Graceland

by Bethan Roberts

‘Mama frets too much,’ he says, unable to hide the pride in his voice.

  They’re going uphill, and the houses have all but disappeared. On reaching the gum trees of the Old Saltillo Road, Elvis considers showing Magdalene the house where he was born and Jesse died. He can see the two-roomed shack, just a little way along the road. Every time they pass it, his mama points it out, telling him the story of his birth, and how his daddy saw a blue light in the sky that night, and saying it’s a shame the folks who live there now don’t keep it nicer.

  Elvis decides he won’t mention his dead brother to Magdalene. Not yet, anyhow. He should get back to the preacher’s house. Mama will be worried.

  But first he must ask his question.

  He takes hold of her arm, stopping her in her tracks.

  ‘We oughta sing together,’ he says.

  ‘Say what?’ she asks, casting a curious look at his hand on her light blue sleeve.

  He holds on. ‘We oughta sing together.’

  ‘How come?’

  ‘You sing good. I sing good. Why wouldn’t we?’

  ‘Well,’ she says, slowly, ‘I ain’t at all sure what my daddy would say, for one.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Cause you are a boy, Elvis. And I am a girl. Or ain’t you noticed?’

  ‘But – but I’m clean! And it’d be in church …’

  She looks again at his hand. He is about to remove it from her sleeve when she touches his fingers. ‘My daddy might think you’re in love with me, or something,’ she says, quietly.

  ‘Why would he think that?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know.’ She looks at him very intently, as if he should know the answer.

  ‘Well,’ he says, ‘maybe I am.’

  This seems to be the right answer, because she pushes her fingers through his, and he feels her warmth go all the way up his arm and down his spine.

  ‘I could talk to him, I guess,’ she adds.

  He swallows. ‘That’d be real good.’

  As they stride back into Brother Mansell’s yard, Gladys is nowhere to be seen. Jack and Odell and Kenneth are running around the bottom of the oak, pretending to shoot a possum. Mrs Clarke and Mr Harris and Mrs Stephens are standing by the chicken house watching the boys, but there is no Gladys.

  Elvis pushes past the smaller kids and crashes into the house. Is she wandering the streets, hollering and crying his name? If she is, everyone will know his shame, both at having wronged her and at the intensity of her love.

  Brother Mansell is leaning on the mantel, talking to Bobby Green. Unable to hear his mother’s voice, or even his father’s, Elvis stands in the centre of the room, sweating.

  ‘Son,’ says the preacher, placing a hand on his shoulder, ‘if you’re looking for your folks, your father went home a while ago, but your mother’s in the kitchen, I believe.’

  Elvis charges from the room.

  In the kitchen, sitting quietly at the table while Mr Miller stands above her, is his mama. Her hands are spread wide on the lacy cloth.

  She doesn’t return his gaze, because she is waiting for Mr Miller to conclude his story, seemingly entranced by what’s coming from his mouth. It’s something about the success of his hogs this year. She smiles and nods, her cheeks and chin shining.

  ‘There you are,’ says Magdalene, who has caught up with him. ‘What you up to, running in like a scalded haint?’

  Grabbing Magdalene’s hand, he says, ‘Mama!’

  It takes Gladys a moment to tear her eyes from Mr Miller, who hasn’t quite finished his tale. ‘Oh,’ she says, ‘hello, Elvis. You having a good time?’

  He grips Magdalene’s hand tighter and swings it to and fro triumphantly, hoping his mama will register what is going on.

  ‘Hello, Magdalene,’ she says, turning her gleaming eyes on the girl.

  Mr Miller looks at the two of them, his bushy eyebrows raised. ‘You kids lovebirds now, huh? That it?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ says Elvis, firmly.

  Magdalene lets out a small gasp.

  ‘Girl don’t look too sure about it, though!’ says Mr Miller.

  ‘We are,’ says Elvis. ‘Ain’t we, Magdalene?’

  ‘Guess so,’ says Magdalene.

  ‘Ain’t that sweet?’ says Mr Miller.

  Gladys crosses her arms. Maybe she will jump up and force Elvis home. Or call Magdalene an ugly name.

  Instead, she leans towards the girl. ‘You two oughta sing together in church. Don’t you agree, Mr Miller?’

