Dream Angel : Heaven Waits (7 page)

“Yes, home. That is unless you’d rather we go back and you can tend to my broken fence?” Elvis spoke evenly and my shoulders slumped.

“Sorry.”

He gave me an unreadable look. “You should try to sleep.”

I sighed, but Elvis paid me no mind. My angel’s focus was glued in the rear view mirror and a single car light that followed some fifty yards behind.

In the half shadows of night I raced through a dense jungle. I slapped at low hanging limbs, and jumped over fallen trees that had long ago melted in to the landscape. Light filtered through the forest’s high canopy like moon beams from heaven and lit my way. Ahead, a white tiger sped gracefully through the undergrowth. His powerful paws pounded the ground, and while I lurched about, clumsy, on my two feet he floated effortlessly on four.

I longed to be one with him, to possess him. Though my desire was strong, my physical limitations made me weak. I was lagging further and further behind, a burning sensation threatening to seize my chest. When I could take no more, I reluctantly eased in to a trot and then stumbled to a stop. Without even so much as a glance back, the mighty feline disappeared deeper into the fog. I’m only human, I told myself, while drawing in deep wheezing breaths of moist woodland air that pierced my wilting lungs. I wondered how a mere mortal was expected to keep up, and then realized the answer lied in the obvious — I wasn’t.

It began to rain, light at first and escalating fast. Over my head a light flashed, and I looked up just in time to hear the first crack of thunder. The rain cascaded, and like acid the water began to peel away the murky forest around me. Layer by layer Mother Nature melted before my eyes. Gone were the trees, and in their place were cold steel beams.

The reality of a man-made world surrounded me. I stood not on a woodland path but on cement. I was no longer flanked by moss covered stone, but rather metal chairs, all stacked in neat little rows around me. My state of bewilderment froze me where I stood. Then the last bit of nature melted away, and I realized I was shoulder to shoulder in a vast room full of strangers.

There were hundreds if not thousands, all looking upward to the heavens, and just as I began to pray I might wake from this eccentric dream, a spotlight flashed. It jumped from wall to wall and face to face, keeping time with a jungle-like beat that now pulsated throughout the room. The melody surged while the crowd grew tense, anticipation throbbed like the life’s blood I could feel rushing my veins. I took my first step back, my mind set on bolting, when a woman next to me screamed out a name known across the world: E-L-V-I-S!

Flinching, I turned just in time to see my graceful white tiger leaping out from the wings of what I now realized was an arena. He prowled across the stage. His slithering gate transformed him until he became the Greek-like Adonis the world so loved.

He wore a white jumpsuit that opened down the middle to expose his tanned torso. The fringe that hung from the razor-sharp lines of his sleeves fluttered with his every movement. A woven belt comfortably hugged his lean waist. The spotlight reflected off of his glistening, jet-black hair. His left leg quivered with the beat as he snatched the microphone and brought it to his full parted lips.

“Y’all never been down south to much,” Elvis started, and was quickly interrupted by a wave of screams.

The outer edges of my mirage remained blurry, but the exquisite vision in front of me was crystal clear. My pulse surged when his lip curled into a smile from behind the microphone.

“You just think you know what I’m going to do.” He drawled and the arena roared.

Always the consummate performer, Elvis allowed the audience to simmer. He waited, with his thumbs hooked through his belt, his one leg keeping time with the bass-line beat. When he felt we were ready, he began to explain the story behind a song that everyone knew. With each word, the anticipation grew, until everyone agreed that scrumptious plant that grew out in the woods and the fields had magical powers. Everybody called it, “Polk Salad”.

“Now that’s a Polk, h-up,” Elvis turned, drew a fist up, and with a thrust of his hip penetrated the air, “salad.”

Women all around me screamed. The sight of such sexual prowess evoked their deepest fantasies. The passion that he induced from the stage was raw. He was, for all intensive purposes, making love to every woman in that audience and his little smirk told me he knew it.

My own excitement was predestined to spill over the top, and like the thousands of others, I too found myself screaming out his name. Elvis! Elvis! Elvis!

He looked down to me with an apprehensive smile that sank my heart into the pit of my stomach. His eyes were tender but they conveyed only sadness, and it was in that sadness that I saw a reflection of my own fears and grief. I stretched out my hand to him but he began to fade.

