Elvis Takes a Back Seat (25 page)

“What?” I ask, searching over the frat-house-on-themove. Then I see it. Tied down with bungee cords in the bed of the truck is Elvis. The head. The butt-ugly bust.

Before I formulate a complete thought, I jump out of the car. “Hey!” I yell and walk around the front of the Cadillac toward the group of young men. “Hey!”

“What are you doing?” Ben asks.

As if from a long distance away, I hear Rae and Ivy alight from the car and follow me. But my focus is on the pickup truck carrying the bust of Elvis.

“Hey!” I call again.

This time one of the college boys who sits next to Elvis turns. “Hey,” he calls back. “An Elvis fan? He don't give autographs.”

“What are you doing with him?” I ask.

The loud, beating bass suddenly stops. All of the college boys look at me. “What's the problem, lady?”

“What are you doing with Elvis?” I ask. “He doesn't belong to you.”

“Uh, well, he does now.”

“Since when?” I challenge.

“Since last night.”

“I'm going to call the police. You can't get away with stealing—”

“Claudia,” Ben warns.

“Let them have it,” Rae says.

“Do you want my cell phone?” Ivy asks.

I put my hand out, and Ivy pushes her cell phone into it. “You better start explaining, mister, while I figure out how to dial 911.”

“We didn't steal it,” a guy with black hair gelled into a shape like he'd just slept on it says. “Honest.”

“That's like a bank robber holding a bank bag full of cash and saying he won the lottery,” Ben says.

“No, really,” one of the guys who wears a University of Tennessee shirt says. “This guy gave it to us.”

“Gave it to you?” I ask. “What guy?”

If he gives a description of Guy, I'm going to drive back to Faithland Chapel and crack the Elvis bust on his head.

“Come on,” I say, anger swelling inside me. I punch in the numbers and put my thumb over the send button. “What guy?”

“It wasn't Guy or Myrtle,” Ivy says. “They wouldn't—”

“You don't know that.” I look back at the young man. “Tell me. Now.”

“We were out drinking last night on some back road,” the driver says.

“We didn't even know where we were,” another adds.

“We were lost,” somebody else says.

“And this old guy was trying to hitch a ride. So we pulled over.”

“What did he look like?” Ben asks.

“Look like?” the driver looks down at his topsiders. “He, uh …”

Another kid shrugs.

“Like Elvis,” the blond says, his ears reddening. “Or that's what I thought.”

“Like an old Elvis impersonator,” another says.

“What were you boys drinking?” Ben jokes.

They laugh, but the driver scuffs his shoe on the pavement. “It was kind of eerie actually.”

“It was.” The guy wearing the Tennessee shirt jumps down from the bed of the truck. “I rode in the back with him. And he didn't talk much, other than telling us where to drive.”

“How gullible do you think I am?” I ask.

“No! I swear.”

“It's true, lady.”

“We swear … on whatever Bible you want.”

I cross my arms over my chest. The only thing keeping my finger off
send
is that their story sounds way too familiar. “Go on … tell me the rest.”

“Well,” the driver says, “we ended up at this chapel. The dude asked us to wait. He went inside, then came out, asked us to help him. He said it was okay. The bust was his.”

“It was dark. Nobody was there. But in the corner was this Elvis bust. The guy asked us to carry it out to the truck.”

“I told him we couldn't steal it,” the orange-shirted guy says.

I glance from him back to the driver. “Go on.”

“He said it was his. So we carried it for him. We put it in the truck and hauled a—” he cuts his eyes toward Rae, then Ivy, and says, “out of there.

The kid glances at the other guys, who nod back at him.

“Tell her,” the orange-shirted guy says.

“Otherwise she'll call the cops.”

“She might call the psych ward.”

“Okay. All right. The dude disappeared. One minute he was in the truck, and the next … he was gone. I swear. I know it sounds made up but—”

“It's the truth,” another adds.

I swallow hard, clicking shut the phone and handing it back to Ivy.

“What are you going to do with him?” Ben asks.

“Take him back to our frat house,” the driver says.

“Back in Knoxville?” Ben asks.

The kid nods.

