He covers his eyes with one hand, as though shielding himself from her.
‘None of those men got what you got. You just take anything they say with a smile, and move right along.’ She grabs his wrist, tugging his hand from his face. ‘Look at me. It’s like I always told you: you got the strength of two. And the talent. And you’re gonna be even better when you come back, I just know it.’
He sniffs. ‘Will you come with me, Mama?’
She smiles. ‘Mama’s coming with you wherever you go, you know that.’
1: TUPELO
SLEEPWALKING: 1937–1942
1937
There is just a door, big and shiny black. Leaning close, Elvis sees his own face in the new paint. He pats his hands on the cold wood, touching his reflection, and it makes a sound like somebody banging an empty bucket. He pats harder, watching his eyes appear and disappear beneath his hands, until he is beating on the door.
He is almost three years old, and standing outside Tupelo jailhouse with his aunt Lillian. It is a Thursday afternoon in winter, and frost is still on the sidewalk. His daddy is inside the jailhouse, because the men have taken him and won’t give him back, which makes his mama cry.
He must get in there, after his mama. She has gone, taking with her all the warmth and light in his world. He cannot hear her voice, but he is sure she must be calling for him.
The empty-bucket sound grows as he beats on the door. It vibrates along his arms, past the white cuffs his mother has sewn onto his shirt, and all the way to his chest.
‘Don’t be pitching a hissy fit,’ says Aunt Lillian, who is bony, and louder than Mama. ‘Your mama’s just visitin’. She’ll be out soon enough.’
Elvis yells for his mama.
Aunt Lillian grips his arm and yanks him away from the door. ‘Now you better hush up, or the police will come get you, too.’
Elvis yells louder, as loud as he possibly can. But still there is just the black mirror of the door, and his own face, appearing and disappearing.
Then a man comes out.
‘What’s all this hollering?’ he asks. The man has two chins and his breath clouds the air. He’s wearing a smart cap with a glinting silver star at the front, and on his hip is a pistol in a holster. Something about the way the man rests a hand there makes Elvis think of Brother Mansell touching his leather Bible.
Elvis stops crying, shocked by this sight.
Aunt Lillian steps back, but Elvis reaches for the pistol.
The man says, ‘No, no. That ain’t for young ’uns. When you’re grown, then you can hold it.’
But when Elvis makes another grab for the holster, the man crouches before him and weighs the pistol in his hands.
‘I guess you can touch it,’ he says, unlocking the barrel and spinning it around. ‘If you keep your mouth shut.’
Golden bullets – Elvis has seen these before, on the table at his grandfather’s house – tumble into the man’s hand like treasure.
Carefully, Elvis places his fingers on the pistol’s wooden handle. It is smooth and solid.
The man smiles. ‘That’s for protection,’ he says, pocketing the bullets and snapping the barrel back in place. ‘Yours and mine.’
Now Elvis’s attention is caught by the gleaming buttons on the man’s cuff. The cuff is stiff, not darned, and absolutely clean.
‘You like that, huh? My uniform?’
Standing, the man brushes himself off. His trousers have sharp creases, and his shoulders press at the seams of his dark blue jacket.
Elvis cannot take his eyes from him. For a moment, he forgets that his mama is crying inside the jailhouse with his daddy.
The man puts a hand to Elvis’s hair and lets it rest there. ‘Poor child,’ he says.
Then the door opens, and in the place of Elvis’s reflection is his mama. She steps towards him and with one sweep of her arms lifts him away from the man’s hand. The lightness in Elvis’s body as the sidewalk disappears beneath him is sudden and wonderful. He gazes into her wet eyes and says, ‘Mama!’
‘Elvis,’ she says, pressing her smooth cheek to his. He breathes in her good Mama smell.
She carries him along the sidewalk. Aunt Lillian hurries behind. When Elvis drags his eyes from his mama’s face, the man has gone.
Aunt Lillian’s kitchen is full of kids making noise. Cousin Billy keeps patting Elvis’s hair and saying, ‘Still the baby, huh?’ Lola Flora lies in the centre of the floor, kicking her heels on the boards and humming a tune. Bobbie rocks back and forth on her chair, pretending it’s a horse. Elvis races between his cousins, unsure which is best. He keeps an eye on his mama, who is sitting at the table with Aunt Lillian. Aunt Lillian is talking in a strong voice about how things are, and how they should be, as she pours coffee.
