Losing Graceland

by Micah Nathan

  “S’all right,” he said. “Everything’s all right.”

  An hour earlier Ben had seen him chewing pills the color of robin’s eggs. Ginger wiped her eyes and Ben watched her snake her hand into the old man’s pocket and she pulled out his pill bottle. She uncapped it and spilled a handful of blue into her tiny palm. She looked up at him and sniffled.

  The old man patted her back. “S’all right.”

  At a gas station with a heavy man in oil-stained overalls working the pumps, Ben bought a pack of Nutter Butters and two Gatorades, orange for the old man and red for Ginger. She drank her Gatorade as she slowly kicked across the dust and gravel, clouds swirling around her feet. She pushed through the restroom door. Forests stood on either side of the road, thick with buzzing underbrush. A rusted car husk sat slumped by the gas station garage.

  The old man sat in the backseat. He rested his arm outside the window. “You got that two hundred?” he asked Ben.

  Ben leaned against the door and pulled out the fold of twenties. The old man took it, stuffed it into an envelope he’d taken from his bag, then licked the envelope shut and handed it back.

  “Give this to our attendant. Tell him to give it to Ginger.”

  “What for?”

  “Whatever she needs. Girl that pretty can make her way on those eyes alone.”

  Ben laughed.

  “No time for joking,” the old man said. “Give it to him and let’s ramble.”

  “We’re not leaving her,” Ben said.

  The old man sighed. “I’m not bringing her anywhere near Hank. No telling what he’ll do. And besides … she’s a junkie.”

  Ben laughed again. “And you’re not?”

  “Only drugs I take are for the pain. Three compressed discs in my back.”

  “Bullshit. You’ve been stoned this entire trip.”

  The old man reached outside the window and slapped the Caddy’s door. “Man, I’m only going to ask you once. Leave that money for her and get in the goddamn—”

  “You gave her that talk about molecules,” Ben said. “And all she had to do was take your hand.”

  “Different times.”

  “Not that different.”

  The old man fixed Ben with a stare. “Give her the goddamn money.”

  “No.”

  “Then I’ll do it myself.”

  “You’re not doing anything.” Ben walked away. The old man called out for him. The restroom door opened and Ginger stretched her skinny arms overhead, ambling into the sun. The old man called out again.

  “Hey,” Ginger said. She held out her arms for Ben, smiling.

  His cell chirped and he glanced down.

  “Who’s that?” she asked.

  “Jessica.”

  She smiled slowly. “Are you going to answer?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t feel like talking to Jessica right now. I feel like talking to you.”

  “You can’t just let it ring. It’s rude.”

  “Do you want me to talk to Jessica?”

  She paused. “Not really. But you can’t just let it ring—”

  Ben opened the phone and turned away. “Hey, Jess.”

  “Ben? Did you get my message?”

  “Which one?”

  “The one I left last night.”

  “What day was that?”

  “Friday, Ben. Today is Saturday.”

  Ben saw Ginger walking toward the car. The old man had gotten out and leaned against the door.

  “I’m coming home next week,” Jessica continued. “I was thinking maybe we could have dinner or something. Remember that place we used to always go … what was it called? The Italian restaurant with those good-looking—”

  “Rigoletto’s.”

  “That’s right. So—”

  “Hold on. I’m getting another call.” Ben clicked over. “Hello?”

  “Hey. It’s Patrick. Was she serious?”

  “Who?”

  “Ginger. About the whole pimp thing.”

  “What? No. Listen, this isn’t—”

  “She sounded serious.”

  Ben watched as the old man smoothed Ginger’s hair off her forehead. “She’s not serious,” Ben said. “I really can’t talk right now. I’ll call you—”

  “I’m throwing a party in a few days. Think you’ll be home?”

  Another click. Ben put his hand to his forehead. “I guess. I don’t know. I have to go.” He clicked over. “Jess?”

  She sighed. “It’s been so awkward between us.”

  “I agree. Can we—”

  “We used to just talk. Remember?”

  “Yes. It was nice. Listen—”

  “Nice?”

  “Well, fuck, Jess. What do you want me to say?”

