Elvis Takes a Back Seat (20 page)

“We could adopt,” I suggested.

“No.”

“But that's not fair! Why do you get to decide?”

“
We're
deciding.”

“How? I want one, you say no, that's a decision? You're deciding for both of us! That's not fair.”

“Life isn't fair, Claudia. Or have you forgotten how devastating losing …”

He couldn't say her name. He couldn't say the name we'd decided on while staring down at her little cold body. “Emily.”

“Why can't we just be happy with us?” He challenged my desire with a sharp glare, then left the room.

I stared at the blank television, knowing the decision had been made. I thought about leaving. I could have filed for divorce on the grounds we had different dreams, different hopes, different goals. But I knew instantly that I wouldn't. I would stay. And I would try to make us happy. Just us.

I realize now, sitting in the hotel bed all alone, that I've tamped down my anger into a black hole in my heart.

* * *

IN THE MORNING, bleary-eyed from lack of sleep, I pad out into the main living area. Ben is snoring on the couch where he fell asleep. Pale rose light slants through the parted curtains and spotlights Elvis. I stare at the American icon, the King. Did I put Stu on a pedestal? Worship him rather than God? I'd glorified him, certainly in college and even more so when he was sick and beaten by cancer. Purposefully I'd blocked out pages of our history in my own form of selective censorship. But it hadn't been our whole story. The Stu I kept in my memory most of the time wasn't the real Stu. Just like this bust wasn't the real Elvis. He'd been just a man, no better or worse than any other. Just a man.

Ben said Stu identified with Elvis. Stu had had good points and bad. He'd done good deeds and made mistakes.

So had I.

Suddenly I could relate to Stu in a way I never had before. I was beginning to understand why Stu had sent me on this wild ghost chase with a bulky Elvis bust in tow.

Help me, will you?” I ask, bending over Elvis. He's more awkward than heavy, much as Stu was in his last days.

Without questioning me, Ben leans into the car from the opposite side and picks up the bust all on his own. I remember him helping the hospice nurse move Stu into a wheelchair, Stu's legs limp and almost useless. Ben had knelt in front of his friend, his shoulders seeming wider than normal, his skin healthier and tanned, his muscles working the way they should. Gently he'd placed Stu's socked feet onto the metal slabs, his motions tender, not the way the two men had bruised and roughhoused with each other through the years. His love was pronounced in gentle kindness.

“You sure about this?” Ben asks me, his voice compressed, pulling me back to the task at hand.

“Let me help,” I say as he pulls the bust out of the car. Behind me I hear the jangle of Rae's bracelets as she waits on the curb.

“Just tell me where you want him.” Ben grunts, shifting Elvis in his arms, jabbing himself in the gut with one corner of the base.

“Myrtle is not gonna like this.” Ivy taps her flip-flopped toe on the pavement. The granite sign glitters in the morning light. Faithland. Do I have enough faith to let Stu go now? Am I ready to say good-bye?

I nod encouragement for Ben to continue, meeting his gaze over the top of Elvis's pompadour. I hope he doesn't wrench his back as he wrestles with the King. He motions with a dip of his head, indicating I should lead. I pull open the heavy door to the chapel and hold it for Ben to walk past me, then Rae enters, followed by Ivy.

Ben stops in the middle of the main aisle. The lights have been dimmed, giving the chapel a soft, golden glow. It's empty except for us. Out of the hidden speakers comes Elvis's rendition of “It Is No Secret (What God Can Do),” his voice reverent and deep.

“Put him here.” I pat a back-row pew. The scarlet velvet cushion makes a soft throne for the King. I don't want to be presumptuous in placing him on the pedestal up front.

I stand there a moment, not knowing what to say, what to do, looking down at Elvis. I try to imagine him at the front of the chapel, hoping to get some flash of insight that this is where he belongs. But to me, the bust just looks stupid sitting there in the pew. Deflated, I sink into a seat behind Elvis. Slowly the others settle around him like groupies. I glance toward the private entrance door that leads to the office and home of Myrtle and Guy, where they housed Ivy overnight.

“What now?” I ask, my voice sounding too loud in the stillness of the chapel.

“Wait,” Rae says. “They'll come.”

“I've heard that before,” Ben jokes.

“Who do you mean by ‘they'? Guy and Myrtle? Or Elvis and Stu?” I laugh but no one else does.

“Want me to go knock?” Ivy asks.

“No,” I say too abruptly and not sure why. “Let's see if they come out.”

“We could be waiting here all night,” Ben says. He's been on his cell phone with vendors for the nonprofit on the way over to the chapel. I can't believe I haven't thought of work in days. I know he's anxious to head back to Dallas. I promised we'd go this afternoon. Or so I hope. If all goes well with Myrtle and Guy.

