Love Me Tender

by Laurie Horowitz

  “Kind of like hair wax. Take it and use it to sweep your hair up in a pompadour.”

  “Jeez, when did you go all Liberace on me?”

  “Not Liberace. Elvis.”

  Patton takes the stuff from the jar and fluffs up his hair. “I look like Tweety Bird.”

  “Run a comb through it.”

  Patton goes into the bathroom and tries to shape his hair. It’s not as moldable as the clay he used in art class when he was a kid. He was pretty good with the clay, but he’s not so great with this pomade. He’s going to need some practice. He comes back out into the living room and spreads his arms, palms up. “So?”

  “We can work on it. Let’s see what happens tonight. You never know. People love when you cover Elvis.”

  “I don’t want to be an Elvis impersonator.”

  “Just give them a little bit of Elvis and a little bit of you. See what happens.”

  “You’re not working tonight?”

  “Tonight, I’m strictly your manager. My psychic said that big things are coming, not just for you, but for the both of us.”

  “She’s said that before,” Patton says.

  “This time is different. I think this Elvis thing may have legs. I don’t know why I never thought of it before. Come on. I’ll drive. If you take your motorcycle, the helmet will mess up your hair.”

  “That would be a tragedy.” Patton grabs his guitar and follows Hunter out to the car.

  “You should really unbutton a few more buttons on the shirt.”

  “I already feel ridiculous.”

  They get into the car, a vintage Mustang that’s Hunter’s pride and joy. Hunter pulls out onto the street.

  Hunter goes quiet for a second, and then asks, “You ever miss Memphis?”

  “All the time.”

  “How’s your mother?”

  “She’s okay. Still working at the Cozy Corner. I wish I could get her out of there.”

  “What would she do if she didn’t work? She’s still young,” Hunter says. “And hot.”

  “It’s so creepy when you say that. How’s your dad?”

  “He wants to sell his body shop and retire.”

  “What will he do?”

  “I don’t know. Nothing, I guess.”

  “I’d like to make it so I could buy my mom a nice house. Maybe she wouldn’t have to work.”

  “Someday, you will.”

  “You think?”

  “Patton, you’ve got what it takes. That special something. I just know it. I’ll be Colonel Tom Parker to your Elvis, and we’re going places.”

  “Yeah, to the Stompin’ Ground.”

  “I mean it. Your big break is on its way to you. I can feel it.”

  Patton looks over at Hunter. He dressed up, too. He’s wearing a plaid shirt, a vest, and a bolo tie. He looks like he’s ready to dance the Texas two-step.

  When Patton approaches the stage tonight, he thinks about Elvis’s swagger and the way he swung his hips. Patton loosens up, moves more, and stops standing still when he sings. He feels the music flow through his body and lets it have its way with him. He begins his set with “A Little Less Conversation.” There are twice as many people tonight as there were last night. The Stompin’ Ground has never seen so many customers on a Wednesday. Patton spots Nola and Sarabeth in the back.

  “Play ‘Are You Lonesome Tonight?’,” Nola calls out.

  Patton knows every song Elvis ever recorded. Each time someone shouts out a name, Patton knows the tune. These are the songs he grew up on, the ones he learned from. They flow through him. His set goes on longer than usual. He ends with one of his own pieces and, finally, the audience listens to it. It’s as if no one notices the transition. Their enthusiasm for Elvis transfers itself to Patton. It feels so good to have people paying attention and Patton rides that wave straight to the beach. When he comes off the stage, Hunter is there to slap him on the back.

  “What did I tell you?”

  Patton is still on a high as he slips behind the bar. There’s a lull before anyone has the nerve to get up and sing karaoke. When Nola approaches, Patton grabs her by the shoulders and plants a kiss on her lips. “Thank you.”

  “I don’t know what you mean, sir,” she says in her best Scarlett O’Hara voice.

  “You got all these people to come here tonight,” he says.

  “It might have been me.” She moves in close and unbuttons one of the buttons on his shirt. “Or it might have been you.” Her breath is hot and sweet on his cheek.

