Mrs Bell stares at him as though she might laugh again, then gathers herself and nods, sternly.
Also at the table is an older woman. Her hair is tied up in a purple scarf which tugs at the skin on her forehead. After watching Elvis settle his dusty behind on the chair, she turns slowly to Mrs Bell, who is standing at the counter, putting biscuits onto a plate. ‘Lorene,’ she says, ‘what’s this white boy doing in my house?’
Mrs Bell places the plate on the table, together with a pitcher of milk and some cups. ‘He’s a friend of Sam’s, Mama.’
The old woman looks at Sam. ‘That right, Samuel?’
‘Yes, Grandma.’
There’s a pause while the old woman’s frown deepens. ‘Tell me something,’ she says, slowly. ‘How can that be, son?’
Beneath the table, Sam’s hands begin to flutter again. Elvis wants to reach out and hold them down for him. But he’s not sure, yet, whether it would be OK to touch Sam. He looks clean enough, but he’s been warned by Dodger to watch out for nasty coloured diseases.
Mrs Bell touches her son on the shoulder. ‘Take a biscuit, Sam,’ she says. She pours milk for both boys. Elvis drinks his down, putting his lips to the side of the cup, right near the handle, so as not to swallow anybody else’s germs.
‘I asked you a question, Samuel,’ the old woman says, fixing her eyes not on Sam but on Elvis. ‘I said, how can that be?’
Sam has yet to touch his biscuit. ‘He lives on over the back. I saw him through the fence.’
‘And that makes him your friend.’
Sam’s mouth moves but no sound comes out.
‘How old are you, Elvis?’ asks Mrs Bell.
‘Twelve, ma’am.’
‘There. He’s just a boy,’ she tells her mother.
The old woman beckons Elvis with one finger. ‘Come here, boy, and let me look at you good.’
The woman’s dark eyes shine. Perhaps she has voodoo powers, like the gypsy back in East Tupelo, who sometimes used to call to Elvis from her porch. Folks said she’d cursed the man who’d wronged her in love, and that he’d never walked again. His mama told him not to look at her, and Elvis had no trouble obeying that particular instruction.
Sam kicks at Elvis’s chair and hisses, ‘You heard her!’
Mrs Bell says, gently, ‘Go on, Elvis. My mother can’t see too well, is all.’
He senses he will not get a biscuit until the old woman has examined him, and so he does as he is told.
She keeps beckoning until Elvis is almost touching her. The skin on her face looks both soft and tough, like the cover of an old book. Her nose quivers as she lets out a long breath onto his face. It smells of violet-flavoured candy. ‘What you up to, boy?’ she asks.
‘Nothing, ma’am.’
‘Who your kin?’
‘The Presleys, ma’am. My daddy is Vernon Presley. And my mother is Gladys.’
‘Ain’t never heard of them.’
‘My uncle, Noah, is mayor of East Tupelo.’
The old woman’s lips curl into a smile. ‘You an Above-the-Highway boy!’
‘I was, ma’am. But now my family lives right here in Tupelo.’
‘Your mama know you here in this house?’
Elvis does not hesitate to tell the lie again. ‘Yes, ma’am.’
She studies his face for a long moment, and he manages to keep looking right back at her.
‘You a good friend of my Samuel’s?’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘For how long?’
‘About a week.’
She clicks her tongue.
‘You hungry, Elvis?’
‘I could eat something, ma’am.’
‘I bet you could. You looks hungry, like most of them Above-the-Highway boys.’ She laughs. ‘Lean and white and right squirrelly.’
‘Mama—’ Mrs Bell warns.
She nods towards Elvis. ‘You can sit.’
He hurries to his seat, almost knocking it over in his haste.
Mrs Bell offers Elvis the plate. There are three left. He considers Dodger’s words about coloured diseases, but he cannot refuse this hospitality. He knows his mama wouldn’t want him to. And he’s so hungry he could eat the biscuits and the table, both.
‘Thank you, ma’am.’
As he reaches for the food, the old woman leans over and whispers in his ear, ‘Don’t you ever cross our boy, you hear?’
He nods, his mouth already full of delicious dough.