No!

“Samantha, honey,” a faint voice spoke.

With my eyes closed tight, I smiled lightly at the sound of my name, spoken from lips that never failed to rouse me.

“Sam,” the voice grew bolder.

My eyes popped open to reveal a smirking Elvis. I squinted as the morning sunlight filled the car. The brilliance made keeping my eyes open difficult, but I could clearly see his steady gaze resting on me.

Thank God, you’re still here
, I thought with an audible sigh, and then blushed as his smirk spread into a wide smile.

“Sweet dreams?” He beamed.

“Yes, thank you,” I said, wondering what shade of red I was this time.

Avoiding Elvis’ pleased face I turned and pushed myself up away from the door panel. A twinge of pain shot down my neck while I glanced around the empty parking lot, not at all understanding where we were. Then, off in the distance, I saw it, a small painted-many-times-over white clapboard house in a court yard. It was cordoned off by many other buildings not at all from the same era. Elvis followed my gaze.

“Are we in Tupelo?”

East Tupelo, Mississippi, was only ninety minutes from Memphis, and judging by the sun’s position, in an eastern sky, it had to be at least 8:00 am.

How long had we been parked, I wondered, and was not surprised to find my angel listening.

“Awhile,” Elvis said, rubbing the stubble over his chin. His eyes scanned over the landscape before returning back to me with a smile. “You were resting, and I was… enjoying the scenery.”

The thought of Elvis watching me sleep had my heart all a pitter-patter. The idea of him patiently waiting for me to get the rest my body needed, that his did not, made me feel treasured and special. Maybe he was not as upset with me as I had previously believed. I could only hope.

Outside my warm sanctuary, the sun looked fresh in a new day that could have passed for spring. But, when Elvis swung open the car door to exit, a crisp light winter breeze reminded me otherwise. I grabbed my coat, and together we stepped out into the day. While Elvis zipped up his waist-length jacket, I considered how he still looked time dated like a character from one of his own movies. I tried not to stare, but when he placed a felt hat on top of his head, I had to cover up my smile. He was the spitting image of 1967. My favorite year!

***

Nestled in the middle of a quiet neighborhood, the park named after its famous resident, was not all that large. Constructed in an imperfect rectangle, and at half the size of a football field, it was framed by some of the oldest oak trees in town. Besides the residence, the attraction offered visitors a museum, a shop full of souvenirs and two churches to explore at their leisure.

Taking my hand, Elvis led the way. The spring in his step suggested he was happy to be home, and while he was busy admiring the landscape I struggled to contain my own excitement. I was in Tupelo. No, I was in Tupelo “with” Elvis Presley! This was every fan’s dream. I wanted to skip beside him, not walk.

A million questions popped in to my head. What did he think of all the changes? Does the neighborhood look different, and if so how? My curiosity was insatiable, but I held it all in. In fact, it was only when he felt my heavy stare that he glanced down to me, and when he did, I returned with a grin so wide my cheeks hurt. He simply smiled back, giving my hand a tender pat before heading for his childhood home.

We stood in front of the shotgun shack, a design that has always impressed me. What it lacked in size it made up for in charm. The efficient layout is long and narrow, but open and without much separation of space. Heat was not wasted, and when needed breezes sailed through in the warmer seasons. It was undoubtedly a house representing its time, and the times were rough.

When Elvis let go of my hand, I turned to see him absolutely beaming. The serenity I saw in his eyes reminded me of what my daddy had once shared about how, when we pass on, we become all knowing. When Elvis stepped in closer to his home, his eyes shined with an understanding that said he no longer questioned why God handpicked him to be Elvis Presley. He had come full circle. And, for all the “whys” that had once haunted him while alive, he now had all the answers.

The day was young, and Elvis was in no hurry. He strolled along the outer edges of the park, pausing here and there as if we had nothing but time. I should have felt at ease but I was on edge, and not wanting to be left behind, I quickly jumped in behind him. I followed him up the cemented path, to the middle of the plaza. I was hot on his heels. So much so, that when he turned back to see where I’d gone, he bumped in to me.

