Once she reaches the entrance, she’ll look. She won’t go through the gates without him.
Jesse, maybe it’s just you and me, now.
She’s almost at the gates.
I’m sorry, Jesse. I’m sorry it was me and not you.
And then he’s running, wet pants slapping his legs, toes squelching.
‘Mama! Wait!’
Just beyond the gates, she stops.
‘Mama!’ Even though he can see she is waiting now, he cannot stop yelling, Mama, Mama, Mama, and when he is in her arms he is still saying it.
She strokes his head.
All the way through the woods, he cries as they walk hand in hand. He keeps crying long after the panic and the hurt have left him, because he wants to punish her, and he wants to make her speak. But she just lets him cry until his throat aches and his eyes are hot and grainy.
It’s not until they reach home that she says, ‘Sorry, baby.’ Her face is drawn, her voice flat. ‘Mama’s sorry.’
The evening has grown dark and she’s kneeling before him on their porch. His stomach growls. She touches his face. ‘Can you forgive me, baby?’
It’s the most he can hope for. He nods, and is embraced.
That night, he sleeps in her bed. When his father was in the pen, he shared his mother’s bed, but Elvis has only a dim recollection of this. Since he started sleepwalking, he has sometimes had the luxury of a night in the safety of his mama’s arms, but always at the disapproval of his daddy.
This is different. This is every night for the coming few weeks. Although Gladys doesn’t say anything to this effect, Elvis knows it. His daddy is far away in Japtown, and his mama’s bed is now open to him. He knows better than to climb in without an invitation, though, so he stays awake on his pallet, waiting for her to appear.
When she comes in, she has her white gown on and her hair is brushed, which makes her look like a pretty ghost from a book, perhaps one who is condemned to haunting because she was once wronged by her true love.
She sits on the edge of her bed and sighs.
‘You still awake, baby?’
He nods.
‘We’ll sure miss Daddy while he’s gone, won’t we?’ she says.
‘Yes, Mama.’
She’s not looking at him, and the fear that she will turn down the lamp without inviting him in rises in his chest. Perhaps peeing on Jesse’s grave means he will never be welcome in his mother’s bed again. But then she turns to face him. ‘It’s hot as all get out,’ she says. ‘Reckon there’s a storm coming. Why don’t you come in here where we can keep one another safe?’ And she holds the sheet up to welcome him.
Elvis scrambles in but remains a few inches from her, just in case she’s still sore about him peeing in the cemetery. She turns out the light, then she says, in a low voice, ‘You might as well be in the next county. Come on over here.’
The warm scent coming from her lets him know that she has opened her arms. He wastes no time in snuggling as close as he can, so he can smell her properly. His mama’s flesh always smells just right. He cannot think what she smells of, only that she smells of Mama. It’s like slotting himself into the rightest, sweetest spot in the world; his body fits into the dip beside her, and she envelops him in her strong, smooth arms. The weight of them around his waist anchors him.
Outside, the wind has risen, making the trees creak and moan. The Frisco train gives its long, lonesome wail. The windows and door begin to rattle, and he presses his face deep in her bosom. She murmurs, ‘Careful now. Don’t block your airways,’ as if he could be choked by her closeness. He ignores the warning, breathing his mama in. He is blind in the dark, his face covered by her flesh, and at last he can stop moving; he can almost stop listening to the rushing noise of the trees.
She whispers into his hair, ‘Now this is good. We wouldn’t want you wandering out there on the highway, you could slip right under the wheels of some truck.’ If Mama didn’t hold him, would he be helpless to stop himself opening that door and stepping into the night, stumbling into ditches and across ravines and into the jaws of who knows what danger?
‘Let’s pray to Jesse, now,’ she says, and he feels her bow her head. Her chin rests heavily on his crown as she mumbles the words.
‘Beloved Jesse, watch over us, dear son, and bless us. We miss you every day, but we try to live as if you were among us. Let us feel your spirit, Jesse, in everything we do. Amen.’
‘Amen.’
After a pause, he asks, ‘Mama, is Jesse jealous that we’re still alive?’
Last Sunday the preacher had spoken of the sin, and asked all those who’d fallen prey to the green-eyed monster to hold up their hands and receive the Lord’s forgiveness. His mother’s hand had shot right up, and, after a moment, his father had followed suit.