  ‘Lord, yes! Just think of it: East Tupelo’s lovebirds and songbirds! Now, wouldn’t that be fine?’

  Gladys nods at her son. ‘Real fine.’

  ‘I already told her that, Mama!’

  Gladys gives a tiny smile. ‘I reckoned you might have, son.’

  It is late afternoon, before the Wednesday evening service, and Magdalene has come to Elvis’s house to sing. It’s raining, but there’s no wind, so they sit on the porch. Gladys leaves a pitcher of iced tea and some crackers on a tray, then disappears into the house, letting the screen slam behind her.

  Elvis looks at the dripping oaks across the street and says, ‘We can’t sing here.’

  ‘Why not?’ Magdalene asks. She’s already helped herself to a drink and a cracker.

  ‘The noise.’

  ‘What noise?’ says Magdalene, through a mouthful of crumbs.

  Elvis points upwards. Water patters unevenly on the roof.

  ‘The rain.’

  She gulps down the remains of the cracker and then hides a smile behind her hand. ‘Elvis,’ she says, ‘ain’t nobody gonna hear us, anyhow.’

  ‘Mama will,’ he says. Because he knows she will be listening intently, even as she scrubs the stove.

  Magdalene pats the wooden chair beside her. ‘Come on over here,’ she says.

  He sighs. ‘It won’t work,’ he says. But he sits, anyway.

  Magdalene rearranges her skirt over her knees and wraps her cardigan tightly around her. Her cloud of hair looks smaller today. She smells faintly of bacon grease, and also of something sweet, like beer.

  Then, without warning, she turns to face him and starts singing ‘Joshua Fit the Battle’.

  For the first moments, he can do nothing but be almost painfully aware of her physical presence. Her breath touches his face as she lets out the notes. A warm droplet of her spit lands on his hand, and he wipes it, hurriedly, on his pants. Her perfect cheeks become filled with strong colour. But all he can see written on her face is effort, which he knows is wrong. Elvis has studied the best singers at church, and they all shut their eyes and contort their faces only when they reach the best parts, and even then they wear a look not of effort, exactly. It’s more like real intensity. It seems to him that this must be the way to let the Spirit in. Brother Mansell often says it. Let God in. Put your own self to one side, and make space for the Holy Spirit!

  Wanting to show Magdalene how it should be done, Elvis tries it now. Closing his eyes, he sings, ‘You may talk about your men of Gideon’ and pretends he’s at the front of the church, with the whole congregation watching his expressive yet mysterious face, witnessing him letting God in.

  As he sings, he doesn’t swoon, or see the blinding light of the Holy Spirit. What he experiences is intense concentration on hitting the notes. It feels comfortable, and happy, and right. It feels easeful.

  He also forgets all about Magdalene. When he opens his eyes, close to the end of the song, he’s almost surprised to see her there, smiling at him.

  The rain falls harder, hammering on the porch roof, bouncing off the steps, forming brown puddles in the road. Wet chickens squawk and retreat beneath the house. But Elvis and Magdalene keep singing. When they make a particularly good noise together, Magdalene puts a hand on Elvis’s knee and keeps it there. He closes his eyes again, and finds himself pretending the hand is Noreen Fishbourne’s.

  * * *

  The travelling preacher is a skinny man with a nose shaped like a turnip. He sta
lks the aisle of the Assembly of God church, the light coming through the altar window making his shoes gleam. Every Sunday morning Mama buffs the family shoes as best she can, but Preacher Brown’s shoes are something else. They are black, without any discernible laces, and they shine like glass. They make Elvis think of Cinderella’s slippers. Gorgeous, painful, improbable.

  The room falls silent. People cease their fanning, despite the humidity in the small wooden building. The preacher takes his time, allowing the congregation to get a good look at him. He runs a hand along the polished pews as he walks, his fingers catching the sleeves of several women’s blouses, the click of his shoes resounding on the swept boards. At the front of the church, he stops but does not look at anybody. Not yet. Instead he takes a seat to the side, first brushing it with a crisp handkerchief, so he can watch Brother Mansell open the service.

  The congregation shift and settle.