* * *
With the summer vacation started and the play done (Elvis thinks he didn’t give as good a performance as he’d managed in the yard), they are in Sam’s tree house, arguing about whether to go to Mayhorn’s store. The pitcher of lemonade and the plate of peanut crackers provided by Mrs Bell have been hungrily consumed. They have stroked the mules, led them around the orchard and attempted riding them until the animals protested, loudly; they have crawled around the peanut patch, pretending to be snipers. Elvis did such a good impersonation of being wounded that Sam rushed to his side, almost in tears.
Now Elvis wants to listen to Mr Ulysses Mayhorn play his trombone. He’s cycled slowly past the store on a few occasions, lured closer each time by the music coming from inside. He has never dared to stop, but with Sam as cover, perhaps he could linger a while. Perhaps he could learn more about this music, which seems to speak of secret, thrilling, terrifying things. He knows people call it the blues. How sound can be a colour, he doesn’t yet understand.
‘You crazy,’ says Sam. ‘Mama’ll never let me go over there alone.’
‘You won’t be alone. You’ll be with me.’
‘You understand what kinda music they play, don’t you?’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘Mama wouldn’t like it one bit,’ says Sam. ‘She says that music ain’t holy.’
Elvis can hear the rattle of pans in Mrs Bell’s kitchen, the car-dinals in the dusty trees, somebody laughing on North Green. He wants to hear the trombone again. That trombone moaned like somebody getting the spirit. But Mrs Bell may have a point: whether that spirit is good or evil, he’s not sure.
‘She ain’t gonna know. It won’t take long.’
And then, another time, it was like crying. Crying with joy, like his mama did after he sang in that talent show. Or crying in pain, like Mama does now, when his daddy fails to come home nights.
Never, never, never, wailed the trombone.
‘We can’t go over there,’ says Sam. But then he looks at Elvis, head tilted, a tiny smile playing on his lips. ‘Can we?’
‘We got my bike. We’d be there and back in twenty.’
The used bike was a gift from his daddy to make amends for having to move again. These days, with his mother and father both working, more things are appearing in the house. Not long ago, Vernon came home with a Victrola. Dodger says Vernon should make the rent before buying such things. Vernon tells his mama to hush up, but he says it low enough for her to miss.
Sam flops backwards and lets out a heavy breath. ‘It’s too hot to bother.’
Which is always Sam’s excuse for not doing what Elvis wants.
‘You sound like an old man, boy.’
‘We ain’t got no money!’
Elvis grins. ‘That’s where you wrong, Samuel Bell.’ He produces a nickel from his pocket and drops it on Sam’s chest, where it clatters on the rivets of his overalls.
Sam sits up. ‘Where d’you get that?’
‘Earned it. Doing deliveries for Mr Harris.’
Sam laughs. ‘You too much.’
‘Come on,’ says Elvis, jumping to his feet. ‘Get your ass moving.’
Cycling along the street, Elvis thinks about how he looks. He is careful to sit upright and let what breeze there is blow his hair straight back, to steer the handlebars loosely yet confidently, to look generally as though he is in absolute command of his bike, even though Sam is giggling and swaying as he balances on the crossbar. Elvis tries not to think too much about being a white bo
y with a coloured passenger. Despite Vernon’s disapproval, Gladys has said it’s all right to go play in Sam’s yard; but she hasn’t suggested he bring Sam over to the house, and Elvis knows that if Vernon catches him with Sam on his bike there’ll be hell.
It’s near five-thirty, and people are beginning to spill onto the sidewalk, making their way home from work or braving the slightly gentler heat of the late afternoon. One woman stops and looks at Elvis and Sam and says something to her pretty daughter. Elvis considers waving at the two of them, then thinks better of it. Folks will sometimes make allowances for kids when it comes to colour, but not that many allowances, especially when the kids are twelve already. Sam is tall, too, and with his serious, long face, looks more like fourteen. Which is another good reason to take him to Mayhorn’s.
Elvis stares straight ahead, set on making it to the store before Sam changes his mind. From the crumbling, dark alleyways of Shake Rag come the cries of babies and the raised voices of women, but they must pass quickly to find the real music. Sticky heat blasts their faces and dust kicks up behind the bike as Elvis gets up speed. Sam holds on tight, wobbling but not protesting.
