Elvis Takes a Back Seat (9 page)

On the television Elvis chases after an angry teen, then turns her over his knee and spanks her.

“You know more than you think,” Rae says. “Caring for a creature in need is the best way to feel alive.” She stifles a yawn as she unfolds from the couch and stands. “I'm going to turn in, too. It's been a long day. Who knows what tomorrow will bring?”

Graceland, I think, my gaze shifting toward Elvis.

“Good night.” She turns to go.

“Aunt Rae?”

She looks back at me. Something flickers in her eyes, and I wonder if my calling her “aunt” is a good thing or troubling to her. “I'm sorry, I didn't realize coming to Memphis would be so hard for you.”

She gives a little lift of her shoulder. “If everything were easy, what would be the price of love?”

I nod, not entirely sure I catch her meaning. “You know, I've seen pictures of when you would visit us, when I was little. I, well … I wish you had kept in touch with us.”

“There is a time for every season.”

I nod, supposing the old adage is true. “Why did you leave? I always assumed you had a fight with my mother.”

“With Beverly? Not at all. Your mother, she saved me in many ways. She managed to do what I could not.”

“What was that?”

“The right thing. As she always did.” She rocks her hips to a mysterious rhythm. Slowly she starts singing the words to Elvis's “Love Me.” The words speak of fools and the loss of love. Her voice sounds deep and seductive, mimicking Elvis's rendition of the slow ballad. With a jaunty smile and a flippant wave, she sings her way to her bedroom and closes the door.

But I know she is no fool. No fool at all.

I turn off the television and the main lights in the sitting area. The neon lights from a fast-food restaurant, souvenir shops, and car lots draw me to the window. With the air conditioner blowing on me, I stare out at the black sky. A haze of clouds drifts in over the city, and the neon lights take on an eerie cast. “Love Me” circles around my mind, and I can hear Elvis's mournful tone.

Stu and I slow danced to that song once upon a time. I can almost feel his breath against my neck, the heat of his body pressed tight to mine. Closing my eyes, I feel my own heart pounding and imagine Stu's own thumping against me. Slowly the beats merge into one. I wanted to stay like that forever, with Stu's arms securely around me, swaying to Elvis's slow tempo and tempting voice. It was just us, and I'd felt contentment, security, peace.

Our dance came to a stumbling halt when Stu joined in to sing with Elvis. His voice made me laugh. Actually, I think I snorted. At first he acted offended, but then Stu picked up where he'd left off, exaggerating his inability to impersonate the King with a reedy thin voice and hips that didn't swivel with the same oomph.

My heart feels a sudden pinch, as if I've been running on a treadmill, my side aching with fatigue. My breath comes sharp and fast. I brace my hands against the window, feel the coolness of the glass against my palms. The words of the song swirl through my mind, lonely and blue.

I know loneliness well. It's been my cold companion during the last year. But now Rae's words filter down into my heart, and I recognize the truth of them. I've tried to outrun the pain of losing Stu, the loss of all our dreams. But I can't. Everywhere I turn, I end up back at the same place: Without Stu. Without hope. Or direction. Ashamed, I realize I no longer have him to lead me in this lifelong dance we began together. Perhaps this is not something a woman of this century should feel. But Stu's lead gave me a sense of security I had never known before.

I press my forehead to the glass. My eyes swell like the dark clouds outside. I can almost hear Stu's rumbling laugh tumble through my thoughts. Is he laughing now? Laughing at my inability to dispose of Elvis? Laughing at some stupid joke he's pulled, getting me to escort Elvis to Memphis?

I jerk around and glare at the table, at the shrouded Elvis. He's silhouetted in mystery and darkness, but the outline is clear under the thin towel, the shape unmistakable. For so long Elvis was my nemesis. I tried to get rid of him, tried to banish him from our lives. But finally I gave in, more
ignoring his presence, the music, its effect on Stu. Now I cling to him, fearing that if I let go I will lose Stu. Forever.

I remember when the hospice nurse came to our house and declared Stu dead. She covered him with a sheet until the hearse from the funeral home could arrive. I stared at the sheet a long time. Just above the top, I could see Stu's bald head. I wanted to jerk the sheet off him and yell, “He can't breathe under there!” But I was unable to move.