  For weeks, everybody has been talking of Preacher Brown’s visit. Elvis has heard his mama whispering to her friends Faye Harris and Novie Clark that Noreen Fishbourne will finally be free of her demon. For didn’t Preacher Brown deliver little Frank last time? He may be a small-bodied man, but he has the biggest spirit in Lee County. Miss Novie said she saw a strange green ball of light shoot down the aisle, right out the door. And hasn’t little Frank been an angel ever since?

  The church is busier than Elvis has ever seen it: anybody who hasn’t found a seat is standing at the back. Magdalene Morgan, who has held his hand every day after school all semester and sometimes goes to the front of the church to sing with him, is sitting in the row behind, but her attention is all on the preacher.

  Elvis scans the room for Noreen and spots her red hair easily. It has been parted precisely down the middle like a split loaf; the two sides are plaited and pinned tightly around her ears.

  Brother Mansell starts by welcoming them on this special day, and leading them in ‘Leaning on the Everlasting Arms’. They stand and sway, and Elvis tries to lose himself in the song, but he cannot stop gazing at the back of Noreen’s head. Perhaps that red hair will catch fire when she is delivered. Maybe blood and flames and pillars of smoke will rise from her, just like it says in the Bible. That would teach her to go sneaking up on naked boys. His mama says redheads have hot blood, and this shows itself in their hair. No wonder Noreen’s parents can’t control the girl. It must’ve been easy for the devil to take hold.

  There are only two testimonials today. Billy Clarke stands and says he has quit taking tobacco. Vona Newell has, with God’s help, persuaded her youngest and most difficult child to stop spilling his milk. Everybody claps. Brother Mansell congratulates them both and calls for more. There’s a shuffling of feet. Many congregation members focus on the ceiling or the floor, eager to get past the testimonials.

  Brother Mansell mops his brow and finally introduces Preacher Brown.

  There’s a round of applause, together with loud shouts of ‘Hallelujah!’ Elvis finds himself jumping to his feet with his mama and yelling, ‘Praise!’ She turns to him and beams, and he claps louder.

  Preacher Brown stands and looks directly at the congregation. Every face in the church is lifted towards him, and he seems to spend five minutes just making sure he has seen everybody, and everybody has seen him. Then, slowly, he raises both hands and hangs his head.

  He starts low.

  ‘Brothers and sisters. I know there’s not one among you here today who is without sin.’ His voice is soft and fluid as he lifts his heels and stretches his hands higher. ‘But I’m asking you now, who here is ready to be saved?’

  A murmur ripples round the room.

  Preacher Brown snaps his head up. His eyes are as bright as his shoes.

  ‘Because you’d better be ready. You may be thinking, “Tomorrow I’ll begin living a holy life.”’ He strides back and forth along the front of the church, his voice hushed. ‘“Tomorrow I’ll pray to the Lord Jesus. Tomorrow I’ll help my neighbour. Tomorrow I won’t take that liquor.” ’ He stops and looks at Annabelle Wiston in the front row. ‘“Tomorrow I’ll wipe that paint from my face.” ’

  Miss Wiston gasps audibly, and has to be consoled by her sister.

  Preacher Brown points a finger at the crowd. ‘I’m here to tell you, tomorrow ain’t soon enough!’

  ‘Tell it!’ somebody says.

  ‘Tomorrow ain’t no time! You gotta be ready today! And not just today, but right now!’

  A few ‘Amen’s rise into the sticky air.

  Preacher Brown removes his jacket and lays it carefully on his chair, revealing its delicate pink lining. Carefully, he unbuttons his cuffs and rolls up the sleeves of his white shirt to reveal the thick hair on his forearms, and an enormous gold watch. He reaches for the ceiling and says in a quiet voice, ‘Are you ready, brothers and sisters?’

  ‘Yes, Lord!’

  ‘I said, are you ready?’

  Elvis sneaks a look at his mama. Patches of her cream blouse have stuck to her back, revealing the outline of the various and unfathomable straps and clasps of her underclothes. He clutches her hand, wanting to distract her from what he suspects she will do next, but she gives him only a brief glance before returning all her attention to the preacher.

  ‘Then I say to you, as Mark said, “In God’s name I will drive out demons!”’

  It won’t be long before his mama will start: the sweat patches and the visible underwear are a sure sign. Elvis chews his nails and tells himself it will be over soon. There is no need for him to shake, or cry. His daddy has often told him there is no need for any of that stuff, because he has nothing to shake or cry about.