Elvis’s mama looks kind of blurry. Her face is redder and her eyes smaller than usual. Her body is folded up in its chair and she dabs at her nose with a handkerchief. It’s her best one: she’s shown it to Elvis and has told him she used it on her wedding day, because it was the only thing she had with lace on. Watching his mama lift the crumpled, damp cloth to her nose, Elvis suddenly finds it terrible to see that handkerchief getting spoiled. He jumps over Lola Flora’s body and whumps his hand down on his mama’s knee.
‘There, there, baby,’ he says in his clearest voice.
His mama stops dabbing her eyes, so he pats her knee again and repeats, ‘There, there.’
A smile plays around her mouth.
‘Glad, that boy of yours is sure surprising,’ says Aunt Lillian, putting down her coffee cup. And everyone in the room looks at Elvis.
His mama laughs, and her face seems to come into focus again. She lifts him to the safety of her knee, squeezing him around the middle, and whispers in his ear, ‘There, there, my baby.’
1939
One bright February morning, a truck pulls up in the dirt road outside the house, music blaring from its radio. For days now, Gladys has been talking of Vernon’s return from the pen. Thanks to her petition and his good behaviour, he’s been pardoned and is coming home after over a year. She grasps her son’s shoulder and squeezes, hard. ‘Oh,’ she gasps. ‘Oh, my.’
Elvis studies his mother’s pale face. He considers her to be beautiful. Her black hair shines and her skin glows white, but it’s not these things that make her special. Uncle Frank and Aunt Leona, whose house they are living in, often talk of her warm and easy way with folks. His mama smiles a lot, and laughs at many things he just can’t fathom. She returns his unblinking gaze for a long moment before stating, ‘But it can’t be. It’s too early.’ Still, she unbuttons her apron and casts the item aside, revealing her best dress, the pretty green one that he likes. Then Gladys slips on what Elvis knows to be her special shoes. Tiny straps encircle her ankles. She pats her hair and pinches up the blood in her cheeks. Pulling open the front door, she lets the music in.
Elvis rushes to her, grabbing her legs, pushing his face into her thin skirt.
She puts a hand to his head. ‘Don’t be foolish, baby. Mama ain’t going nowhere.’
As he peeks out at the day, cool air hits his face, making him blink. The truck is real fine: army green, with a shining black roof. He’d like to swing himself up into its cab. From its open window comes the voice of his mama’s favourite singer: Jimmie Rodgers. Whenever she talks about Jimmie, her eyes brighten, as if she’s seeing something that belongs only to her. I’m gonna buy me a pistol, just as long as I’m tall, I’m gonna shoot poor Thelma, just to see her jump and fall …
Gladys walks onto the porch.
The music stops and a man climbs from the truck. He’s dressed in a battered leather jacket a little like Vernon’s. Although Elvis knows Vernon’s jacket is folded into the trunk beneath Uncle Frank’s bed – he and Mama are sharing a pallet on the kitchen floor – for a second he wonders if his daddy’s hair colour has changed. The man is about Vernon’s height. And hasn’t Grandma Minnie Mae said that prison will do strange things t
o even the strongest of fellas? But then his mother’s shoulders sag, and he knows this is not his father.
The man tips his hat. ‘Good morning, ma’am. Sorry to disturb …’
His mother sways a little, and lets out a groan.
‘Ma’am?’
Gladys puts a hand to her pale face. Elvis runs to join her.
Clasping her son to her side, she says to the man, ‘I’m sorry. I – I thought you were my husband.’
‘Pardon me, ma’am?’
‘I been waiting on my husband’s return, after – a long spell.’
The man takes off his hat and holds it to his chest, revealing his dark hair. ‘I’m right sorry, Mrs—’
‘Presley. Gladys Presley.’
The man clears his throat. ‘You want to sit, ma’am? Can I fetch you a chair?’
‘No, no. I’m just fine.’