Outside the store there are brooms, aprons, washtubs, cans of gasoline, kerosene lamps, matches, rope, hoes, watering cans, spades of all sizes, copper kettles, buckets and dippers, dishcloths and men. Four of them are sitting on the porch steps, listening to Mr Mayhorn tuning up inside the store. Elvis is aware the men will have seen him hanging round here before, and must think him a curious, hungry-looking, dog-like boy who has no business at a coloured store, listening to coloured music.
Suddenly losing his nerve, Elvis pedals harder and cycles straight past.
‘You missed it!’ Sam hollers. ‘Elvis! You missed it!’
As if in echo, the trombone calls out, long and loud. Never, never, never.
Elvis skids to a halt, breathing hard.
‘What’s wrong?’ asks Sam. ‘You blind?’
Sam is his cover. With Sam here, it will be all right.
Elvis swerves the bike around and pedals back to Mayhorn’s.
Spine straight, he brakes sharply, causing Sam to tumble from the crossbar. Elvis drops the bike, wipes a hand through his hair, then looks up at the men on the porch. The men look back at him. A long moment passes. The one on the lowest step looks the hardest. His brow is beaded with sweat and his white shirt clings to his chest. He wears a wide gold chain around his neck and his hair is oiled into waves; he looks strong and protected.
Slowly, he says, ‘Evening, boys.’
‘Sir,’ says Elvis.
The man looks through him and addresses Sam. ‘You Lorene Bell’s boy?’ he asks.
‘Yessir.’
‘You got her eyes. Those pools of sorrow, just the same.’ He raises his chin. ‘And this boy’s with you?’
Sam glances at Elvis, hands fluttering. ‘He’s a friend of mine, sir.’
The man nods.
A long note blasts from the store, and Elvis shifts from foot to foot, eager to move closer to its source.
‘Your mama’s a good woman,’ says the man. ‘She still working over that house on Highland Circle?’
‘Yessir,’ Sam replies.
The man shakes his head. ‘Then she still tolerating a whole crock of shit. ’Scuse my language, boys.’
‘That’s OK,’ says Elvis. Vernon would curse from dawn to dusk if Gladys let him.
The man ignores him. ‘Tell your mama Joe says hello, you hear?’ he says to Sam.
Hearing a few notes strung together, Elvis walks forward and puts his foot on the step.
Joe holds up his hand. ‘If you boys is figuring on buying candy, you’d better come back tomorrow. Store’s closed for today. Mr Mayhorn’s practising with his band.’
‘We’ll come back—’ Sam says.
Elvis cuts him off. ‘Actually, sir, we came to hear the music.’
For the first time, Joe looks Elvis in the eye. He lets out a long whistle.
The man sitting on the top step quits puffing on his cigarillo. ‘Then we oughta charge you, boy,’ he says, in a surprisingly squeaky voice. ‘Doncha think, Joe?’
‘Sure ’nuff, Willie.’
‘But, sir,’ stammers Elvis, ‘I don’t—’
‘Now,’ says Joe, ‘I wonder. What’s the going rate to hear Ulysses and his band down Vaughan’s?’
‘’Bout fifty cents, I reckon,’ says Willie.
Sam digs Elvis in the ribs. ‘You got that nickel,’ he mutters.
Elvis digs in his pockets. He produces the coin and holds it up to Joe, hopefully.
Joe throws back his head, and from somewhere deep inside his gut, a laugh escapes. ‘I’s messing with you!’ he roars, batting Elvis’s hand away. ‘Y’all can sit over there, by ol’ Henry. He won’t pay you no mind.’
Henry, who is leaning on a stick as he chews tobacco, looks to be the oldest of the men. First spitting to the side, he nods to the boys.
Elvis and Sam huddle together on the step, as far from Henry as they can.
Willie is still laughing. ‘What a skinny white boy like you want to listen to ol’ Mayhorn for?’ he asks. ‘Thought you white boys liked Perry Como and that Sinatra fool.’
‘I can’t stand that shit,’ says Joe, with a look over at Sam.
Elvis clears his throat. ‘Actual fact, sir, I like the Ink Spots best, I reckon.’
Willie sniggers. ‘Ink Spots is minstrel music.’
‘Naw!’ says Joe. ‘I can stand a little Ink Spots.’
‘The Ink Spots are very great musicians,’ Henry suddenly states, rolling his tobacco from cheek to cheek. ‘Very great indeed.’