  A muscled guy in a cowboy hat calls out for a Kentucky bourbon, and Patton slips from country superstar back to bartender. Still, he feels great. The energy from the audience was like a drug. And Patton wants more. So what if he has to play a few Elvis songs to get it?

  Chapter 4

  When Leslie comes off the elevator that opens straight into the bullpen, Olive beckons from her office door.

  “Did Lily Pulitzer throw up on you again?” Olive asks. “Where’s your basket tote with the scrimshaw fittings?”

  Leslie looks down at her shirtdress. “It’s not Lily Pulitzer. It’s J. McLaughlin.” Those bright flowered prints invented by Lily P. to camouflage orange juice stains are the kind of clothes Leslie’s mother, Abby, wears. When Leslie gets a Pulitzer, it won’t be the kind you wear.

  “Same diff,” Olive says, not distinguishing between the two clothing brands.

  Leslie hates the expression same difference. It’s like saying you could care less when what you mean is you couldn’t care less. If you could care less, then it means you do care. How did a woman who speaks like Olive get a job in journalism? Olive has made no secret of the fact that this is her stepping-stone on the road to covering entertainment news. Her dream is to work for TMZ.

  “Did you call me over to insult my wardrobe?” Leslie asks.

  “That was just a bonus. Come in. I have a story for you.” Olive turns, minces over to her desk, and perches on the edge. Her pencil skirt makes her walk like a geisha. Leslie sits in a guest chair. “There’s a guy in Nashville who claims to be the next Elvis or something,” Olive says.

  “The next who?”

  “Elvis Presley. What other Elvis is there?”

  “Elvis Costello, Elvis Perkins, Elvis Blue, and probably a bunch of others.”

  “They don’t count.”

  “I’m sure their mothers would disagree.”

  Olive stands up and walks around her desk. She sits down gingerly. Someday, Leslie expects to hear Olive’s skirt split with a sound that will rip through the newsroom. Olive looks at her computer screen. The woman checks her e-mail three hundred times a day.

  “So, are you interested or not?” Olive asks without looking at Leslie.

  “Interested in what?”

  “Going down to Nashville to write a story about this guy who thinks he’s the new Elvis Presley. Isn’t this the kind of story you’ve been waiting for?”

  Leslie turns and looks through the glass wall to her own desk. The Marshfellow Plush is sitting on her chair. Every time she leaves her desk, someone puts it there. “I was hoping to cover the Virgin Mary that appeared on the grilled cheese sandwich in Beaverlick, Kentucky, but if this is what you’ve got…”

  Olive leans forward. “Are you making that up, about the grilled cheese?”

  “If my imagination were that good, I’d be writing fiction.”

  Olive has a way of cocking her head that is so mannered she must have learned it in a drama class. “That’s more National Enquirer than Commonwealth Courier.” Olive taps at her computer and then pulls out an electronic cigarette that she secreted in her bra.

  “You know those things have been known to combust spontaneously,” Leslie says.

  “I’ll take my chances.” Olive presses the button on the holder, puts it into her mouth, and sucks. “So, you want to go to Nashville?”

  “You know you can always count on me.” Leslie puffs her enthusiasm toward Olive like vapor from an e-cigarette.


  “You are unfailingly cooperative and reliable. I’ll grant you that. And the gifts you give me. You are a very generous person, Leslie. Not that you should be buying me gifts. You really shouldn’t.”

  In different circumstances, Leslie might feel guilty, but she knows this is Olive’s way of saying “bring it on.”

  By the time Leslie leaves the office she is already thinking about how she can get a life-sized statue of Elvis onto the return flight. Or, she could go for one of those black-velvet paintings. That might just break Olive. Hell, why be stingy? She can buy both.

  On a beautiful Indian summer afternoon like this, Leslie knows just where she’ll find her brother. Henry will be on the sailboat he keeps docked at Admiral’s Hill Marina, not far from his townhouse. He is sitting on the bow, legs dangling over the side. He’s drinking a Sam Adams and leaning against a battered cooler. When he hears her, he turns and beams his hundred-watt smile in her direction. The whole world wants to kiss Henry, and the sun is no exception. Most people have to go to a professional colorist to make their hair look as good as his. He opens the cooler, pulls out a bottle, and has the cap off before Leslie scooches down beside him.