Now I yank the towel off Elvis's head, throw it as far as I can. It lands on the floor in a shapeless lump, just as I feel I am without Stu.

“Why?” I whisper to Elvis as if he were Stu. “Why did you bring me here?” Was it a practical joke? I remember when we first started dating, he'd call me on the phone and start playing “You Don't Have to Say You Love Me” or “Hound Dog.” When I called his name into the phone, I would hear him laughing in the background, but later he'd deny calling. He was notorious for short-sheeting beds and putting Saran Wrap over toilet seats. I wonder if the note Stu left along with the Elvis bust was some elaborate prank? What if some impersonator had played a joke on Stu? Or had he bought the bust from some cheesy tourist shop? What if he'd stolen it? Had he felt guilty at the end of his life? The questions churn inside me, give me something to focus on other than grief.

“Don't be cruel,” I whisper. “Please, for God's sake, don't be cruel.”

I draw a ragged breath and know I must find the answers to all my questions, even though I want to toss Elvis right off the balcony. It's time to say good-bye once and for all. But I'm not sure I'm strong enough.

Scooping up the towel off the floor, I wrap it around my arm, twisting as the past seems to tighten its hold on me. It was a typical day, the day it happened. Blue sky. Eighty degrees. Nothing interesting even in the news. No war mentioned on the front pages. No major disasters. Yet my life changed that day. Irrevocably.

Of course, in what had become our very small world, no day was typical anymore. A hospital bed had been brought to our home. Hospice came three times a week. Bottles and pills and such covered the bedside table. I'd tried to make the room happy and bright. I'd placed a vase of mixed flowers I'd picked up at the grocery store in front of the bed where Stu could see them. But he hadn't opened his eyes in two and a half days.

Elvis music drifted from a CD player atop the dresser. At first I'd played the usual top-ten hits, but I noticed Stu's breathing became agitated during “Hard Headed Woman.” I switched to Elvis's gospel songs and hymns. That silken voice crooned “I Believe,” “Take My Hand, Precious Lord,” and “You'll Never Walk Alone.” The songs seemed to soothe Stu, but I became more anxious, watching for each breath, each twitch, knowing I would be walking alone from then on.

Stu and I attended a large church, so large that we often got lost in the crowd. But as Stu liked to say, “No one knows when we sleep in on Sunday morning.” And we sometimes did. But during his illness he never questioned his beliefs. He'd say, “God's in control.” But with everything seemingly so out of control, I had questions. I feared speaking those doubts aloud, especially in front of Stu. But whatever tentative belief in God I had turned hard and sunk deep inside me, lost inside thick muck of skepticism.

That day, with Elvis rocking to “Bosom of Abraham,” Stu died. He just stopped breathing. Slowly. Each breath came slower and slower until they didn't come anymore. His hand had been cool to the touch a long while, but I held onto him, unable to let go. As the song crescendoed, building to a fever, Stu drifted into nothingness.

My life slipped out along with his. Everything I had, all my dreams, all my hopes, had been wrapped up with Stu. I'd taken his lead, as if we were dancing through life, content to hold on for the ride. But suddenly he was gone. And I was alone on the dance floor with no one to turn to, no partner, no music.

I wad the hotel's beige, rough towel into a ball, feel the misshapen weight in the pit of my own stomach. Of course, I have more than Stu. I can breathe and move, talk and think. So I stuff all my complaints and grumbling, stuff them deep inside so I don't hear them or look at them. But I know they are there, just as I've known Elvis lived in our attic all these years.

Now I step forward, tempted to shove the Elvis bust backward off the table. I imagine the broken pieces— thousands of them, jagged, cutting, sharp, blunt. Anger pulses through me. I wrap the towel around Elvis' neck, as if choking a statue can kill the pain inside me. But nothing eases these turbulent emotions. I'm not angry at the statue. Maybe I'm not even angry at Stu. Maybe I'm simply angry at God. It's irrational and unreasonable. Yet anger is like a broken guitar string inside me, loose and uncontrollable.

With great effort I smooth the towel around Elvis's shoulders, like one of his capes. The stark white studded collar stands above it. Then I cup his cold cheek with the palm of my hand, aching to feel Stu once again.