Everyone is quiet for a moment, as if waiting for the old man to go on. But he just settles himself on his stick once more.
‘I like “My Prayer”,’ says Elvis. ‘Reckon that’s my favourite …’
‘Hush up now,’ says Joe. ‘Show’s about to start.’
Elvis grips his knees to keep them from moving. The men shift around him, clearing their throats, arranging their legs. Sam whispers, ‘We can’t stay long,’ and Elvis nods, impatiently.
Then the trombone sounds. Gently, it climbs from a growl to a wail to the sweetest note he’s ever heard. It reminds him of Magdalene Morgan’s singing: it has something of that same purity. But the most delicious thing about it is that he can already feel it’s going to be sullied. The trombone climbs and climbs, then swoops low, and the double bass cuts in, anchoring the brass with its regular beat. A man begins to sing. His voice sounds as though it’s been dredged from the bottom of a creek.
‘Call my baby
Call her quick …’
Sam’s hands have stilled now. Elvis can tell he’s listening, too.
‘She’s been rolling in the dark …’
Every man on the steps wears the same look. It’s the one his mama gets when Brother Mansell brings the congregation down after they’ve sung an energetic, upbeat tune. He reminds them to feel the Spirit, to let it in, because God’s love is there, if only they’ll accept it. They’ll be richly rewarded, oh, yes, perhaps not now, but in the hereafter, when no matter what hardships they have suffered in this life, they’ll all be welcomed in that place of ease and peace. And yet, it’s not exactly an easeful look his mama gets. There’s that slight lift of the eyebrows, an opening of the mouth that suggests some great, barely controlled longing. All the men have that look, now.
‘Rolling in the dark
My baby’s been out rolling in the dark …’
The song goes on for over ten minutes, and during that time, the world around Elvis slips away. He stops thinking about the men on the steps, or Brother Mansell, or his mama. Everything but the song quietens. It’s like a long, cool, sweet drink on a blistering day. It’s better than that. Better, even, than his mama’s embrace. It’s better than anything he knows.
He sits and he listens, the dusk gathering around him.
Five songs later, when the musicians break a
nd Elvis finally turns to Sam, he’s so ecstatic that he cannot speak. He can only grin.
Sam says, ‘We gotta get back.’
Elvis stares at him, stupefied.
‘Mama will fret,’ Sam says. ‘She’ll already be fretting.’
It is growing dark. Gladys will be home from work, and his supper will be cold. But, at this moment, these facts do not seem very significant to Elvis.
Joe and the other men have gone inside, and the sounds of laughing and back-slapping drift from the store.
Getting to his feet, Elvis tries to peer through the screen. He chases the delicious scent of cigarette smoke with his nose. There’s a flash of brass, and a white handkerchief raised to a sweating forehead. He ducks back out of the light.
‘They ain’t through yet,’ he says.
Somehow, all thoughts of what his own mother will say about him being out after dark – and there’s no way on this earth he’ll admit where he actually was, but he’ll consider that later – have disappeared.
Sam stands up. ‘I gotta get back.’
‘Just ten more minutes.’
‘I gotta get home right now!’
Joe unhooks the screen and looks out. ‘What’s going on?’
‘Nothing, sir,’ says Elvis, before Sam can speak.
‘Ain’t you boys gotta get home? Your mamas will be waitin’ on you,’ says Joe, looking at Sam.
Sam nods solemnly.
‘Goddamnit!’ Elvis explodes.
Joe gives him a long, steady look. ‘What’s the problem, son?’
‘I want to listen, sir. That’s all.’
‘How am I gonna get home?’ asks Sam, almost in tears.
Joe places a hand on Sam’s shoulder. ‘Here’s what we’re gonna do. This boy here – what’s your name, son?’
‘Elvis. Elvis Presley.’
‘Elvis is gonna take you home.’
‘But—’
Joe holds up a hand. ‘But nothing. Listen. I let you stay, and tomorrow I got a whole heap of trouble in my lap, courtesy of your daddy, or your brother, or your uncles. And that’s trouble I can do without. Understand me?’
Elvis hangs his head.
‘This way, you go, my hide is safe, and y’all can come back next week, long as you promise to go on home when you supposed to.’
Graceland Page 11