‘What about your son here?’ The man squints at Elvis. ‘Reckon your mama’s all right, child?’
‘My daddy’s coming home today,’ says Elvis, in his clearest voice.
Gladys pats his hair. ‘That’s right, baby. Now, how may I help you, sir?’
‘You know where Lake Street is?’
Elvis watches the man nod seriously as Mama gives rambling directions. He feels sure that, soon enough, he will have her back inside, where he can seat her in a chair and fetch her a glass of water, maybe pat her on the knee and say, ‘There, there,’ and she will touch his cheek and thank him from the bottom of her heart.
When Gladys has finished, the man says, ‘OK if I visit your outhouse, ma’am? I been awful long on the road.’
‘It’s over the back there. Help yourself and welcome.’
As the man rounds the porch, he glances up and says in a slightly lower tone, ‘Anything I can do to thank you, lady? Make amends for your disappointment and all?’
Gladys touches her neck and lets out a small, amused noise. ‘Oh, no!’ she says, her words coming out in a rush. ‘Ain’t no call for that!’
The man walks on.
Then Gladys pulls herself straight. ‘Hold on,’ she calls to his back, ‘there’s one thing you could do.’
Elvis gazes at her, confused. It must be past the hour for his milk and biscuit, now. Why is she encouraging this stranger to linger at their house when his father – his actual, real father – may be home any minute? And what if his daddy finds his mama talking to this man? Elvis already understands this would not please Vernon one bit.
‘Would you put the music on, just while you’re gone?’ Her voice has gone real high and tinkly. ‘I don’t know why, but I guess I got a hankering for a song this morning.’
‘Sure,’ says the man, with a wide smile. ‘I understand.’ He walks back to his truck. ‘There you go,’ he says and, with a flick of his hand, a song about a train blares out. Gladys and Elvis both know the tune.
The man salutes, then disappears round the back of the house. Once he’s gone, Gladys claps her hands. ‘Daddy’s coming home today!’ she says.
Elvis says, ‘But that wasn’t him, Mama.’
‘I know that! But did you see he had a jacket like Daddy’s? It’s a sign! A sign that Daddy’s really coming.’
Elvis had not considered that his father might fail to return.
‘But Daddy is coming,’ he says. ‘You promised.’
‘Sure he is, baby!’ Gladys gives her son a sideways look. ‘I love this song! Now, you watch this!’
And she arranges herself on the centre of the porch, arms stretched to either side. The song’s chorus begins, and she breaks into a dance.
‘Watch your mama, now!’
Her feet pound the boards, moving so fast that he cannot quite fathom what it is they are doing. Her skirt flies this way and that, revealing her long legs. A train whistle blows, and she grins and pretends to pull a cord. When the music becomes more urgent, she frowns in concentration, thumping out the rhythm with her feet, twisting at the waist. He’s seen her sway and clap her hands in church; he’s heard her sing along with the radio at Uncle Bob’s house. But he’s never seen his mama dance like this. Her body appears light as air, yet it feels to Elvis that the whole house is shaking. The porch vibrates, sending pleasant tremors through his bare feet and up his legs. Gladys smiles so widely that he spots her tongue, pink and shocking inside her mouth.
She reaches out and he readies himself to be scooped up, but she touches only the air.
This is too much. Sensing that the only way to get her attention is to join in, he grabs her sweaty hands and shouts the words he can make out: ‘RUMBLE’ and ‘ROAR!’
He looks into her laughing face as she sings along. Then she twirls around, losing his hands, so he twirls too, even though he understands that he is getting in the way and she would rather he sat and watched.
Only when the radio announcer’s voice comes over the song does Elvis hear the low whistle and the clapping.
The dark-haired man is standing by the oak tree, watching.
‘That was mighty fine!’ he calls. ‘Both of you!’
‘Oh, my,’ says Gladys, wiping an arm across her brow. ‘You weren’t meant to see that.’
‘You a good dancer, Mrs Presley,’ says the man.
‘Oh, baloney,’ says Gladys, beaming.
The man saunters to his truck. As he slams the door, he says, ‘Thank you, ma’am, for the entertainment.’
Back inside, they are both slightly breathless.
‘Let me get your butch, baby.’