  “Come for the sunset?” he asks.

  “You order one for tonight?”

  “If I’d known you were coming, I would have put in a special word with the guy upstairs.”

  “Let’s see what the universe provides.” She takes a sip of Rebel Rouser, her new favorite of the Sam Adams beers. Leslie hasn’t done much yoga or meditation, but on the few occasions when someone has asked her to go to her happy place, this is it—sitting on the Otiosity with Henry.

  Before their parents split up, the Arlington-Sterns had a sailboat at Vineyard Haven. They could walk to the harbor from their eight-bedroom cottage. A family of four hardly needed so many bedrooms, but the house had been handed down through the generations. Those family summers ended when Leslie’s father, Michael, wrote the article that would earn him a Pulitzer and break up his marriage. If he had just left Equines for Kids out of his exposé on children’s charities, things might have been different. Leslie’s mother was on the board of Equines and Michael uncovered the fact that 80 percent of their donations went into “administration costs.” This included the annual Polo Match at the Myopia Polo Club and a charity ball on the Crane Estate. Now, whenever Leslie or Henry hear from their father, he is calling from one of the world’s most dangerous hotspots.

  “She’s sending me to Nashville.” Leslie knows that Henry will know exactly who she means by she. Olive is the big she in Leslie’s life.

  “Why don’t you quit? It’s like she’s torturing you for being an Arlington.”

  “I’m also a Stern, but that doesn’t count for much at The Courier these days. No one is too happy that our family is trying to sell the paper.”

  “Too bad.”

  “That’s not very sympathetic.”

  “I know you don’t want to hear this, but newspapers have had their day. We have to get out while we still can.”

  “Grandfather’s probably spinning in his grave.”

  “Grandfather would see the wisdom in selling before the whole enterprise goes belly up. The man worked himself to death, and for what?”

  “For the paper. For his legacy. He believed newspapers were the conscience of the community.”

  “I don’t care about legacy. All I aspire to is a boat and some beer.”

  “And the wine blog.”

  “Right. But I don’t care if anyone reads it.”

  “I’m not sure I believe that.”

  “So why’s the witch sending you to Tennessee?”

  “There’s a guy down there who says he’s the next Elvis.”

  Henry barks out a laugh and spits beer through his nose.

  “I know it’s ridiculous, but maybe I can do something with it,” Leslie says.

  “If anyone can, it’s you.”

  “That’s really nice of you to say.”

  “You’re a good writer, Leslie. I’ve always believed that. You just need to find your subject like Dad did.”

  “But it blew up our family.”

  “Sometimes when you write an important story, there’s collateral damage. You have to decide whether the accomplishment outweighs the cost.”

  Her brother is pretty smart for a guy who spends most of his time doing nothing, or at least, doing the things the world doesn’t recognize as important. All the Arlingtons put together don’t have as much wisdom as Henry has in his left ankle. Leslie and Henry sit for a while and listen to the waves lap gently against the hull of the boat.

  Eventually, the sun slips below the horizon in a spectacular display of color.

  Chapter 5

  Patton has been writing music since he was ten years old. His mother calls him a musical prodigy, but she’s his mother, so Patton doesn’t take her all that seriously. He works hard when he writes his music, which is easier to do when Hunter is not home. Hunter can’t handle silence. He is boisterous and needs to be around people all the time. Fortunately, he works at least four nights a week. On those evenings, when Patton is the only one at the bungalow, he stretches out on their Salvation Army sofa and writes songs.

  The doorbell rings and Patton considers not answering it. It’s probably a holy roller aiming to save Patton’s soul. He feels like his soul is in pretty good condition. He still airs it out on Sundays at the First Baptist church, where he sings in the choir.