  “I don’t know. You always want to have these serious talks, so I just thought—”

  “This isn’t a good time.”

  “But—”

  Ben hung up and ran over to the car. The old man took off his aviators and rubbed his small, tired eyes.

  Ginger held out her hand. “Give me the envelope.”

  “I want you to stay with us,” Ben said.

  She shook her head.

  “I’m serious,” Ben said. “I heard what you told the old man about feeling like you spoil everything, and I don’t care. I was thinking we could find a small town somewhere and I could get a job and save up enough money for us to go to Amsterdam—”

  Ginger laughed. The old man cracked open his orange Gatorade and limped around to the passenger seat, singing softly.

  “This may be the last time we stay together …”

  “Just give me the envelope,” Ginger said.

  “Come with us,” Ben said.

  “May be the last time, I don’t know.”

  She looked away. “The old man is right. What the hell am I doing? You’re still into Jessica—he knows it. I do, too.”

  “Jessica has nothing to do with this. She’s not here. You are, and I’m asking you to stay.”

  “I’m going home to meet my mother …”

  “Why do you want me to stay?” Ginger asked.

  “Because I like you.”

  “Do you love me?”

  Ben said nothing. She pushed past him. The heavy man working the pumps stared and took out a red handkerchief, wiping the sweat from his creased forehead.

  “May be the last time, I don’t know.”

  “I’m going to wait here, in front of the mini-mart,” she said. “The universe will send someone my way. Someone nice. We’ll drive to the desert and eat peyote, like that Carlos Castanet guy Elvis told me about. Do you know what else he told me?” She whirled, facing Ben. “He said there’s people put on this earth to rescue others from their pain, but those people can never truly love the ones they rescue.”

  Ben touched her arm. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

  “Yes, it does. Elvis said loving someone means you rescue each other. That’s why you don’t love me. You rescued me from Clarence. I didn’t rescue you from anyone.”

  “I don’t love you because we’ve only known each other for two days. But give it time.”

  She looked up at him, eyes wide. “Well, I love you.”

  Ben knew last year he would’ve told Ginger he loved her, too, and convinced himself it was true until he saw spinach between her teeth or she stunk up the bathroom. But at least he would’ve had something. He used to prefer half-truths to whole truths. What happened? he wondered. When did I become such a pragmatist?

  He heard the old man still singing, sitting in the passenger seat, sipping orange Gatorade, belting out some dirge about going home to see his momma. It should’ve been sad, Ben thought, but it wasn’t. Not with the hot dust and sun, and his stoned hooker, half-Thai sort-of-girlfriend throwing a fit at a gas station on the Mississippi border.

  “You still love Jessica,” Ginger said. “Elvis told me you do.”

  Ben cov
ered his eyes for a moment, then let his fingers drag down his cheeks. “He’s wrong. He’s been wrong about everything. Half the time he’s either stoned or living in a fantasy world. You hear him singing now? Providing our sound track? Who the hell does that?”

  “He does. He’s Elvis.”

  Ben’s cell chirped. “He’s not Elvis. He’s an old man with dementia. You heard the doctor.”

  His cell chirped again. Ginger glanced down at it.

  “I can’t stand it when a phone rings and no one answers,” she said. “It makes me nervous.”

  Ben whipped his cell as far as he could, a dark square flying across the gas station parking lot. “There. Still nervous?”

  She shook her head.

  “Good. Now come back to the car, and let’s see if you still love me once you sober up.”

  A pause, a pout, then she cocked her fist back and punched Ben in the eye.

  Ben held a can of soda to his swollen eye and drove with one hand. He’d spent the last half hour looking for his phone, finally finding it behind a vine-strewn tire in the fields bordering the gas station. Ginger was gone; she’d just left, hitching a ride with whomever to wherever. Fuck the nostalgia, Ben thought. My eye is throbbing.