Overcrowded, the Jungle Room bar offers mostly carbohydrates like biscuits and gravy for breakfast. We load up Styrofoam plates with an assortment of muffins, bagels, and donuts. I grab a couple of bananas and an apple, then pour coffee into a disposable cup. Together we head for the Cadillac.

“There's a park not far from here,” I say. We passed it on the drive to the restaurant last night. “We can eat there.” I start the car, letting the engine idle a moment while I readjust the rearview mirror, which has a tendency to droop with the engine's vibrations. Without looking at Rae in the back seat I say, “Before we go, you have to tell us. You've kept us in suspense long enough.” Then I turn and smile at her. “How did you meet Elvis?”

She sits back as if she's unconcerned. “You can ask …”

With lips pressed tight, I jerk the gearshift into reverse and back out of the parking space. After a moment I realize
I'm not so much perturbed with Rae, who withholds from sharing, but at my mother who never shared her heart with me. Drawing in a slow breath, I release the frustration.

A short drive up Elvis Presley Boulevard, I park the Cadillac along the street. Giant oak trees shade picnic tables along the edge of a small pond. The playground equipment looks as tired as the parents I imagine sitting around watching their children do what they are no longer able to do. Traffic noise surrounds us, but as we venture farther into the park, the honk of geese soon drowns out the car horns. As we carry our breakfast to a wooden table, a gaggle of geese and ducks waddles after us.

“Think they've been fed before?” Rae asks.

“We'll be lucky to get out alive if we don't give them some,” I say, noticing a couple of small children and a frazzled mother swinging on the playground equipment.

“What's that?” Ivy asks. “An ice cream truck?”

A tinny noise reaches us from the far end of the park. I crane my neck and see a carousel, then recognize the familiar tune. It's Rae's grimace that catches my attention though. “What is it? Are you all right?”

“The carousel brings back memories,” she says.

“Would you rather talk about Elvis?” I ask with a sarcastic smile.

Chewing on a muffin, Ivy settles onto the bench opposite Rae and myself. “We're not going anywhere till you tell us the story,” she says.

I grin at Ivy's spirit this morning. Maybe her stomach is more settled. Our eyes meet. She gives me a tentative smile as if we've just joined the same team.

“So … ,” I prod.

“It was nothing spectacular,” Rae says.

“It had to be. Just because it was Elvis.”

Rae glances at my watch as she spreads cream cheese on a bagel. “Shouldn't we try to beat the crowds to Graceland?”

“It's all up to you.” Steam rises and curls upward from my coffee cup. I'm relieved I didn't spill any in the car as the hotel didn't have any lids.

Her mouth twists tight. A duck wanders too close and Ivy shoos it away.

“You told Stu,” I prod.

“He was dying.”

“So you're saying you'd have to kill us for knowing?”

She laughs.

“Neither of us has had the experience of meeting Elvis. I've never met anyone famous. Okay, Jason Robards. Years ago. Well, I guess I didn't really
meet
him. He was in a restaurant in New York. Stu walked over and said hello. I hung back and watched Stu talk to him like he was an ordinary guy.”

“He was,” Rae says. “So was Elvis. Ordinary and yet …”

“Tell us.” Ivy reaches for half a bagel.

“We want to know what it was like. What
he
was like. Besides, I hate secrets.”

“Secrets suck,” Ivy agrees, borrowing Rae's plastic knife to spread butter on the bagel.

Rae makes a great show of pouring cream and sugar into her coffee. She sips it, scowls, then adds more. “Aren't you glad Stuart kept his experience with Elvis secret? You would have thought he was crazy.”

“Maybe he was. But maybe if we'd talked about it, it would have spared me hauling Elvis to Memphis now and tracking down some mysterious owner.”

“Have you known many secrets?” Rae blows across the top of her coffee.

“You're stalling,” I accuse and flap my arms to ward off the encroaching duck-and-geese battalion.

“Yes.”

“You know Mother … she did that, too. She never would tell me how Daddy proposed to her. And it drove me crazy.”

“Why? What did it matter?”

“I just wanted to know. It was a momentous occasion in my parents' lives, and I just wanted to share it, to know what it was like for them.”

“They were probably in bed,” Ivy says, lifting her feet onto the bench. “They're coming closer!”