A smile flickered across his lips. “Let’s, uh… just relax. Ok, honey?” He sounded with an extra measure of calm assurance that I was sure was for my benefit.

I nodded my alliance, and held back the need to remind him that people do work in these buildings, and the start of the work day was coming fast. No doubt the “real” Elvis would not go so easily unnoticed in his home town!

When he continued on up the path, I remained behind in a feeble display of independence. I’ll show him, I thought, but my stomach was already churning the minute he moved from my side. It was only when he stepped up to inspect a bronze sculpture of himself as a child, at the center of the park, did I manage to take my mind off of my worries.

“The rest is history, so they say.” I spoke softly.

“Is that what they say?” He asked, and then leaned in closer to inspect the details of the guitar. After a moment, he took a step back and seemed to ponder the small boy, destined to cross all racial lines long before he was twenty, with quiet admiration.

“I wanted a rifle for my birthday, but mama wouldn’t hear of it.”

“I thought it was a bicycle you wanted?”

“No, that was my second choice,” he said, and then glanced at me sideways. “When they gave me the guitar, I played excited, for their sake.”

To hear him speak of his family only reminded me of my own. Home suddenly didn’t sound so bad. And I found myself picturing my own childhood, a safe place full of family Sundays, and profound conversation around a dinner table. The memories were so clear; I could almost smell my mother’s cooking.

Although deep in thought, I was torn from my daydream by the sound of an approaching vehicle. Quickly, my attention refocused to a black Ford truck rolling up the street. Now, a truck alone is not all-together odd, but one with oversized tires and a tow wench strapped to the grill unnerved me. It had a menacing, and even more disturbing, familiar look. What was it that rang a bell of worry inside of me? I couldn’t place if it was the concern of discovery that had my hands quaking at my side, or the nagging feeling that I’d actually seen the vehicle before.

I pretended to dig for something imaginary in my purse while monitoring its every move. I wanted to be sure that it didn’t make a sudden turn for the parking lot. And, if it did I’d do — I didn’t know what — but it would no doubt have supported Elvis’ earlier belief that I was way too jumpy.

Breathe, Sam
.

The truck paused at the stop sign, and lingered only briefly before turning to head out of town. Once out of sight, I let out a sigh only to draw it back when a click followed by a hum sounded from the main building. I spun around. It was only the water fountain nearby. I quickly looked for Elvis, and found him standing near the brick museum up on the knoll. As he meandered along, showing no signs of even noticing the unexpected passer-by, my heart began to settle a notch.

The resonance of cascading water echoed with a soothing sound, and I closed my eyes. I forced myself to concentrate on the smell of winter. The moist crisp scent of fresh dew on the grass, and the spice from a bark exposed birch tree close by, all lingering in the morning breeze. This was a new day, a day far from the confusion and the troubles of last night. I was going to get it right today, I promised myself.

I had elected not to follow Elvis. I thought it best to give him privacy, a luxury he was denied in life. Besides, simply watching him as he read a series of six-foot plaques in front of the museum was a joy in itself. The way he stood, so erect, with hands behind his back and the fingers of his left hand clasped around his right wrist. He had air of sophistication, though he was uncommonly still. And because his broad shoulders blocked my view, I couldn’t see which section of the heartfelt sentiments, written in his honor, had captured his attention. I tried to envision the words from memory, but it had been too long between visits. And as time passed he brought his hands back to the front, and I smirked, envisioning him now fiddling with the ring finger of his left hand. It was a nervous habit, done without thought, but I found it endearing just the same.

The tranquil sight of Elvis the angel, reading words left for Elvis the man, helped to further ease my nervous tension. And as I was beginning to consider if I shouldn’t just give up my watch, and go to him, he turned and headed back my way, towards the tiny shack. His blue eyes locked onto mine as he sauntered in a spellbinding strut that warmed me from head to toe despite a chilly morning.

“Come sit with me,” he said, passing me to step up to his home.

He took a seat on the small two-person porch swing that hung on the tiny veranda. He sat in typical Elvis style, knees set wide apart and his long legs stretched out across the deck. His broad smile was like that of a proud son returning home after a long time away.

“Well, come on now. I can’t wait all day.” He patted the vacant seat next to him, insisting I join him on a bench swing that barely held two people.