Graceland

by Bethan Roberts

  Jerry Bryson, who is famous for going all the way with the leggiest girl in the nearby Catholic school, calls out, ‘How about I give you a haircut, Presley?’

  The other boys step towards him, hemming him close to the basins. Then there’s the sound of flushing, and they all look towards the end stall. Red West, a star football player who is known for his bright orange hair and his willingness to take on anybody in a fight, emerges. Elvis lets out a small whimper. If Red joins in, he may as well say his prayers.

  ‘We’re gonna give Presley here a haircut,’ Jerry says to Red, ‘seeing’s how he forgot to get one for himself.’

  Red concentrates on washing his hands, tipping up the chrome soap dispenser and cursing softly when nothing comes out. ‘Why would you do that?’ he asks.

  ‘Just take a look at it!’ says Jerry.

  Red’s pale face is like a paving stone: flat, white, speckled with brown dabs of colour. Even his eyes are pale, framed with light lashes that give him an unreadable, slightly lizard-like appearance. He glances at Elvis then turns to Jerry.

  ‘You do that, you got to cut mine, too.’ He keeps his voice low and his hands in his pockets. Such cool menace reminds Elvis of his grandpa JD. ‘And then I’d kill you dead.’

  Jerry holds up his hands. ‘It was just a joke,’ he says.

  ‘Get out,’ says Red, nodding towards the door.

  Jerry manages an unconvincing grin before hurrying off, followed by the others.

  When they’ve gone, Elvis finds himself leaning over, grasping his knees with his hands and taking big gulps of air.

  Red clicks his tongue. ‘You asked for that. Your hair is weird, man!’

  Elvis manages to straighten up. ‘I was going for a Tony Curtis kinda thing. I didn’t know it would upset those guys so bad.’

  At this, Red looks interested. ‘You seen The Prince Who Was a Thief?’

  ‘’Bout fifteen times.’

  Red gives a short laugh.

  ‘I can get you in Loew’s State, for nothing,’ says Elvis. ‘I work there.’

  ‘You from Lauderdale, ain’t you?’

  This is the first time somebody from Humes High hasn’t accused him of coming from the country.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘That’s pretty close to me.’

  Elvis nods. Everyone knows that Red is from Hurt Village, which has a reputation for being the toughest housing project in Memphis.

  ‘OK, so. See you around,’ says Red, opening the door.

  ‘Wait,’ says Elvis. ‘I oughta thank you.’

  ‘Damn right.’

  ‘Thank you, man. Really. And I wanna do something for you, in return.’

  Red shakes his head, then seems to change his mind. ‘You like music, don’t you?’ he says. ‘I seen you with your guitar. And I heard you sing pretty good.’

  Elvis nods.

  ‘Wanna come to the Midnight Ramble with me tonight?’

  The Midnight Ramble at the Palace on Beale is where white folks go to hear black musicians and singers. It’s also where white men go to see black girls do shake-dances of all kinds. Elvis has heard plenty about it, but has only fantasised about going there.

  ‘Hell, yeah,’ he says, unsure of how he’ll square it with his mama.

  ‘OK, then,’ says Red. ‘Meet you at the corner of Winchester and North Main, round ten.’

  * * *

  Since she’s started work as a nurse’s aide at St Joseph’s Hospital, Gladys’s feet are sore every night. She spends much of her day mopping blood from floors, cleaning up vomit, emptying bedpans and changing soiled sheets, but she’ll tell anybody who’ll listen that she loves her job. Doesn’t she have the cutest pea-green uniform, complete with little white cap? And while the doctors rarely look her way, the nurses are mighty appreciative of her work. The St Joseph’s building puts Gladys in mind of a high-class hotel, with its rust-coloured towers and pointed windows, its elaborate carved doors and potted palms in the sun room.

  It’s half past four and she’s with her last patient of the day, Mr Bertleman, who is recovering from pleurisy. As one of the wealthier patients, he has his own room on the fifth floor. Gladys has been washing and dressing Mr Bertleman for the last two weeks, and has come to enjoy his company. He tells her long stories of his family, who hail from Central Gardens, and have connections to Boss Crump himself.

  He’s well enough to sit in the chair by the window, which is where Gladys is combing his receding hair. She takes her time, being careful not to catch his ears with the sharp ends of the plastic teeth. Pausing to clean the comb, she glances out of the window and stops still.