  The old man leaned his head against the window. He knew they were close to Shake. He could see it: wild trees like a witch’s hair in a windstorm, shotgun shacks choked with kudzu, abandoned towns and crumbled foundations hidden in forest shadow; land fit for a monster, he thought. What we’re seeing is the real Hank Rickey. What the world would’ve been if we’d switched places. I’m not saying I was perfect, but I brought hope as best I could. Never once claimed to be something I wasn’t. Old photos summon their regrets, but who doesn’t have regrets. My time stretches so far back I’m afraid I’ll lose my way if I remember, so every morning I’m a baby with eyes old as the ocean.

  But I remember Nadine, the old man thought. And I remember my promise. And I just might have to kill Hank before the day is through.

  Ben had expected something more but Hank’s house was modest—a white Greek Revival set atop a gentle hill with a single willow. Graceful green curves lay in the distance. Grass and wild-flowers framed a long driveway with tire-polished gravel. Late-day gnats looped in patches of sun. Ben parked near the mailbox and popped the trunk.

  The blue sky turned salmon as the old man stood behind the Caddy, hands on his hips. He and Ben stared into the trunk.

  “I’m thinking twelve-gauge,” the old man said.

  “You stand at the front door with a shotgun and they’ll call the cops.”

  “How about a pistol, then? Something I can hide away. Keep it close until I need it.”

  “How about that one?”

  “The nine-millimeter?”

  “Uh, yeah.”

  “Good choice. Reliable. Enough man-stopping power should it come to that.”

  “You’ll need to change your shirt. The ripped sleeve makes you look crazy.”

  The old man frowned. “Man, I like the rattlesnake. It’s like that old American flag. Don’t tread on me.”

  They stood on the front porch. A warm breeze ruffled the old man’s hair. He smoothed it back and hiked up his pants, a flash of the 9mm stuck into the elastic waistband, pressed into the soft white flab of his stomach.

  “You ready?” Ben said.

  The old man held up his finger. He opened his manila folder once more and straightened the papers. Their map. The Daily Dish article. Old photos and letters. A small, thin leather Bible with worn, curled corners. He smoothed back his hair again. “All right.”

  Ben used the brass knocker, a ring through a lion’s mouth.

  “Now, you remember the plan,” the old man said.

  “Plan?”

  “The plan.”

  “This is the first I’m hearing of it.”

  The old man cupped his forehead in his hand. “Goddammit.”

  Ben heard footsteps behind the door.

  “Anything goes sour, grab Nadine and make for the car,” the old man whispered. “Get to that Days Inn on Route 74, and register under John Barrow. Give me twelve hours. I don’t show, take her back—”

  The dead bolt clicked and the door creaked open.

  A Russian woman stood in the doorway. Late thirties, Ben guessed, with a lit cigarette dangling between her fingers. Her blond hair was pulled back tight and tied with a black bow. Smoker’s wrinkles spread from her lips. She had wide-set blue eyes, and she was barefoot, wearing a red housedress. She took a puff and raised her eyebrows.

  “Ma’am,” the old man said. “I’m here to see Mr. Hank Rickey.”

  “Mr. Rickey is asleep. He is expecting you?”

  “He’ll know my name.”

  “What is your name?”

  “Elvis, ma’am. Elvis Presley.”

  “Who is this boy with you?”

  “Ben Fish,” Ben said. “I’m his driver.”

  The woman took another puff, staring at the two of them. The old man looked down at his ripped shirt. He smiled sheepishly. “Fell down some stairs,” he said. “My back isn’t what it used to be.”

  “Okay.” She dropped the cigarette and ground it out on the porch with her bare foot.

  She led them through a small living room with dark wooden furniture and heavy drapes. Photos were everywhere—portraits of families standing in front of giant Christmas trees, children with Easter bunnies, handsome couples on the decks of cruise ships; they all looked alike, that wealthy-family vibe that Ben couldn’t describe but knew it when he saw it. The complete opposite of Ben’s family photos; small, nervous people visibly uncomfortable standing so close to one another.

  The house was quiet, just the sound of their feet padding across the floor. The Russian woman walked upstairs and they followed, the old man with his hand resting on his waist under his shirt. Ben saw sweat drip down his temples and bead off his jaw.

  “Where’s Nadine?” the old man said. “She out getting groceries or something?”