“Okay,” I say, rising from the pew, “I'll knock—”

But at that moment, the private door opens a crack. I hear Myrtle saying something about the toilet needed unclogging, then she steps through the doorway. “Well, hello!” She moves toward us, her smile tightening into concern. “Is everything okay? Ivy, how are—”

She stops between the third and fourth pew, her facial muscles going lax, making her look even older. Myrtle's tanned skin suddenly pales. “Oh, my,” she whispers and grabs onto the nearest pew. She's wearing a tight-fitting orange tank top that clashes with her red hair and shows her well-rounded bosom heaving with each breath. “Wh-whwhat is … I mean, how on earth … ?”

“Myrtle,” Ivy says, going to her, “are you okay?”

“Seems you do know Elvis,” I say.

Myrtle stumbles, then sits in the nearest pew, across the aisle from Elvis. She looks as if she's seen a ghost.

“I told them not to bring it, Myrtle,” Ivy cries. “I told them!”

“Are you okay?” I ask, suddenly worried.

Myrtle ages in front of us. Her whole body sags, the loose skin of her arms and neck drooping. She gives a slow nod, but she keeps nodding, as if she's forgotten what she's doing. “But how … how did this happen? Was
he
here again?”

“He?” Ivy hugs her friend. “We brought it.”

“It wasn't a ghost,” I say, “who took the bust. It was my husband.”

“You don't know who or what was involved, Claudia,” Rae cautions, but I ignore her.

“Your husband?” Myrtle looks confused.

I tell her about Stu, his penchant for practical jokes, his weekend in Memphis (minus the grizzled man on the side of the road), and Stu's last note to me. Feeling the weight of my husband's responsibility, I whisper, “I'm so sorry.”

“That can't be what happened,” Myrtle says. “I saw … I know I saw …
him
. Elvis. Right here at the chapel.” She looks around with crazed eyes, as if she's reliving the moment. “I saw him myself!”

“It's okay.” Ivy pets her arm, trying to soothe her friend.

“You probably just saw my husband and mistook him for—”

“No! It was—”

“What's going on?” Guy asks as he walks through the private entrance and into the chapel. “Myrtie?” He rushes forward. “You okay, baby?” He puts a hand on
her shoulder, kneels beside her. Pure concern darkens his eyes. “What's happened? Ivy, are you back? You doin' okay? What's happened?”

“It wasn't my fault, Guy,” Ivy says. “I told them not to bring it. But they wouldn't listen to me. What does a teenager know, right?”

“Bring what?”

“This,” I place my hand on Elvis's head and repeat my story.

Guy looks equally shaken.

“It's not possible,” Myrtle repeats. “I saw Elvis that night. And there was no man … no human being with
him
.”

“You only saw part,” Guy says gently. “I've always wondered how a ghost could have lifted the bust. Now we know he recruited somebody to help him.”

“Recruited?” I keep the rest of my dissident thoughts silent. I can't believe they still think a ghost is responsible rather than a more practical explanation of a thief. But I'm relieved to see their genuine shock at the sight of Elvis without twinges of guilt, which I hope means they had no part in its disappearance. Only in the legend. And from Myrtle's shocked expression, she's either an Oscar-worthy actress or has come to believe her own propaganda about a restless, wandering Elvis.

“Well, it's yours,” I say. “You can have it.”

“No harm done, right?” Ben stands. “Okay, now that—”

“No, you keep it.” Myrtle clasps her husband's hand. “Or else Elvis will be back.”

“I ain't scared of no ghost,” Guy says, crossing his arms over his chest. “But the bust still can't stay.”

My heart thunders. We came all this way only to be thwarted because they don't want the bust? “But why? It's yours.”

“It's the principle of the thing.” He pats his wife's shoulder. “We learned a valuable lesson back then. We was putting Elvis on a pedestal, looking to him, worshipping him instead of who we was supposed to.

“Remember that story of Elvis, Myrtie? The one where some girls were sitting on the front row of a concert. And they waved a sign declaring Elvis as the King. Elvis stopped right there and looked at those girls all serious like and said—”

“‘I'm not the king,'” Rae interrupts.

Guy nods. “‘Jesus Christ is.' That's what he said.”

Elvis's tender voice floats out from the hidden speakers as he sings “In the Garden.” Stunned, I don't know what to do, where to turn, what to say.

“And those girls,” Guy continues, “put that sign down. Just like we can't put Elvis back up on that pedestal. So,” he looks at me then, “I'm sorry, miss. But Elvis can't stay.”

“But you've still got the pedestal, the shrine. Right there.”

“Sure, it's a good reminder how wrong we were.”

“But my husband … it was his last request.” I look at Elvis. In that moment I hate the bust as I never have before. “I can't take it home again.” Tears come, and I can't push them back. “I'll never have my own life if I don't get rid of Elvis.”

