’t care,” said Poncey. “He don’t care ’bout nothin’ but his trains.”
“Well, I’ll jus’ bring it up to him when he gets home. Maybe I’ll get him to care.”
“Hey, Mam, when you goin’ to Jackson next? Can we go to Comics.Comic?”
The worst possible thing had happened to Dixie – Poncey had discovered a store selling nothing but comic books – the newest, the oldest, the most obscure. There he could find ancient issues, maybe even the same comics Elvis himself had read. The name was pronounced “comics dot comic,” a misleading nod to the Internet, seeing as how the store didn’t have even the merest attempt at a website. Dixie didn’t know much about the Internet, but she soon learned to regret Comics.Comic’s lack of presence there. As it was, every time Poncey needed to bathe in the store’s inventory, Dixie was compelled to drive him all the way to Jackson. Books of all types packed the shop’s bins and glass cases, rare issues sporting fancy prices lined the walls, and clerks were always ready for a deep discussion about the comparative powers of Aquaman and the Submariner. At this time, Poncey could not have found a more blissful and abundant oasis, and going there was like returning to forbidden fruit.
“Don’t you need to go to Jackson, Mam?” Poncey would say.
“No, I don’t,” Dixie would reply.
“But I want to go! I wanna go see the books at Comics.Comic.”
“I know that’s what you’re about. But I don’t need to be makin’ that trip right now. An’ the radio’s talkin’ ’bout rain.”
“Come on, Mam! Please? Why can’t we go?”
“Now, Poncey, I tole you, I don’t have time for that foolishness. Don’t nag at me so!”
“You never want to do anything! You just think it’s foolish ’cause I like it!”
“Don’t I always give in to you, Poncey? Don’t you always get your way?”
“No! I never get my way! I bet you wish I was dead! You wish you had some other kid!”
“Oh, Poncey, don’t say that,” she seemed truly bruised. “You worry me like a puppy with a rag! Don’t worry me so!”
So every time Dixie would make the trip to Jackson, and every time Poncey passed the trip by reading a little more of the biography. He began to see Elvis as more mythic than real, the son born into poverty but who rose to become king. As an entertainer, he gave his life to the fans, sacrificed any normal private life to pour out his heart in the form of song, spilling over the stage and into the masses, spent upon the people’s passions. His fans encircled the world, like millions of children to the shining star, pure in his white jumpsuit, each one sharing in their father’s glory. Poncey remembered his special connection, the favored son, and believed that his time had arrived. He now determined to somehow claim the immense success that Elvis once gained and then left behind; but also, the more he read and learned about Elvis, the more strange and separated he seemed. Poncey must now possess his destiny, he thought, he must do that thing to attain the shared spirit of wonders glorifying both master and disciple, or it might slip away. But what would Elvis do?
Each time his mom agreed to take him and gratefully let him off at Comics.Comic, Poncey spent long, happy hours browsing through the lesser titles, and he pitched his head backwards to genuflect upon the prizes hanging on the walls. Many of the titles and covers shocked his recognition as famous issues he’d read about. Silent within the heroes�
�� tabernacle, graven images of grand warriors surrounded Poncey, bedecked in silver and gold, descended from Valhalla to intervene in the affairs of mortals, graciously receiving the veneration he offered. In another section he would grin at the truly comic comics, the “funny books,” and in another gawk at the horror covers like a driver passing a wreck on the highway. The prices of these rare artifacts were as frightening as the drawings.
There in one spectral moment Poncey realized the wonder to be – another seed sprouted and took root within him. The stack of comics in his room had grown, now towering over his head, but even in their multitude, at that moment his plebeian collection of modern work suddenly reeked of contempt. The weight of history now fell upon Poncey, and he felt a piercing desire to own a bit of it. He scanned the wall, the covers and the price tags, balancing interest with reasonable investment, until finally settling on one particular magazine. Between “Weird Crime,” featuring a dagger-wielding baboon, on one side and the warty hag in dancehall dress on “Old West Witchcraft” to the other, an image from a 1950s issue of “Crypt-Ick” reached through his eyes and took hold of his brain. The little white label read “$75,” which Poncey thought on a good day he might be able to get past his parents. This humble comic, slightly worn by years but still glorious, became his grail, the cherished relic that would redeem his whole collection.
Through the night hours he schemed. On his bedroom wall he spied the spot where his treasure would hang. He planned who among his friends would be allowed entrance, and who would be denied. A sparkling gold frame would be appropriate, perhaps a box frame with a door like a safe, so Poncey could remove the treasure for special occasions. Poncey devised any number of ways to get the money, ways to bend the opposition he would surely face from his mam. The campaign would require perseverance and finesse.
“Mam, you know there’s only one thing I want.”
“Lord, what is it now?”
“Just one thing. It’s a copy of ‘Crypt-Ick.’ It’s older’n you.”
“Thanks. An’ what in the worl’ is that?”
“An old comic, Mam, whatta ya think?”
“Lord, Poncey, I never know what ta think.”
“Can I buy it?”
“If you got the money, I suppose.”
“Well, that’s just it, Mam, I don’t quite have it all. Can you help me out?”
“How much you talkin’ ’bout?”
This was the point Poncey had hoped with utter futility to avoid. “Well, I don’t have that much, personally. The book is seventy-five dollars.”