  The most astonishing car is pulling up right outside. Vernon and Elvis cannot walk down the street without remarking upon the make, model, engine or year of some vehicle or other, but Gladys has never been particularly interested in such things. This car, though, is different. It is the palest pink, and glows like a pearl in the soft September sunshine. She almost drops her comb as she watches it park up, intent on discovering who will climb out of such a vehicle.

  ‘What are you gawping at?’ asks Mr Bertleman, rising from his chair. He clutches the sill.

  ‘Just a car,’ says Gladys, ‘you oughta sit down, Mr Bertleman.’

  He lets out a soft whistle. ‘That’s not just a car. That’s a Cadillac. Series Sixty-two Fleetwood.’

  ‘I ain’t never seen a car that colour before.’

  ‘Must be a customised model,’ says Mr Bertleman. ‘Folks who know no better are always making a ham-fisted job of these things.’

  ‘Ain’t it the prettiest thing?’ says Gladys.

  The driver door opens and out steps a woman, not young, but slim and expensive-looking, wearing a cream outfit which matches the shade of the tyres.

  ‘Will you look at that,’ says Mr Bertleman. ‘The lady drives herself!’

  He starts to cough, doubling over with the effort, but it takes Gladys a moment to tear her eyes from the car and suggest he should get back to bed.

  When he’s reclined on the pillows, she takes up the comb again. She cannot stop thinking of the car, though, and keeps glancing at the window.

  Mr Bertleman says, ‘Gladys, last night I nearly threw myself clean out of that window you keep ogling.’

  She lays the comb on the nightstand.

  ‘I thought about it,’ he says, shaking his head. ‘I pondered, long and hard.’

  ‘But you’re all well now, honey,’ she says, plumping up Mr Bertleman’s pillows, not looking into his face. ‘You can go home tomorrow.’

  ‘That’s just the problem.’ He grasps her hand. ‘I can’t face it, Gladys. That’s the truth.’

  ‘Come on, now,’ she says, squeezing his fingers. ‘You gonna go home and see your family.’

  ‘Gladys,’ he says. ‘Please. Listen to me.’

  She smooths down her uniform and finally looks him in the face. His cheeks are thin, and she can see the tiny blue veins threaded around his nostrils.

  ‘I’m no good to them!’ He lets out a moan that Gladys can only consider childish. It’s the kind of sound Elvis used to make as a very young boy whenever she refused him something in a store.

  She sits on the edge of the bed. ‘Why you talking this way, Mr Bertleman?’

  ‘I can tell you, can’t I?’ he asks. ‘I feel sure you’ll understand. You’re a country woman.’

  Gladys isn’t certain what this has to do with anything, but she answers, ‘Yes, sir, and proud of it.’

  He squeezes his eyes shut. ‘I been with the whores down on Beale, more times than I care to recall.’

  Gladys draws in her breath. ‘The Lord forgives us, if we truly repent.’

  ‘My wife won’t, though. She doesn’t understand it. But you do, don’t you, Gladys? You know that men have needs. I can tell just by looking at you.’

  Gladys stares at him, unable to quite take in what he’s saying.

  ‘And those women down there … it’s an awful temptation to any m
an, so I figure it’s better to go there than betray my wife with another white woman.’

  After a moment, Gladys dares to say, very quietly, ‘Women have needs too, Mr Bertleman.’

  She thinks of her own passion for the young Vernon. Back then, he’d often said she was too much, and she’d known it was true. With him, she was too much. She clung to his arm wherever they went, kissed him right in front of whoever was watching, wanted everyone to know that handsome Vernon Presley was hers. But that kind of love cannot last, and has not been part of her life for many years.

  ‘Not like men do,’ he says.

  Gladys rises from the bed. ‘You just gotta show your wife you’re real sorry.’

  Vernon said he was sorry, when she found out about the woman on the road back when he drove a truck in East Tupelo, and she’d mouthed the words of forgiveness. Since they moved to Memphis, she has learned that it’s better to turn a blind eye to any evidence of his betrayals. It’s not that she wants to let him off the hook. It’s that she wants to spare herself the pain.