  Whoever is at the door is persistent. Patton strums three chords before he stands up. He hates to be interrupted, but at least there’s a song in almost everything, and by the time he opens the door, he’s already running over a line about dime store religion in his head.

  It’s Nola, the girl from the bar. She’s wearing a denim miniskirt, a flowered blouse, red cowboy boots, and strings of pearls. She looks like a smash-up between The Grand Ole Opry and Two Broke Girls.

  “Hello,” Patton says, but it’s more of a question than a greeting. It’s a what-are-you-doing-here hello. There was a time when Patton was more indiscriminate about the girls he took to bed, but a year ago, he decided to stop drinking so much and buckle down. If he wanted to make it as a musician, it was now or never, and women were a complication.

  The fact that he hadn’t met anyone who turned him upside down and made him crazy since Landry Klinger helped him stay on the straight and narrow. Landry had given him an ultimatum. Me or the music. He chose the music. No one should ever ask you to give up on your dreams, especially if they claim to love you.

  Now it’s a year later and he’s still bartending. It’s only when he’s really tired that he wonders if he should have married Landry and gone to work for her father at the American Penitentiary Company. Too bad the only thing that interests Patton about prison is Johnny Cash. Patton has watched Cash’s famous performance, Live from San Quentin, on YouTube hundreds of times.

  “Can I come in?” Nola asks, tilting her chin toward Patton. She’s shorter than he is, but most people are. Patton steps back so Nola can walk past him into the living room. It’s clean and orderly. Hunter is the cyclone, and Patton is the guy who picks up after him. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything.” Nola looks at the guitar that is sitting on the couch like an honored guest.

  Patton would like to say that Nola is interrupting, but his momma wouldn’t like that. If I teach you nothing else, I’m going to teach you manners. “Have a seat,” he says, pointing at the barrel chair he and Hunter found on the sidewalk. “Can I get you something to drink?”

  “Got whiskey?”

  “My roommate collects it.”

  “Well, bless his drunken little heart.” She doesn’t have a southern accent, and the expression stands out like a wart on a pretty nose.

  Patton goes into the kitchen where the bottles of whiskey live on their own shelf. He pours a shot of Lincoln County Lightning and takes it back to the living room. When Nola takes it, she lets her fingers rest on his for a
second. Then, she downs the whiskey in a gulp and makes a face that’s somewhere on the scale between distaste and satisfaction. “So, let’s get down to business,” she says.

  Patton wonders what kind of business she has in mind. He sits on the sofa beside his guitar, and the well-worn cushions swallow him up. It’s not a position of strength. He wriggles to the edge of the couch and stands up.

  “I’m sure you know why I’m here,” she says, crossing her legs and dangling one red boot.

  “Not so much,” Patton says.

  Nola chews on her bottom lip. Patton wonders what it would be like to wake up with Nola in the morning. Awkward. Even if the sex was good. Since Landry, Patton’s sex life has been sporadic at best.

  “So, here’s the deal,” Nola says. “I work at Slant Management.”

  This grabs Patton’s attention. Everyone knows about Slant.

  “You’re a manager?”

  “I’m an assistant, but I’m going to be promoted any day. I just have to prove my worth.”

  “And you’re going to do that how?”

  “By showing them that I can make you a star.”

  “And can you?”

  “I wouldn’t be here if I couldn’t.”

  “You want me or Elvis Presley?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “It does to me.”

  “Look at what I’ve already done for you by spreading the rumor that you’re related to Elvis. And I’ve gotten you an interview with The Commonwealth Courier. Next, you’ll be getting a spread in Garden & Gun.”

  Patton’s mother would be impressed. She loves Garden & Gun. She says it is the Town & Country of the South. Patton picked up Town & Country once, and he felt like he was reading about a foreign country. But Garden & Gun is different. It shows the life he wants to live.

  By the time Nola leaves, Patton has had a few whiskeys to celebrate their new business arrangement.

  Hunter comes home just in time to pass Nola on the front walk. He makes a crude motion with his fingers that’s for Patton’s eyes only, but Nola is no dummy. She turns around.