Ducks and geese are rushing us like Elvis fans trying to get to the King.

“Here!” I break apart half a bagel into pieces and toss them out on the lawn. The birds scramble over one another, their quacking arguments are deafening before they finally quiet. They peck at the ground, turning in circles. “Not my mother. My parents having sex before marriage,” I laugh, “did not happen. Sometimes I wasn't sure …” I shake my head, laughing more. The wind stirs the napkins stacked on the table, and I slap my hand on them to keep them from blowing across the park. “Let's just say, sometimes I suspected immaculate conception got me here.”

Ivy laughs, but Rae doesn't.

“More than likely my mother planned the whole wedding and just told my father, ‘Be at the church at ten o'clock.'”

“It wasn't that simple.” Rae places the second half of her bagel back on the Styrofoam plate. The hungry birds waddle toward us again. “We should go.”

Ivy's up and walking toward the carousel before the flock reaches her side of the table. Rae carries her coffee and mine, while I dump our trash in a nearby bin. I catch up to them and say to Rae, “You know, then—how my father proposed?”

“Of course. I was there.”

I glance back over my shoulder to see the lead goose turning and waddling down to the bank of the lake. Then I check the car, which sits alone in the parking lot. “You were there?”

“Guess it wasn't ‘in bed' then,” Ivy says.

“I probably shouldn't tell you this.” Rae looks at me, but something tips her over the edge. “Beverly was twenty, and I was only fifteen. So I was still living at home. She was crying on the sofa. So was our mother. But she stood in the kitchen. And Dad … our father … well, he was fit to be tied.”

“Where was my father? The groom to be?”

“Mike was there. Only very quiet.”

“Why the drama?” Ivy asks.

“Your mother,” Rae says to me as if we are the only two people in Memphis, “was pregnant.”

“What?” I stop walking.

“She was. It happened. Happens today, doesn't it?” She looks toward Ivy for confirmation. “Although today it's not such a big deal. But back then it was a major crisis.”

Ivy shrugs and keeps walking.

“Your mother,” Rae takes my arm as we fall into step with Ivy, “was scared. Obviously. I mean, this was 1959.” She glances again at Ivy.

“Wait a minute,” I interrupt. “I wasn't born until 1963.”

“I know.”

I draw a shallow breath, my chest constricted with emotions. I sense this story will open a window to my parents' world that I'm not sure I want to look through.

Now the carousel's music is louder, and I realize we've reached the outside edge of the park. The woman running the ride has a wide, toothy grin. “A dollar a ride. Only one dollar.”

I give a shake of my head to tell her we're not interested and turn to face Rae. “I don't understand.”

“Your mother was horrified and never wanted anyone to know. But I tell you because I think you have a right to know the truth. Immaculate conception,” she snorts. “I regret she didn't share more of herself with you. But that was her decision. This is mine, now that she's gone.”

I nod, giving my consent, but I brace myself.

“As I said, she didn't want to tell our parents. But Mike knew it was the right thing to do. And so he did it. He told our father. Which, of course, created an uproar.”

“What did Grandpa do?”

“He ordered Mike out of the house. But Mike would not leave. He spoke quietly but firmly. Very mature he was, even back then. He said he hadn't meant to harm Beverly. He loved her and wanted to marry her. Would want to marry her no matter if she was pregnant or not. So our father agreed and ordered Mike to ask her right then.”

I imagine my prim and proper mother distraught with shame. Yet I can easily see my father determined and relentless. Pride fills my chest. He boldly stood up to his future
father-in-law. I finally understand the tension I always sensed between the two men. They were always respectful of each other, probably because my father had behaved like a gentleman, but there had always been formality like a frost settled between them.

“So he did?” Ivy asks.

“Mike said he'd already asked, but Beverly refused. ‘She won't now,' my father bellowed. And Mike got down on his knee, everybody weeping around him, even our father. But Mike only had eyes for Beverly. And he asked her again to marry him.” Rae glances toward the carousel, something in her eyes darkens. “That music is annoying.”

“What did she say?” Ivy seems caught up in the story. “She said yes, right?”

“Of course.”

“That's cool,” Ivy says.

“I don't know if it was or not,” Rae continues. “But they married one month later. A quiet, private ceremony. Just our parents and Mike's. I was maid of honor.”