‘Oh, no, Jesse don’t feel that way. He’s happy for us.’
‘Does Jesse love me, Mama?’
‘He loves all his family, just like a good son ought to.’
Elvis tries to feel his dead brother’s spirit. Perhaps it is in the hot fug of his mama’s bed. Perhaps Jesse’s spirit is right here in this sweet spot. Why else would it feel so good?
Graceland, 23 December 1957
Colonel Tom Parker has announced his intention to visit Graceland, and the house is on alert. As Gladys sits in the dining room, waiting for the Colonel’s foghorn voice to blast through her afternoon, she can hear Vernon instructing the maids to dust the bannisters and shine the door knocker one more time, and to make sure there’s enough potato salad, in case the Colonel wants to stay and eat. She can also hear Elvis telling his daddy to quit fretting, because the Colonel will be in and out faster than green grass through a goose. His manager rarely visits, and Gladys knows that Tom Parker’s reluctance to come to Graceland is her doing: she’s made no secret of her dislike of the man.
When the call comes from the gate, the family gathers around the polished dining table, with Elvis sitting at the head, in front of the Christmas tree. His red shirt matches the tinsel with which he and Gladys festooned the tree yesterday. Elvis had helped her in silence, but at least he’d come out of his room for an hour. Vernon is dressed in a stiff suit and tie. When he pours himself coffee from the pot Alberta has left on the table, the doorbell chimes, making him twitch and splash a little on his pale blue pants. Both Gladys and Elvis ignore his curses, because Alberta is already showing Tom Parker in.
It’s a cold day, but the Colonel, a stubby man with what hair he has left dragged across the dome of his head, is dressed in a short-sleeved shirt and a lightweight green knitted vest. His stockinged feet are stuffed into a pair of bashed-up-looking sandals. As he marches into the dining room, his round eyes look a little bleary. Gladys wonders if he, too, has had his sleep disturbed by the news of the draft. In one fist he holds a ham as big as his whole arm. Brandishing it before them, he says, ‘Why the long faces? Colonel’s here, and he’s brought you a gift for Christmas!’ Then he heaves the meat onto the table with a whap. It skids slightly on the surface, leaving a greasy smear.
Gladys knows that Elvis has already given Tom Parker his Christmas gift: a red BMW Isetta. The day after receiving the draft notice, he’d told her the Colonel would fix this army trouble, and had raced off to present his manager with the keys. When he returned, she’d asked him what the Colonel had said, and Elvis had just shaken his head and retreated to his bedroom.
Vernon, holding one hand over the stain on his pants, extends the other. ‘Welcome to Graceland, Colonel,’ he says. ‘Mighty fine to see you again.’
The Colonel pumps Vernon’s hand up and down, his tanned face beaming. ‘That ham is all the way from my birthplace of West Virginia! I had a friend deliver it to me especially for the Presleys.’ He often claims to be from West Virginia, but from the way his voice sometimes becomes sharply guttural, Gladys suspects Tom Parker is actually a Yankee.
‘And that’s because I am always ruminating on how to make the Presleys not o
nly rich but also happy,’ the Colonel continues. ‘When I wake each morning, my very first thought is of our boy here.’
Breathing audibly through his nose, the Colonel approaches Elvis, who hasn’t risen from his seat, and waits. Slowly, Elvis stands and mumbles, ‘Hello, sir.’
It’s the first time Gladys has seen her son greet his manager with anything less than goggle-eyed enthusiasm.
‘Come on, now,’ says the Colonel, holding his arms out. ‘Ain’t you going to say hello to ol’ Colonel properly, son?’
Elvis has no choice but to be embraced, briefly, by his manager’s fat arms. He submits to several hearty slaps on the back.
Then the Colonel releases him, and looks at Gladys. ‘Mrs Presley.’
‘Mr Parker.’
‘Now don’t get up,’ he says, although she has made no move. ‘Do my eyes deceive me or have you lost a little weight, there? Looks to ol’ Colonel like you’re doing a whole lot better than me!’ He pats his own big belly and grins.
Gladys does not smile.
‘You’ll understand, Colonel,’ says Vernon, who is hovering behind his shoulder, ‘that we’re more than a little mixed up here today, what with this drafting news.’