Suddenly Ben's beside me, his arm around my shoulders. “It's okay,” he soothes. “We'll figure something out.”

“Guy,” Myrtle says, “do something.”

Her husband hands me a tissue.

“Maybe there's a back room,” Rae says, “someplace you could store him. Elvis would find no fault with that. Neither would the Almighty.”

“Don't matter about Elvis, what he'd think.” Guy says.

“This isn't about a bust or Elvis,” Ben says. “It's about you, Claudia. Stu knew that. And it was his greatest wish before he died. Do you know why he sent you on this—”

“Wild ghost chase?” I'm shaking my head as I wipe my nose with the tissue.

“Because he knew you'd lost your faith. He wanted you to get it back.”

“But—”

Ben drops to his knee beside me, cups my hands in his. “Stu knew you'd lost your way. He felt guilty for that.”

“It wasn't his fault. Maybe I never believed enough.”

“No.” Ben squeezes my hand. “He knew the loss of your baby, your mom, even Stu had worn away your hope. He knew it all started when your dad died.”

I can't look at Ben. The truth of his words slices clean through me.

“He wanted you to believe.”

“What if I can't?”

“Because God didn't answer your prayers?”

I shrug, my throat tight.

“I bet Jesus felt the same as you,” Guy says, “that night in Gethsemane.”

I look up. My tears make Guy seem blurry and distorted, like the reflection in a fun-house mirror.

“Think about it,” he says. “Jesus was praying he wouldn't have to die. Didn't want to do it. But God said no.

Jesus Christ, the son of God, was told no. Imagine that! So he knows exactly what you're feeling.”

Glancing at Myrtle, then Rae, Ivy, and Ben, they're all watching me, nodding in agreement with Guy. My mind wrestles, twisting and turning over his words, but my heart maintains a slow, steady beat.

“Faith,” Rae says, “isn't some miracle. It's not magic. It's not some elusive thing, unattainable by most. It's simply a choice, Claudia.”

“Faith is being sure of what we hope for …” Guy says.

“Certain of what we don't see,” Myrtle finishes.

“That's it,” Ben adds. “Pretty simple. We hope for more. But we can't see it. Can't see God. But we can see God's hand in things.”

“So how do you believe through all you've suffered, through all that's happened to you?” My voice wavers.

“One step at a time. One day at a time.” He sits back on his heels. “I know that sounds trite, but it's true. There've been days when I don't think I believe anything. There've been days when I railed at God. But it all comes back to what I hope for and what I can't see. And so I keep walking forward.”

* * *

FIRST IVY EXCUSES herself to go to the restroom. Then Myrtle and Rae leave to fix the teen a sandwich. Slowly Guy and Ben follow. Until I am left alone. In the chapel. With Elvis.

I stare at the black pompadour and stand-up collar for a few minutes. Ben's words roll around my head. Somewhere
high above me, Elvis's soulful voice drifts out of a speaker singing “Without Him.” I toy with the idea.

I remember back before I'd taken the first tentative step toward God. We did a dance of sorts for a while, one step forward, two steps back. I was scared. Uncertain. Bewildered by what it all meant. But soon it became scarier thinking God wasn't there, watching over me, guiding me. I wonder now if I want to return to a place where I didn't believe or if I want to take a tentative step toward God again. I believe it is a choice. And I'm standing on the brink.

I push up from the pew, walk past Elvis and on up to the front. There are two steps up to the altar. The red carpet is plush and inviting. I sit and fold my arms around my knees.

I close my eyes, squeeze them tight. I don't expect to feel anything, to hear anything other than Elvis singing an old spiritual. But as I begin to voice my objections, my doubts, my prayer that doesn't exactly sound like a psalm or the Lord's Prayer, a peace sweeps over me.

Finally, spent of words and tears, I press my cheek to the altar. There's no Elvis on it, no Stu, nothing of this world.

Across the chapel Elvis stares at me from his seat on a back pew. Suddenly I think I grasp Stu's connection with Elvis, the tug of war between hedonism and spirituality. I have felt it in my dance with disbelief and belief.

It's a first step, and I know it won't be the last. The rhythm of Elvis's jaunty “If the Lord Wasn't Walking by My Side” makes me think of this awkward dance of mine. I'm no longer dancing with a memory. It feels as if God has reached his hand out toward me. He's chosen me.

I'm simply a wallflower, blending in with the others. I've got a list of excuses for why I shouldn't tango. But here we go. There'll be steps forward and backward, side steps, twirls, and dips. I'm not leading but following. At least I'm dancing again.

* * *

“ARE YOU OKAY?” Ben touches my shoulder.

“I think so.” I do feel better, just stiff now as I push myself to my feet. “Is everyone ready to go?”

He nods. “Myrtle and Guy have agreed to keep Elvis till we get all packed. Then we can come pick him up. No sense in carrying him back to the hotel.”