“But the baby?” I ask, almost afraid to know.

“Ah, such a shame. She lost the baby not long after.”

Ivy gasps. I must have, too, because Rae puts an arm around my shoulder. “Your parents loved each other,” she says, her gaze steady. “You must know that.”

“I do. But … all the rest, they never said … never spoke of it to me.” That empty space in my heart pulses.

“And you didn't need to know. It might have caused doubt in your mind. It didn't matter by the time you came along. All that mattered was that they loved each other … and you.”

I nod but feel hot tears sting my eyes. What Mother endured folds through my mind. Why didn't she tell me? If not before, then she could have told me when I lost my baby. When I was depressed and lost and hurting. Why didn't she tell me? Why did she hold back so much? Was it pride? Embarrassment? It would have helped to know that she'd survived a similar loss. It could have brought us closer.

But she'd watched in silence. Now the distance between us seems to widen. I feel a draft of coldness. Only because she chose to keep quiet and not reveal to me her own heartache.

Then I consider uncharted territory—that I could have had a big sister, instead of being an only child. The realization staggers me. What would it have been like to have someone else, a sibling to play with, to look up to, to understand and empathize, to shoulder the burden of caring for our mother.

“Why don't you like carousels?” Ivy asks Rae, interrupting my thoughts.

“I do,” Rae says. “But they remind me of a difficult time. When I first lived in Oregon, I would go to a small zoo. There was a carousel there. I would watch the children laughing, riding the different animals. It had all sorts of animals, not just horses but elephants, zebras, a tortoise, even a triceratops. And I would think of my child.”

I put an arm around Rae's waist, as she supported me. “That must have been hard.”

She shrugs. “Shouldn't we be getting to Graceland?”

Ivy winks at me and tilts her head toward the carousel. Confused, I look from her to the carousel, then back. She steers us toward the grinning woman who's waiting for her first customers of the day.

“What about Elvis?” Ivy says. She pulls three dollars out of her hip pocket and says, “We'll ride.”

“No, no,” Rae says, trying to back up. But I have my arm around her waist and Ivy pulls on her other side.

“Come on.”

Suddenly we're on the big platform, standing among a herd of painted horses, their bright colors as garish as the Elvis bust.

“This could give you motion sickness, Ivy,” Rae warns.

“I'm fine.”

“You gotta sit down before I can turn on the ride,” the woman calls from behind us.

“Here.” I urge Rae to sit in the chariot. She stumbles, and I hold her arm. Ivy climbs the nearest horse. When we're all settled, the carousel begins to turn. Ivy's horse rises and falls slowly. She twists in the saddle to look at us.

My hip is nestled snugly against Rae's on the bench seat that's built more for a parent and child than two adults. “Okay,” I grin ruthlessly, “we'll have to ride until you tell us how you met Elvis.”

With a sigh Rae spreads her skirt out along the bench seat. The carousel music drones on and on. The platform spins faster as Ivy's horse bobs up and down.

Taking a long, slow breath, Rae says, “Haven't we told enough family secrets for one morning?”

“Are there more?” My heart thumps in my chest.

She looks out over the park. From this angle I can see the car, and I know Elvis is safe. “There are things known and not. Elvis—I have not spoken of him in a long time. To Stu … but that was different.”

“So you knew he carried your secret to the grave?”

“It's not a secret. No big mystery. I knew Elvis. It's difficult for me to speak of.”

“Painful?”

“Heartbreaking.”

I waver, then decide not to force her. After all, I would resent it now if someone asked me to speak of Stu … or the baby. Elvis, to me, is almost a mythical character; but to Rae he was flesh and blood, a person, a friend even. Maybe more.

In that awkward moment I forgive my mother for withholding her secrets, her losses. Maybe the pain of loss was too painful for her to discuss, like it is for Ben to talk about Ivy's mother. Maybe my mother couldn't find the right words either. Maybe she thought I'd be jealous of a baby always on her mind, forever in her heart. Maybe she wanted to hide what she considered a horrible sin. What she didn't understand was that, knowing, I would still have loved her. Maybe more. She would have been more real, less perfect, more human. What she didn't understand was that I simply needed to know it was okay to forever mourn a baby that I could never hold but would never forget.