“Seems appropriate,” Rae says, low enough for me to hear. She and Ben are watching me, waiting for my reaction.

I give a nod and back away toward the Cadillac. “Take care of him.”

“Sure thing, ma'am.”

Tears spring to my eyes as I watch Elvis drive away and
disappear from sight. I remember what Baldy said, “Some answers can't be known. It takes faith.”

Was that the faith Stu had known, that there was something bigger than himself? That there were answers he couldn't know in this life that only came in the next? My heart feels full, and I can't speak. Stu had that faith all along. But telling me wouldn't have convinced me; I had to see it to believe it.

Suddenly I feel an arm around my waist and I look to see Ivy standing beside me. Then Rae encircles me with her arm on the other side. At the beginning of our journey, I thought we three were as different as the seasons. But now I realize even the seasons are connected and dependent on one another.

I wrap my arms around their waists, and we stand there together. It's then I realize why I'm here, what my own unique purpose is: I was made to care for others. It's one reason my life has been so empty during the past year. I closed myself off to everyone. But now I feel my heart opening, expanding, and for the first time in a long time hope fills me.

Letting go, I realize, is not forgetting or sending Stu off to heaven with a full lunch box and a kiss. Letting go of Stu means remembering him—the good, the bad, the ludicrous … all of him, while stepping out into my own life … whatever that may mean.

We climb into the car and head in the opposite direction of the truck. I punch the button for the CD player, and a song floats out of the speakers. It's a song about home. I realize that's exactly where I want to be. Not as a place to hide but as a place to live again.

I awaken with a smile on my lips, realizing I actually dreamed. And Stu was there. He'd been in an Elvis-style jumpsuit, swiveling his hips. Elvis rock 'n' rolled into my dream, too, showing Stu his best moves. Part of me wants to close my eyes to the coming day and drift back to sleep to find that dream again. But a quick glance at the bedside clock reminds me what I have to do.

In the garage Rae has already started stacking and displaying Stu's sports equipment and Mother's linens, the things I couldn't let go of before. “Are you ready?”

“Here goes everything,” I say and punch the garage-door button, which slides open easily. A cool fall breeze brings crusty leaves and rustles Stu's ties on the table.

Ben's the first customer to arrive. “You're selling your George Foreman?”

“You want it?”

“No thanks. I like my chicken juicy.”

I laugh. “Where's Ivy?”

“She'll be by later. She wants to show off her new driver's license.” He glances up at the garage-door mechanism attached to the ceiling. “How's it working?”

“Perfect.” I raise up on tiptoes and kiss his cheek, surprising him, thanking him for fixing the garage door. And yet I know it's just an excuse.

He gives me his usual smile, then narrows his eyes at me.

I nod slowly, feeling a warmth sweep over me.

“Doesn't count.”

“I don't get points for trying?”

“Not like that.” He grins, his eyes crinkling, his features relaxing. “Try again.”

“But …”

He raises his eyebrow, asking what I'm so afraid of. I'm not sure anymore. My stomach twists into knots.

Bracing my hands on his shoulders, I turn him to face me fully, raise up on my toes and plant a kiss right on his lips. At first I feel awkward, aware of the chilly morning, but the touch of his hands on my waist warms me. I begin to melt into him.

“The lawn mower for sale there?” a customer asks walking into the garage.

I pull away from Ben, feel my face burning. But his hands remain on my waist. He's grinning.

“Not the mower,” I manage.

“Everything,” Rae says. She brushes past me carrying an armful of old records, Elvis included. “It's about time. Don't you think?”

I smile at her, feeling her encouragement as I make tentative steps toward a new life.

By midafternoon we've sold most of the big items, like Stu's desk. Someone's looking at the crib, and I'm hopeful it will sell, too.

Ivy arrives, her belly looking very full. She shows me her driver's license and the used car Ben purchased for her. Over the summer she's visited me often, invited me to go to movies, and our friendship has grown along with her belly. She glances at the crib.

One thing we haven't discussed much is the baby. She's kept her options open. When she's mentioned keeping the baby, juggling school, or talked about adoption agencies, I've listened. But she hasn't solicited any advice from me.