  Turning to face Mr Bertleman, she places a hand on his bony shoulder and pushes down harder than she should. ‘You take care, now,’ she says, smiling the best she can.

  When she steps out onto the street, the Cadillac has gone.

  Trying to forget Mr Bertleman’s words, she slips into the drugstore on her way home and buys the most expensive home-permanent kit on the shelf. She also promises herself a beer once she’s home, if Elvis isn’t already there. Her son disapproves of alcohol, having been brought up Assembly of God and witnessing the way it’s made his granddaddy JD mean and no good. But since Elvis has been working at Loew’s and staying out late, Gladys has been accompanying Vernon to bars, despite her previous distaste for drinking. At first, Vernon was reluctant to take her, saying she should go to church instead, even though his own churchgoing days were behind him. When they first moved to Memphis, Gladys had tried their neighbourhood Pentecostal, but it just wasn’t the same as back home, so her attendance dwindled to Sunday-morning services with Elvis. Which left a lot of her evenings empty and lonesome.

  Once she’d convinced Vernon to let her join him at the bar, he’d insisted that she at least take a real drink. Now Gladys looks forward to her first beer of the day. The fuzzy kind of lightness it brings is a totally new experience for her. With a few drinks inside her, she doesn’t have to think of what Vernon is up to when he stays out all night, or ponder upon her son’s happiness. All she has to think about is whether to drink another beer.

  On reaching her apartment, she hears music and realises Elvis is already home. He has his own radio in his bedroom now, and as soon as she slams the front door the volume is reduced. He doesn’t appear, but she’s glad. Her head feels tight after her hot walk along Winchester; there’s grit in her eyes and her feet are sore, but before removing her shoes and pantyhose and splashing her face with water she wants to hide the kit in her bedroom.

  When she’s done so, she knocks on Elvis’s door, and enters without waiting for a response.

  He’s sitting on the sill, looking out at the parched grass, listening to some mournful song. Probably on WDIA, the coloured station.

  ‘How was school, son?’ she asks.

  ‘Fine, Mama,’ he says, smiling faintly.

  ‘Bet it feels good, being a Senior and all.’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘Supper in an hour,’ she says, backing out.

  ‘I been thinking, can you do that thing to my hair?’

  She smiles to herself. ‘Sure,’ she says, ‘if I can find the kit …’

  Gladys trots to her own room, where she spends a few minutes opening and closing drawers so that he’ll think she’s having to hunt. She finds her basket of rollers, then removes the kit from the paper sack and picks off the price tag.

  ‘You’d better come in here, baby. It can get a little messy,’ she calls, dragging a chair from the kitchen to the bathroom. She places it in front of the sink. ‘And fetch us both a cool drink,’ she instructs. ‘You can leave the radio on, if you want.’

  He comes in with two bottles of Pepsi and an enamel bowl full of cold water for her feet.

  ‘What would I do without you, baby?’ she asks, sitting on the rim of the tub and plunging her feet into the bowl. They both take a long drink. Then Elvis reaches for the box.

  ‘Lilt,’ he reads. ‘New Miracle Mist!’ He grins. ‘Sounds pretty good.’ He turns the box over. The woman on the back looks like Rita Hayworth. ‘I don’t wanna look like that,’ he says, ‘though I understand why she would.’

  ‘You just need to sit and relax,’ she says, removing her feet from the bowl. ‘I’ll do the rest.’

  ‘I only want the bit on the top done, where it’s long. I don’t want it curly all over, like some piccaninny doll.’

  Standing behind the chair, she surveys him in the mirror. Despite his acne, Gladys can clearly see her son has grown into a fine-looking young man. He’s like Vernon was at seventeen, but she notes with pleasure that Elvis also has something of her own darkly handsome daddy about him.

  She runs her fingers through his sticky hair. ‘Got a whole heap of mess in it, ain’t it?’

  ‘I guess it can’t hurt … can it?’ he says.

  Ignoring him, she unscrews the bottle of lotion, and the heavy scent of ammonia fills the room.

  ‘Damn, Mama!’ Elvis clamps his hand over his nose. ‘What is that stuff?’

  ‘Don’t curse.’ Gladys reads the side of the bottle. ‘Cream oil cold wave lotion … contains ammonium thi … something. I can’t read that word.’ She hands the box to him.