‘Oh, I understand,’ says the Colonel, lighting a cigar, ‘and that’s why Colonel is visiting. You don’t mind if I help myself to a little coffee here?’
Seating himself next to Gladys, he reaches for the pot.
‘You folks know I tried my absolute darnedest to keep Elvis out of the army,’ he says, sloshing coffee into a cup, ‘but, well, in the end, Uncle Sam calls the shots, even with Colonel himself.’
Vernon takes a seat and says, ‘We appreciate that, Colonel. We appreciate everything you’ve done for this family.’
Gladys gazes at the Christmas tree. She can just see the edge of one of the angel’s wings, peeking out from the branches. Elvis hadn’t noticed where she’d stashed it, yesterday. Or, if he had, he’d kept quiet.
The Colonel is still talking. ‘Now, I want to give y’all my personal guarantee that Elvis will be taken good care of. I will see to it that he is quite safe. And I will be working for him – doubling, no, tripling my efforts! – every moment that he’s away.’
Gladys is surprised by the sudden squeeze to her hand as, beneath the table, Elvis clasps it in his. She returns the gesture, and feels strong enough to speak up.
‘That’s just fine, Mr Parker,’ she says, relishing how the man blinks, hard, every time she fails to call him Colonel, ‘and, well, maybe I’m being a little slow here, but I’m having some trouble understanding how you can guarantee Elvis’s safety when he’s in the army.’
The Colonel puts down his coffee cup. ‘Mrs Presley,’ he says, narrowing his eyes, ‘I appreciate you’re concerned about our boy’s welfare, but compared with being exposed to thousands of rampant females on some stage, the army is a pretty secure place to be! I mean, that is the point of the army—’
‘Unless there’s a war,’ says Gladys.
Vernon coughs. ‘Now, Glad—’
‘Mama’s upset, is all,’ says Elvis.
She holds her son’s hand tighter.
The Colonel takes a puff on his cigar and fixes Elvis with his bulbous eyes. Gladys feels her son shrink back.
‘Sure she is,’ says the Colonel. ‘Ain’t we all? But we gotta make the best of this thing. To my mind, this here’s an opportunity! Now, if we can accept this, and if Elvis can do his patriotic duty, and if he behaves himself in the army – which I’m sure he will – then I can give you the Colonel’s personal guarantee that when our boy is discharged he will be the biggest star the world has ever seen. Think about it. When Elvis comes home, he won’t just be a number-one entertainer, he’ll be a bona-fide all-American hero, adored by every patriotic citizen of this great country!’
There’s a pause. Elvis and the Colonel are still holding one another’s gaze.
‘I ain’t looked at it that way,’ Elvis says. ‘But it kinda makes sense now you say it.’
‘Son, it’s the absolute hundred-per-cent truth,’ says the Colonel. ‘You’re gonna get what you deserve. Not only millions of dollars, but the respect of millions of people the world over.’
Elvis removes his hand from his mother’s.
‘Mama, you can understand what the Colonel’s saying, can’t you? I mean, it sounds pretty good.’
Gladys looks towards the tree again, unable to speak.
Clamping his cigar between his lips, the Colonel pushes back his chair.
‘Good! Now I just want to take five minutes of Elvis’s time alone, and then I will let y’all enjoy a family Christmas,’ he says.
‘You ain’t staying for something to eat?’ asks Vernon.
The Colonel stands. ‘Heading straight on back to Madison, I’m afraid. I got your son’s business to attend to!’
‘Do you like our tree, Mr Parker?’ Gladys asks.
‘It’s real pretty,’ says the Colonel, placing a hand on Elvis’s back to steer him from the room.
Gladys fishes the angel from its hiding place and holds it up. ‘Elvis won’t let me put the angel he made in elementary school at the top. Don’t you think it oughta be there, Mr Parker?’
‘Lord, Mama,’ says Elvis, smiling for the first time in days. ‘What you doing with that old thing?’
The Colonel laughs. ‘Mrs Presley, I think anything our boy has made should be right at the very top of the tree. Happy Christmas to you, now!’
‘Happy Christmas!’ calls Vernon, trailing after the two men.
When the others have left the room, Gladys shoves the angel back into the branches and goes in search of a drink.