He sits at the wooden table, on the verge of tears. He doesn’t know why he wants to cry, but he knows his mama will be disappointed if he does. This is a happy day. She’s told him so, many times. But Mama is strange today. She just won’t look at him properly.
She sets a cup of milk on the table and he takes a sip. For once, even though she’s added a little molasses, it doesn’t taste good. His stomach feels hard and bunched up, as if it’s full of marbles.
‘Drink your butch, now, Elvie.’
Usually she would sit and drink, too. They would say their words for milk together, Butch, butchy, yummy creamy butch! She would stroke his face and they would share some buttered biscuits. But today his mama cannot seem to sit down. She rose early to wash the floors and scrub the porch boards, and now she is fiddling with flour and lard, filling the air with white dust that catches in his throat.
‘Gonna make Daddy some dough burgers, just how he likes. And an apple cobbler, too. Then when Uncle Frank and Aunt Leona come home from work, they can sit with you and me and Cousin Corinne and Daddy, and we can all eat as a family.’
Dough burgers are his favourite. And she’s not looking at him, even now.
He wants to knock over the milk, let it run across the table and drip onto the clean floor.
But instead he asks, as he has done many times, ‘Mama, did Daddy do something bad?’
Light and quick, not missing a beat, she rubs fat into flour with the tips of her fingers. ‘It’s like I said, baby. Daddy made a mistake. And the Christian thing is to forgive. Those men who took him away have forgiven Daddy. They shortened his sentence because he’s been so good. That’s why he’s coming home.’
Elvis focuses so hard on his milk that his vision blurs.
‘Will the men come for me, Mama?’ he asks, his lower lip trembling.
‘Oh!’ She swoops to his side. ‘No, baby! What made you think that?’
He looks at her troubled face, drinking her in.
‘Sometimes … I make a mistake.’
Like yesterday, when he let Corinne’s English bulldog play in the house, and Mama yelled because she’d just got all the sheets clean for Daddy and now she’d have to start over.
‘Oh, no! The mistakes you make are only small, baby. Mama’s gonna protect you, you know that.’
She pulls him to her chest, and he relaxes against her gratefully.
‘I thank the good Lord I have you, baby. I thank Him every day.’
As she has giv
en him this, he offers her something in return. ‘Poor Daddy,’ he says.
‘Poor Daddy!’ she agrees.
Prising him from her, she says, ‘Elvie, I want you to promise me something.’ She grips his shoulders. ‘When Daddy comes, we ain’t never gonna talk about that place again, OK?’
He reaches up to dust the flour from her hair, but she stops his hand.
‘Elvis? You hear what I said?’
He blinks.
‘Daddy won’t want to keep going over it. So don’t go asking him a heap of questions. OK?’
But he has so many questions! What was it like, in jail? Was he chained up, like in the stories? Did he sleep on straw? Was he whipped?
‘Daddy won’t want to think about all that bad stuff. We’re gonna help him do that, ain’t we?’
‘Yes, Mama. Poor Daddy.’
‘That’s right. Poor Daddy.’
That afternoon, when Cousin Corinne comes home from school, she and Elvis crawl into the space beneath the porch. There isn’t room to stand, but there’s enough to play. He likes it here, even though it smells of chicken shit and Mama says to watch out for snakes. It is more sheltered than the yard, and from here he can hear Mama and know she’s there without having to check on her. She walks across the porch in her stockinged feet. Thumpety-thumpety-thumpety. Much more sedate and measured than this morning’s dancing. Clonk-whoosh. Dipping the pitcher in the water bucket. Thumpety-click-clunk. Going back through the door.
‘Elvis!’ moans Corinne. ‘You ain’t playing!’
He studies his cousin’s small eyes and clumps of lashes. She is louder and quicker than him in everything.
‘I’m playing dead!’ he says, lying on the damp ground, letting the dirt brush his cheek. He wonders if this is what it’s really like to be dead. Smelling the cool earth. Hearing the living walk over you as you peer out at a thin strip of light.
Corinne thrusts a corn shuck with a scrap of crocheted fabric wrapped round it into his face. ‘You be baby.’
Graceland Page 2