Graceland

by Bethan Roberts

  ‘I must warn each and every one of you in this room to keep your eyes good and closed now. For if you look at this Demon, it will see a way into your soul.’

  Noreen has turned pale. Gladys puts her arm around Elvis and draws him to her. ‘Shut your eyes, baby,’ she whispers. ‘The men will put things right. It’s a happy day.’

  He half-closes his eyelids, and through the slit he sees Noreen squirm and gasp as the men tighten their hold.

  ‘If she struggles,’ says Preacher Brown, ‘remember it is the Demon fighting the Holy Spirit, and you must hold her tighter.’

  They do so, and Noreen hollers loud enough to make Elvis’s skin rise.

  Gladys puts a hand over his eyes, and he smells the greasy animal-scent of her lanolin cream.

  Then all he knows are the sounds. ‘BE GONE!’ shouts Preacher Brown. ‘FEEL THE MIGHT OF THE LORD! LEAVE THIS HELPLESS CHILD! LET HER BECOME PURE AGAIN!’

  And her shoes scrabbling on the wooden floor. And men grunting. And something ripping.

  He gnaws on his fingers, desperately trying to find enough nail to get a good bite.

  The wordless language comes again from somebody’s mouth – not his mother’s.

  And Noreen keeps on screaming. It is now a high, almost triumphant, scream. It rips around the church so wildly that a few children begin to weep in fear. And at this moment Elvis tastes his own blood and believes the Demon is truly in Noreen. This sound must come from the Devil. He thinks of his dream of holding her in the water, and wonders if it was God’s way of telling him that Noreen needed to be cleansed.

  ‘WE WILL NOT GIVE IN, DEMON!’ shouts Preacher Brown. ‘WE WILL DEFEAT YOU WITH THE POWER OF THE HOLY SPIRIT!’

  The congregation pray. But Noreen – or perhaps the Demon – is still screaming. There is an almighty whack, which could be her foot kicking the floorboards. Or somebody hitting the ground.

  ‘IN GOD’S NAME I DRIVE YOU OUT!’

  The preacher is hoarse now.

  ‘OUT, I SAY! OUT!’

  Then the scream falters. And there’s quiet.

  When Elvis opens his eyes, Noreen lies limp in her father’s arms, her face slack. Elvis cannot stop looking at Preacher Brown, whose scant hair is now sticking up from his head as if he’s been hit by a lightning bolt. His damp shirt is creased, and his collar has come undone, revealing a neck shining with sweat. He plants himself in front of Noreen, spreading his legs and his arms wide.

  ‘She is saved!’ he says, lifting his hands.

  ‘Saved!’ everybody, including Elvis, chants.

  Preacher Brown sweeps an arm over the crowd and points to the ceiling. ‘Thank you, Sweet Jesus!’

  ‘Hallelujah!’ cries Gladys.

  The preacher shakes his head, as if in disbelief at his own powers. Then he gestures for quiet. He starts to pray. ‘Blessed Father, we thank You for Your grace …’

  The congregation close their eyes and follow his words. Elvis sneaks a look around the room at the bowed heads. He senses that, right now, everyone in the church would do anything this man asked.

  Then the preacher catches Elvis’s eye. Elvis starts, alarmed, but before he can look away, the preacher smiles widely, right at him. ‘Praise the Lord!’ he says.

  ‘Praise the Lord!’ shouts Elvis, in response, and Preacher Brown nods.

  ‘Take her home, brother. Today the Demon was no match for the Holy Spirit!’

  As Noreen’s father carries her down the aisle, women touch the ripped hem of her pinafore and gasp, ‘Glory!’ Noreen’s hair has burst from its pins and it springs from her head like flames. Seeing her limp, helpless body, Elvis wants to slap her face to waken her. He wants her, he realises, to fix him with that look again.

  But she does not. He is free to look at her face, now, for as long as he likes.

  The preacher checks his gold watch. ‘Who is next?’ he asks.