SAVED: 1945–1946
1945
Elvis wakes late to the smell of oatmeal and the sound of his father singing. Since he got the job driving a delivery truck for L. P. McCarty’s, Vernon often sings around the house when he’s home. This morning’s rendition of ‘Corinne, Corinna’ is especially joyful. Vernon’s job keeps him away for days at a time. Elvis wonders what his father sees when he’s alone out there, on the road. It must feel like freedom, driving for hundreds of miles, counting off the towns, perhaps stopping at some restaurant for a Pepsi and a sandwich, thinking only of the road ahead. He can hardly believe his father gets paid for such a thing.
Elvis jumps from his bed, because it’s Saturday, which means he can go to Tupelo town with Mama to look in the windows of Reed’s at the clothes and Este’s at the jewellery. Perhaps they will even stop by TKE’s for some pie.
After he’s fed Mama’s beloved White Leghorns and collected their eggs, he rushes back into the house, where his daddy is now seated at the table, drinking coffee.
‘Hello, son.’ Seeing his father’s warm smile, Elvis succumbs to his embrace. There’s a smell of oil and leather, and the salt-sweat of Vernon’s skin.
‘Still skinny,’ says Vernon, turning him round for an examination. ‘You been feeding this boy, Glad?’
‘Night and day,’ sings Gladys.
‘Missed you, boy.’
‘I missed you too, Daddy.’
Which is true, although sometimes Elvis prays his daddy won’t come home before Saturday morning, so he can stay longer in his mama’s arms.
Gladys touches Elvis’s head. ‘I’ll fix you some of them eggs, baby.’
His father pulls out a chair for him, and Elvis sits.
‘I’ll take some eggs, too, Glad,’ says Vernon, blowing on his steaming coffee. ‘Got me some big plans today. Me and Elvis are going hunting.’
Elvis’s stomach clenches. What about Reed’s? What about that pie? Although he’s shown him how to kill doves and squirrels with his slingshot, his daddy has never taken him on an actual hunting trip. Vernon isn’t keen on shooting. If he has to do something with his hands, he’d rather tinker with an engine or make something from wood. He never tires of describing his plans to build a house for them, soon. Somewhere better than this duplex.
Gladys scrap
es her spatula around the skillet. ‘I planned to take Elvis to town.’
‘He ain’t going to town. He’s going hunting with his daddy. Ain’t that right, son?’
Gladys puts down a plate of eggs, cooked to rock-hard perfection.
Elvis gazes at his mother, willing her to change his daddy’s plans.
‘Ain’t that right?’ Vernon says, and he mouths something Elvis cannot read.
‘I guess …’ says Elvis, pushing a fork into his food.
‘Don’t go letting him shoot rabbits. You know he’s tender-hearted,’ says Gladys.
Vernon only laughs and winks at Elvis. ‘We won’t shoot no rabbits. I promise.’
By the time they have walked down Reese Street and headed up the track, it’s past ten. It’s April, and everything is newly green. The light leaking through the poplar leaves is becoming brighter. The mockingbirds are singing with all their might. His father leads him confidently through the brush, striking the ground with a stick to ward off snakes. Vernon has a spring not just in his step, but in his whole body as he strides along with a hand on his son’s shoulder. But Elvis cannot stop thinking of Reed’s window. They have a fancy cowboy shirt, which he’d been hoping to get another look at. It would be something just to go in and touch that shirt. He imagines it would feel cool and smooth, like the sides of Mama’s best china cup, and soft, too, like her skin.
His father has brought his old leather bag, presumably with his catapult inside, and has his shotgun slung across his shoulder. The grey metal of the gun’s snout chimes against the rivets in the bag, keeping time as they walk. Instead of thinking of shirts and pieces of pie, Elvis tries to concentrate on this sound.
It is not that he doesn’t want to shoot. When Odell, his friend from church, let him take a shot with his BB gun, Elvis had enjoyed crawling on his belly through the dirt and getting the rabbit in his sights. But he’d found the quiet waiting impossible to endure. He’d tried to let himself become like a stone, as Odell advised. But who would want to be like a stone? When everything else was moving – the grass, the trees, the sky, the birds, the insects, his heartbeat, his breath – why should he remain still? Why play dead when you are alive? What a waste of energy. What a waste of time.
Graceland Page 5