  “Nadine, the little bitch.” The Russian woman stopped at the beginning of a hallway papered in floral prints. “Nadine only cares about money. But Hank’s family knows this, so they send her away. Are you her family?”

  “I’m her grandfather.”

  “Okay. So I am sorry for calling her a bitch. But she was never nice to me. Never once. I clean up Mr. Rickey’s shit. I clip his fingernails. What does Nadine do? Sits on porch and talks to friends. Eats food I make, watches television. Three months she stays here, until I call Mr. Rickey’s family. They come, they fight with her.” She wiped her hands together. “Pfft, she is gone. Back to Memphis.”

  “Where’s Hank?” the old man said.

  “In his room. He is sleeping, but if you want—”

  “I want.” He turned to Ben. “Son, wait for me downstairs.”

  Ben sat in the kitchen with the Russian woman. A single window looked over the sloping yard, the outline of the willow darkening in the sunset. The kitchen was spotless, clean white walls and the plank floor waxed to a shine. Photos covered the fridge, the same faces Ben had seen throughout the house. It looked to Ben like the kind of kitchen where iced tea was always brewing, with jade-green mint leaves floating among perfect ice cubes.

  The Russian woman told Ben her name was Alina, and she was from St. Petersburg. She’d been Mr. Rickey’s maid and cook for ten years; before that she’d been his sometimes-lover, a young twenty-something working as a secretary in a youth ministry office that Mr. Rickey lent his singing services to. Four months ago she’d found him on the living-room floor, whispering that his face was numb and his left leg wouldn’t work. He’d been with Nadine two months when he had his first stroke. They’d met in Memphis at a club that Mr. Rickey liked to frequent. Alina said that even at eighty-three years old he still liked to watch the girls dance. Nadine became his favorite girl, giving him lap dances without touching his lap because his bones were brittle.

  Alina poured hot water into a
pitcher and dropped in several tea bags. “Even with stroke he still liked to watch Nadine dance. Before second stroke last month I tell Mr. Rickey Nadine only does this for money. I tell him I can do the same for free. My body is not so old. What do you think?”

  Ben paused, unsure of what to say.

  “I was a dancer,” she continued. She went up on her toes effortlessly, arms held low and graceful. Ben could see the hard edges of her calves peeking out from the hem of her red dress.

  “A real dancer,” she said. “Vaganova Theater in St. Petersburg, five nights a week. Not sleaze dancer like Nadine. You want iced tea?”

  “Please.”

  “So.” Alina leaned against the kitchen counter and folded her slender arms across her chest. “What is your story, Ben Fish? Are you high-school student?”

  “College.”

  “Sorry. I am not so good with ages. What do you study?”

  “Anthropology. I just graduated.”

  “I do not know anthropology.”

  “It’s the study of human cultures.”

  “And that is your job now?”

  “There aren’t any jobs in anthropology. I could find some tribe and live with them, but I don’t know of any that haven’t already been picked over.”

  “So what is your job?”

  “Right now I’m that old man’s driver.”

  “Yes. The old man. He looks like Elvis, but not as handsome. Is he, you know …” Alina pointed to her head, twirled her finger and crossed her eyes.

  “I’m still trying to figure that out,” Ben said.

  “So how much is he paying you?”

  “Ten thousand. But I’m not getting it. It’s all gone.”

  “That is terrible.”

  “It is terrible. I was planning to use that money for an apartment in Amsterdam. Have you ever been?”

  She nodded. “I danced at the Het Muziektheater. Seven nights. Baryshnikov was in the audience for one show, and after he gives me single white flower. He is a short man. Onstage he looks like giant, but in person he is tall as you.”

  “You think I’m short?”

  Alina shrugged. “Well, you are not tall.”

  Hank Rickey sat in a leather chair near the window with the drapes tied back. His room was large compared to the rest of the house—enough space for a king-size bed, and a walk-in closet that held his singing outfits: multicolored capes, bell-bottom white pants with garnets running down the seams, glittering silver and turquoise beads sewn in the shape of eagles, coati, and jaguars.