  Afterwards, on the walk to Brother Mansell’s house for refreshments, everything goes a little wonky. The gum trees along the road seem to bend with the midsummer heat, their thick leaves gathering dust, and the sun seems to have got right inside Elvis’s skull. His mama walks ahead with the rest of the congregation. The occasional ‘Amen!’ or ‘Glory!’ still rises from the crowd, and the women’s voices chatter and swoop around him like birds. Keeping his head down, Elvis tries to catch up with the others, but his legs feel strangely heavy, as though the road is sticking to his feet. It’s been hours since he had anything to drink, and his tongue feels as dry as a scrap of old newspaper. He tells himself that he just has to make it to Brother Mansell’s, where there will be iced water. It is less than half a mile away, though it seems as distant as the moon.

  To ease his journey, Elvis imagines, as he often does, Jesse walking beside him. His brother is nimble, and better at getting along this hot dirt. He doesn’t fuss about the flies or the dust or the stray dog who sometimes sleeps in the road. Nothing ever makes Jesse afraid, and nothing can slow him down. As he skips along, he giggles and swings his arms.

  In an effort to distract his brother, Elvis tries talking to him, saying, You know, Jesse, Mama says I’m a miracle.

  And Jesse’s voice comes right back. Huh! Wouldn’t be no you without me, boy.

  Jesse is older by only a matter of minutes. Yet here he is, talking as if he is grown, and knows things other boys do not.

  It does not seem strange to Elvis that Jesse has chosen, for the first time, to make himself heard. Not compared to the way the road is warping before him, or the way his body feels so loose with heat that it might come apart.

  You see what happened with Noreen? Elvis asks.

  Kinda fun, wasn’t it?

  It was God’s work.

  Looked like Preacher Brown’s work to me.

  They have reached Brother Mansell’s house, and the congregation have gathered in the shade of the wide porch. Elvis takes the steps one at a time. They seem to wobble beneath his feet. Once he’s at the top, he stops, and immediately becomes bathed in so much sweat that he can taste it.

  ‘Elvis?’ His mama looms up. ‘You feeling all right?’

  Elvis opens his mouth to reply, but his heart seems to be there instead of his tongue, and his lips won’t move. Everything is pulsing, and he has no breath. Then his limbs go liquid, and the daylight disappears.

  When he comes to, he is lying on the cool wooden floor of the living room, next to the piano. His mama is kneeling beside him, squeezing his hand to her bosom, and Preacher Brown is behind her saying, ‘Child’s all right. Just overwhelmed by the Spirit. Sometimes it’s like that, when God melts your heart.’

  Elvis’s eyes hurt.

  Jesse, he whispers. Now I know.

  Know what, boy?

  I know God.

  Say what?

  He blinks and sees that Preacher Brown is praying now, and the rest of the congregation are joining him in an ecstatic hum.

  You crazy, says Jesse.

  I’m saved, says Elvis.

  1946

  Elvis and Gladys are on their way out of the house, headed for town, when Vernon says, ‘Watch your spending, Glad. You keep goin’ over that Beauty School and we ain’t gonna make it.’

  Vernon is out of work again and frequently at home. The payments on their new four-roomed house on Berry Street are expensive, but when he signed the deed he’d promised her that they had enough to keep their heads above water, just so long as the water didn’t get too high.

  Gladys pauses on the porch and stares at her husband, who is leaning on the screen door. Elvis, sensing that he should remove himself from the situation, slopes off down the steps and waits for her in the road. He has the guitar she recently bought for him strapped to his back. He’s yet to play an actual tune on it, but he likes to wear it.

  ‘You said you liked my hair,’ she says.

  ‘I love your hair, Glad. What I don’t love is how much it costs.’

  ‘The apprentice fixes it. I get it discount.’


  ‘Just don’t go buying that boy more stuff in town. He’s had more than enough lately.’

  He turns to go back into the house, but Gladys reaches for his wrist. ‘He deserved that guitar. He’s been so good.’

  ‘Least he’s gotten over that goddamn Bible fever,’ Vernon mumbles.

  After Preacher Brown came to church last year, Elvis did act strange – he’d look dreamily off into the distance while she spoke, and prayed at the oddest moments. Once, hearing the call of a mockingbird, he fell to his knees in their yard and said God had told him to give away all his funny books. But then, last fall, he’d entered the talent contest at the Mississippi–Alabama Fair, standing on a chair to sing ‘Old Shep’. He’d won fifth place. Ever since, instead of praying under his breath, he’s been singing.

  Gladys says, ‘We ain’t shopping, anyhow. I’m taking him over the courthouse, for the Saturday Jamboree.’

  ‘That don’t cost nothing?’