“If you want the crib,” I say, running my hand along the wood railing, “I won't sell it.”

“No, I'm not looking for that.” Her hair has grown even longer during her pregnancy. She now has blond roots showing above the black.

I try to read into her answer. Maybe she still hasn't decided what to do. But the baby's birth is approaching, and time's running out.

Ben's shared his concerns with me after hours at the office. I've been proud of his ability to continue loving Ivy and supporting her without being overly domineering. Sometimes he's ranted and raved about the situation to me in private. Other times he's almost wept, grieving for his daughter's lost childhood.

“I'm looking for—” Ivy moves closer to me “—a mother.”

I stare at her, not comprehending.

“A mother for my baby,” she clarifies.

“So you're going to … your decision is adoption?” I ask. Ben hadn't told me. But then maybe he didn't know yet.

She nods. “I don't think I'm ready to be a mother. You know, old enough. But I want to pick the mother.”

“And father, right?”

She nods, her gaze sliding over to Ben, who's helping a customer load Stu's desk and chair in a truck.

“Are you going to sign with an agency?” I ask.

She mouths the word
no
. Tears spring into her eyes.

I reach out to her, grasp her hand. She clasps my hand in return. “It's going to be okay. Whatever you decide. It's going to be okay. Your dad and I … even Rae will help you.”

She swallows hard, then licks her lips. “I want you …”

I tilt my head to the side. “I'm here for you, Ivy. Whatever you need.”

“I want you to raise my baby.”

“Oh, Ivy,” I breathe, her name barely audible.

“I know you wanted a baby. Once. You have a crib.”

“Don't you have to have more requirements than a crib?” I try to joke, but tears choke me.

“You have the heart of a mother.”

I hug her close, unable to imagine how difficult it's been for her to ask me, to honor me with her choice.

“Will you?” Her hard, round belly bumps into mine.

“I don't know.” Then I feel the baby move between us. And I know. Right then. I don't have to think about it,
contemplate the consequences of my decision. It's the closest thing to having felt my own baby inside me. “Yes. Okay.”

Through tears, Ivy smiles at me, her face relaxed, her eyes shining. My heart feels full and wide open, accepting of this new possibility. Holding Ivy close, I whisper, “Thank you.” God has answered the cry of my heart before I ever voiced my prayer.

Gary, thank you for always being supportive of my writing. Thank you for saying, “Yes,” and “Go” to conferences or classes. Thank you for reading through synopses and chapters. Thank you for encouraging me to pursue my dream. I am blessed to be married to you.

Thank you, Graham and Caroline, for always being supportive as Mommy works at the computer. Thank you for being patient when Mommy holds up a finger and asks you to wait to tell me something important before a piece of dialogue gets away from me. Thank you for praying for Mommy's writing and for this book. Always go for your dreams, for God places them in your heart for a reason.

D. Anne Love, thank you for your friendship but also for setting me on the path for Memphis. I will forever be grateful for your encouragement and support through the ups and downs of writing.

Thank you, Jane and Hock. You guys rock! Hock, you are the one who said get Elvis into the title, and look what happened!

Dee, Jenny, and Mary, thanks for the encouragement along the way, for reading bits and pieces and whole chunks of manuscript. I appreciate your generosity.

A special thanks to my sweet prayer partners, Leslie and Maria. You guys are the best. Thank you for praying for me, for my writing, and for this book. May God's blessings shower down upon you. I am so blessed to have you in my life.

I would be remiss if I didn't thank Fellowship Church and my pastor, Ed Young. For three years I prayed about whether God wanted me to write. During that time each service spoke to me in unique, creative ways and allowed God to speak to my heart. I not only get wonderful messages that are personal and meaningful for what I am going through in my life, but I get wonderful insights into characters at the same time!

Natasha, thank you for your honesty and compassion. Thanks for believing in this project and in me.

Finally, thanks to David and Karen for reading this book, seeing its potential, and putting your wholehearted support behind it. The entire staff at B&H Publishing Group has been incredible! I am so blessed to work with such a talented, enthusiastic team.