  ‘Thio–gly–colate,’ he reads.

  ‘Now ain’t you glad you stayed on at school?’

  She snaps on the pink rubber gloves and gets to work, gathering up a small section of hair with her comb before squeezing on a blob of lotion, combing it through, winding it onto the roller and securing it with a rubber band.

  ‘Ow!’

  ‘You gotta be a man about this,’ warns Gladys.

  She works her way around his scalp, combing, lotioning, winding.

  ‘You think I oughta dye it black?’ Elvis asks, studying his reflection. ‘All the best-looking actors have dark hair. Valentino. Robert Mitchum. Tony Curtis.’

  At the sound of the key in the lock, they exchange a glance.

  ‘Thought he was working late,’ says Elvis.

  ‘What’s that goddamned stink?’ shouts Vernon.

  Elvis rises from his chair, but Gladys pushes him down.

  ‘Daddy can’t see me like this,’ he hisses.

  ‘Too late,’ says Gladys. Then she calls out, ‘We’re in the bathroom!’

  They are both still for a minute, listening to Vernon huffing and puffing, removing his shoes in the living room, turning off the radio, and opening the refrigerator.

  When he leans on the door frame, dangling his beer bottle from one hand, he’s quiet for a while. Elvis keeps his eyes on the floor tiles.

  ‘I’m helping Elvis with his hair,’ says Gladys.

  ‘I see that,’ says Vernon.

  ‘How was work?’ she asks. ‘No overtime today?’

  ‘Didn’t need me.’

  She picks up another roller. ‘That’s a shame. You missed all last week.’

  ‘I was sick. And I’m just about fit to die in this heat. Don’t know how much longer I can keep hauling goddamn paint cans.’

  His complaints about his back have increased since he took the job at United Paint two years ago.

  ‘Why don’t you rest up in the living room? Put the fan on.’

  ‘Can a man expect supper round here any time soon? Or is this here beauty parlour keeping you too busy?’

  She snaps the roller into place. ‘There’s some cold chicken in the refrigerator.’

  He grunts but doesn’t move from the doorway.

  ‘You know,’ says Gladys, brightly, ‘I saw the most adorable automobile today. Y’all would’ve gone crazy f
or it.’

  ‘Ain’t like you to notice such a thing,’ says Vernon.

  ‘It was a Cadillac. Series Sixty-two Fleetwood.’

  Elvis says, ‘How do you know that, Mama?’

  ‘Mr Bertleman at the hospital told me. And it was pink as a rose.’

  Vernon sniggers. ‘A rose? How can a car look like a flower?’

  ‘Something about it made me think of them wild ones we used to have at home.’

  She twists the last roller into place. Elvis looks so strange with the top of his head covered in plastic that she has to stifle a giggle. ‘You’re done!’ she says, peeling off her gloves and throwing them into the sink.

  ‘Talking of flowers,’ says Vernon, sauntering across to his son and staring at his reflection in the mirror, ‘ain’t you got nothing to say for yourself about all this … women’s stuff?’

  ‘Now don’t get mad, Vernon,’ warns Gladys. ‘Won’t do a man in your condition no good.’

  ‘I ain’t never seen nothing like it! The girls won’t like a boy who gives himself a permanent wave.’

  Elvis laughs. ‘What do you know about girls, Daddy?’

  ‘Enough,’ says Gladys, in a low voice.

  Vernon ignores this. ‘All the Presley men are handsome, and Lord knows you ain’t no different. But not one of them would’ve given a thing like this a second’s thought.’

  ‘What harm can it do?’ asks Gladys.

  ‘It’s vanity, Glad. Worse than that.’

  ‘Maybe I just wanna look like you, Daddy,’ says Elvis.

  Vernon grins. ‘You can dream, son,’ he says, running a hand through his own thatch.

  ‘You got great hair,’ says Elvis.

  ‘Just don’t let nobody else know about this,’ sighs Vernon. ‘That’s my advice.’

  When he’s gone, Elvis whispers, ‘I’ll buy you one of them cars, Mama.’

  ‘You will?’

  ‘Uh-huh. Just as soon as I’ve made my fortune.’

  It’s been a while since they had one of these fantastical conversations. This is the first time since they moved to Memphis that she can recall him saying such things.