  ‘Not one cent. What’ll you do while we’re gone?’ she asks, keeping her eyes on him.

  ‘That ain’t decided yet.’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  Gladys knows Vernon will go fishing, and maybe on to a bar, but she doesn’t want to get into that right now. She’s promised Elvis they’ll be at the courthouse for two o’clock, and from the corner of her eye she can see him jogging on the spot with impatience. She’d heard him early this morning, feeding the chickens in the yard, probably with that guitar strapped on, before she or Vernon had risen from their bed.

  She turns on her heel and descends the stairs. On reaching the bottom, Gladys can’t help but look back and admire the new paint on the porch, the bright green drapes she’s made, and the door knocker, shiny as a new coin.

  Vernon calls out, ‘Elvis! Keep an eye on your mama for me.’

  Every Saturday afternoon they tune in to WELO together to listen to the Jamboree hosted by Mississippi Slim. It’s broadcast live from the Lee County courthouse, and for weeks Elvis has been asking Gladys if he can go see it in person.

  The heat of the early September afternoon comes at them like a wall, and neither can find much energy for talking as they make their way down the Old Saltillo Road towards the highway. Elvis is wearing his best pants and a good shirt, one Gladys made. She notes with irritation that his wrists are already showing beyond the cuffs. As he walks, the guitar slaps his back.

  At the bottom of the road, she stops and removes her straw hat so she can wipe her brow with her handkerchief.

  Elvis says, ‘I coulda caught a ride with Miss Mertice. She works at the Black and White—’

  Mertice Finlay is a new neighbour of theirs. She lives with her mother and three mean-eyed cats.

  ‘Not on your own you couldn’t.’

  ‘Miss Mertice woulda been there.’

  ‘But she’s got to work. Then you’d be alone all morning in town, waiting.’

  ‘I coulda gone to the movies.’

  ‘You think we got money to waste on that? Didn’t you hear what Daddy said?’

  They start walking again. To one side are yellow fields and tall, spindly trees. To the other is the wide highway with its trickle of traffic. Gladys clutches her purse close to her hip and ploughs on, across the sizzling forecourt of the Savings filling station, ignoring Elvis’s longing look towards the swinging Pepsi sign.

  ‘When I’m grown, I’m gonna buy you a car just like that one.’ He’s pointing to a big, sparkling vehicle with tyres blacker than tar. She stops and watches it pull up to the pumps, the sun bouncing off its windows.

  ‘Won’t that be fine?’ she says.

  ‘And a house for you and me,’ he says, ‘and Daddy.’

  ‘We gonna have five rooms, or six?’ she asks.

  ‘We’re gonna have at least eight! And I’ll buy you dresses, Mama. Real pretty ones. What kind do you want?’

  ‘Oh, anything in lavender crêpe will be wonderful.’

  ‘And you can get your hair fixed in a fancy place every week.’

  She laughs at this new addition to their often-repeated fantasy.

  ‘Daddy won’t say nothing,’ he adds, quietly, ‘’cause I’ll be the one working.’

  They walk in silence for a while, crossing the levee and reaching the town. When they hit East Main, Elvis asks, ‘Mama, you reckon Slim will look as good as he sounds?’

  ‘He sure looks good in the newspaper.’

  ‘Reckon he’ll have that cowboy shirt on?’

  ‘He’ll have everything on: the shirt, the hat, the tie.’

  ‘Bet he’s got ten rooms in his house,’ says Elvis.

  ‘I doubt that, son,’ says Gladys, smiling.

  ‘Maybe six, then.’

  ‘Maybe so. You gonna enter the WELO talent contest?’

  ‘No way, Mama!’

  ‘You oughta. You sing real nice.’

  ‘Maybe one day.’

  ‘You and Magdalene could go on.’

  ‘I don’t know, Mama. I don’t reckon Magdalene is ready for that,’ says Elvis, solemnly. ‘She might mess up.’

  The courthouse is a large, fine old building which makes Gladys think of a wedding cake. Its golden-domed clock tower, long windows and ivory-coloured stone speak of some glorious past that she figures must have been real for a handful of folks round here.

  A line of people stretches all the way from the courthouse steps, down the tree-lined white path, to the corner of the sidewalk. Gladys and Elvis cross the leafy square, and she feels him begin to pull away from her.