  ‘I will drive out demons and let God’s light in!’

  Sure enough, as Preacher Brown talks, Gladys leans forward, gripping the pew and closing her eyes, to receive the Spirit. Then the sound comes from her. It is pitched somewhere between a moan of terror and a recitation of a multiplication table. It has the regularity of something learned, and yet it is completely without sense.

  Vernon looks on, unconcerned. They have both witnessed it before. Elvis bites his thumb, hard.

  ‘For did not Mark say that the Christians would grasp snakes with their bare hands?’

  Gladys rocks back and forth and it is all Elvis can do not to grab his mama and yank her back into her seat. He tries again to grasp her hand and make her still, but her fingers slip from his.

  Preacher Brown is advancing down the aisle. As he passes, men and women emulate his mother, clutching whatever is nearest to them – pews, prayer books, children’s heads – and chanting their strange language. They whisper and grunt. Some collapse to their knees, or are caught in the arms of their neighbours.

  To Elvis’s relief, Gladys slides back into her seat, but still her mouth moves and the sounds come out. He touches her damp shoulder. When she doesn’t respond, he takes her face in his hands and whispers in her ear, ‘Mama, Mama, Mama!’

  ‘Let her be,’ hisses Vernon.

  ‘Now,’ says Preacher Brown, who has reached the front of the church once more. ‘Who among you requires deliverance from evil?’

  Gladys ceases her noise, and opens her eyes. They are brilliant with tears, and he is flooded with relief. It is the happiest she has looked for many months, and, more importantly, she is seeing him once again.

  Preacher Brown is beckoning the congregation forth. ‘All those who seek freedom from demons, come on up.’

  People clamber from their pews to form a line long enough to reach the door. At the front is Noreen, flanked by her parents. Preacher Brown, who isn’t much taller than the girl, squares up to her but addresses Noreen’s father.

  ‘Brother,’ he says, ‘is this your daughter?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  There is a pause as Preacher Brown looks the girl over. Fans click in the thick air. A ripe, sweet smell of overheated bodies and warm wood fills the church.

  ‘And does your daughter have the Devil in her?’

  ‘Noree
n has had the Devil ever since she was but eight years old, sir.’

  ‘And how does this evil spirit manifest itself, brother?’

  ‘She won’t abide by no rules at all. Not mine, not the church’s. She runs around like a fully grown girl. Makes her mama and me ashamed.’

  ‘Noreen, is this the truth?’

  The girl bows her head.

  ‘I see the Demon has your tongue.’

  ‘He surely does, sir,’ says Noreen’s father. ‘He has every part of this girl—’

  ‘Noreen, do you want to be saved?’ asks Preacher Brown.

  The girl does not look up.

  ‘Noreen. I ask you. Do you desire to be saved today?’

  ‘She wants it so bad, sir!’ says her father.

  ‘I am going to order this Demon out of you,’ says the preacher. ‘It will be hard, but it will be worth it. For when this Demon sees God’s light, he will fly out the door, and you will be filled with the spirit of Jesus.’

  Elvis and Gladys look towards the door. Right at the top, there is a crack large enough for a small bird to fly through.

  The preacher takes the girl’s shoulders and spins her round to face the congregation. Her freckled chin quivers. It’s rare for a girl this young to be delivered, and Elvis glances at his daddy, thinking perhaps he will run to the front and put a stop to it. Vernon wasn’t Assembly of God until he met Gladys, and although he’s been saved, he often misses services. He’s also told Elvis that he doesn’t believe in evil spirits. Once, when they were walking through Priceville cemetery at dusk, Elvis had hidden his face in his father’s shirt, scared of the shadows. Vernon had informed him confidently that there was no such thing as ghosts, demons or spirits. It was real people who could hurt you, he said; his advice was to fear the living, not the dead.

  But now Vernon stares straight ahead, riveted.

  The preacher lays his hands on Noreen’s head. ‘Brothers,’ he says, ‘I need some volunteers here.’

  Mr Martin, Mr Newgate and Mr Miller rush to the front.

  Noreen lets out a yelp as Mr Martin grabs her shoulders. Kneeling before her, Mr Newgate clasps her wrists in his hands, and Mr Miller stands behind to take hold of her waist. Preacher Brown spreads his fingers wide and presses them along her white parting.