“Semty-five dollahs?! Lan’, child, what in the worl’ are you thinkin’? You think I’ve got that kinda money for anything, much less a funny book?”
“You could take it outta my ’lowance.”
“You don’t get no ’lowance, Poncey.”
“Well, you could start me one.”
“Now, what kinda sense does that make? An’ don’t say I could pay you for your chores, neither. You live here, an’ your chores is what you owe the house.”
“But there’s nothin’ else I can do to make money for myself!”
“You’ll just have to think a’ somethin’.”
“Just give me the money.”
“No, Poncey, I can’t spend no semty-five dollahs on a funny book.”
“Yes!” Poncey’s face flushed.
“No.”
“It’s not fair!”
“Fair? Child, who’s to say what’s fair? You live a long life or short, you still only die in the end, an’ don’t even get to enjoy your funeral. Ain’t nothin’ fair.”
“I don’t care! I want that comic!”
“I’m sorry, Poncey, you’ll just have to figure a way to earn that money yourself, or do without.”
“I can’t earn that much! You just hate me, that’s all.”
“Poncey – ”
“An’ I hate you! I wish I was dead! I wish I was never born!”
“Poncey, you tear my heart out. You torment me to no end. You never give me a minute’s peace, even from your crib you’ve given me not a minute’s peace.”
Eventually Poncey’s mom found herself back in the car, back on the road to Jackson. The issue of “Crypt-Ick” would be an advance on Poncey’s birthday, and Christmas, and perhaps something else as well.
The tires ground the gravel as she pulled into the parking lot, which was once mostly asphalt. Poncey popped out of the back seat and ran inside, while his mom sat defeated behind the wheel. Sullen as a man going to the gallows, she gathered her things into a worn purse, swung the door open gently and heaved herself out. As the door closed with a clunk, Dixie scanned the horizon as if looking for escape, as if actually entering Comics.Comic would be more surrender than she could bear. With a sigh, her high heels clicked toward the store.
Inside, Poncey’s back was framed by a long glass counter and a salesperson, who had already pulled down the book, and she could tell her son was enraptured by whatever it was he held, though she couldn’t see it. Dixie glanced around in disbelief at her surroundings as she approached the counter. Looking down she was bluntly confronted by the comic book’s cover, as Poncey held it up into her face. She let out a slight squawk – low and startled, because she had no breath – but followed up with a full-bodied, piercing shriek as if some Aztec priest was presenting her own beating heart before her. She sprinted from the store and leapt back into the car.
From the cover grinned the image of a child, perhaps an infant, rising out of a fresh grave, its eyes wide and bright but hollow, baby-blue but malevolent. Clumps of dirt covered the face, smudged with blood and brains, flesh hanging loose from gashes and decay. The cherubic smile revealed bare gums fitted with metallic fangs, and pudgy arms outstretched entreating for hellish embrace.
Poncey stood stunned for a moment, and heard the car crank up, gunning fiercely. Finally realizing he was being left, he flung the book back on the counter and exited without a good-bye. Fairly jumping through the car window, he gathered himself in the back seat as his mom raced out of the parking lot, and settled in to sort out the disaster.
Never had anything caused such a reaction from Poncey’s mother, at least not in his memory. All his hard work was ruined, he thought; he would just have to figure out something to do next. His mom sped down the highway, sending the car reeling around curves like she had never done before, and Poncey decided that just for safety’s sake he’d better keep quiet for now. He’d just been handed a major defeat, but he was confident he could think of a way to recover. He just needed to lay low and take his time.
So in bitter silence he took up his book again, the biography of Elvis, and opened to the last chapter. Disconsolately flipping pages, he read about the final days, the devouring addictions, the solitary consumption. Concerts transformed into incoherent ramblings, and Elvis’ world reduced to his room and then his head, and finally to the bathroom floor. He died helpless and alone in the bowels of Graceland, a grotesque caricature of humanity removed from paradise. Elvis had not conquered the world, the world had chewed him up and spit him out. The world had mastered him on its own terms. Poncey unexpectedly felt the link to him dissolve to nothingness, no desire left to emulate, no more devotion. The king was dead. Long live the king.
The car swerved on sudden turns, and Poncey realized his mom was not taking the way home. He cast his book aside and peered through the window, seeing a winding, rolling lane ahead, surrounded by green fields and tall woods. More grassy weeds than road, the narrow path barely kept hold of the tires as Dixie sent the car careening along. After only a mile or so, she turned off the road and into a secluded cemetery. Dixie pulled to a heaving halt and burst from the car in as big a hurry as she’d entered it.
“What in the ever-lovin’ are we doin’ here,” Poncey muttered to himself. He watched his mother march away, and followed after her more out of duty than his mild curiosity. In the distance he saw her drop to her knees. Though the grass still glistened wet with
rain – the grounds soaked and muddy – still she rocked gently in the muck with no apparent concern for her soiled clothing. As Poncey drew nearer, he saw the gravestone arise beyond her shoulders, cut with the name “Jesse Muldoon.” Directly below appeared the word “Stillborn.”
He heard her whispering with the breeze, “Lord, child, how you tore my heart those thirteen years past. But how I find more rest with you now.”