  ‘Keep close,’ she warns. ‘There’s a lot of folks here.’

  They join the back of the line and Elvis removes his arm from hers but stays near. Out of habit she reaches to straighten his collar, but then draws back, realising he has already done it himself.

  The sun presses on her head. In front of them is a woman with two girls of about Elvis’s age, and an older boy. The girls turn cartwheels on the lush lawn of the courthouse while the boy, who is a little heavy, crosses his arms and scowls. He is taking up a lot of the sidewalk – if he were to move up a little, Gladys could stand in the shade afforded by the cherry tree.

  ‘Excuse me, ma’am,’ says Gladys, catching the woman’s eye, ‘you got any notion when they might let us in?’

  The woman is wearing a yellow hat and carrying a matching purse. ‘They usually open the doors round one-thirty,’ she says.

  ‘Oh, thank goodness! It’s awful hot out here. I’m about fit to melt!’

  Gladys glances at the boy, who stares at the ground.

  ‘Byron, honey,’ the woman says, ‘move on over so this lady and her son can step into the shade.’

  Byron scowls but does as he’s asked. The woman in the yellow hat holds out a hand and says, ‘I’m Patty Wren. This your first time at the Jamboree?’

  ‘Gladys Presley. Is it that obvious?’

  Mrs Wren laughs. ‘Not at all.’

  ‘My boy’s been itching to get here for weeks! He loves Mississippi Slim.’

  ‘Does he want to go in with my kids?’

  Gladys and Elvis look at one another. He grins, then pinches his nose to hide it, and says nothing.

  ‘Byron here can keep an eye on him, can’t you, Byron?’

  Byron scratches at the acne on his chin. ‘Mama …’ he whines.

  ‘Course he can! And Pearl and Louise here, too,’ says Mrs Wren. The girls, who are dressed identically in shorts and blouses printed with strawberries, gawp at Elvis in silence.

  ‘You could do your shopping while he’s in there,’ says Mrs Wren. ‘Whole thing won’t last no more than a half-hour.’

  Gladys puts a hand on Elvis’s shoulder. ‘It’s awful kind of you, but I don’t think—’

  ‘I’ll be all right, Mama,’ says Elvis, patting her hand and standing straight. ‘You go on and get your shopping done.’

  He flashes a smile at Mrs Wren, who says to Gladys, ‘There you go, dear. Your son has spoken.’

  Gladys ambles down the neat, wid
e sidewalk on Main without a clue of what to do or where to go. Stopping to look in the windows of Reed’s department store, she tries to lose herself in the details of the fabric of the dress that’s before her: cream ruffles at the neck, a wide satin sash about the waist, a scalloped hem. But her mind slips to her son, who must be sitting in the courthouse now, close to Pearl, or maybe Louise, swaying to some crooner tearing the heart out of ‘I’ll Forgive You But I Can’t Forget’ or ‘Paper Doll’. She puts a finger to the glass and traces the outline of the sash, leaving a smear. Then she hurries back to the courthouse.

  On a bench near the steps, she sits to watch the wide double doors. There’s clapping and cheering, followed by a long break in the noise, during which, she guesses, Slim must be introducing the next act. Feeling closer to her son now, she relaxes a little, tapping her foot in time to the music, and allows herself to picture him at the front, singing. Whenever he sings alone in church, her gut flips over and her eyes become wet. She is fiercely proud, and also afraid, of how good he is. She feels, sometimes, as if she cannot stand it, and must leave the room. It is difficult to make herself sit there, listening, because she knows he has talent, and she also knows that when he sings he goes someplace else, someplace beyond her reach. And in that place she cannot rescue him from failure.

  The music stops, and Gladys perches expectantly on the edge of the bench.

  When Elvis appears, he walks directly to her, head down, guitar on his back. She pats the space beside her. ‘How was it, baby? Tell me boocups.’

  ‘Mama,’ he begins, his cheeks flushed, ‘it was … I don’t know what it was …’ He shakes his head, searching for a word. ‘It was … real good.’

  She nods, encouragingly.

  ‘Slim was so fine! Cracking jokes, you know. And he sang one song real well.’

  ‘What did he sing?’

  ‘“Try Doin’ Right”. And he had a great guitar, like I never seen, much better than mine, and he kinda laughed all the time, just like on the radio, you know?’