‘Dixie?’ she asks. ‘That’s her name?’
‘Yes, Mama. That’s her name. Miss Dixie Locke.’
She’s known for over a month that something’s been going on. She knew as soon as he came in so late that night from the Rollerdrome, not because it was past midnight – he’s always going to listen to music being played somewhere, and she would never tell him not to do that; he’s been going alone to radio stations since he was eleven years old, after all – but because he’s been so distracted, so reluctant to sit down and talk to her when he comes in. They used to talk for hours sometimes, he always had boocups to tell her about his day, his hopes and his fears. Then, suddenly, this past month, it seems he’s had nothing to say at all.
‘It’s a nice name, son.’
She imagines her: trim, neat, a touch conceited. Over the past year, Gladys has put on forty pounds and can’t stop noticing the way her skin puckers and sags around her mouth. Every window she passes, she tries not to look at her reflection, but in the end it always catches up with her. And when it does, it’s a shock to see her forty-two-year-old self. She knows it’s herself looking right back at her, but it’s not a self she quite recognises. There are too many shadows on that face. Too often, it looks gloomy or plain afraid, even when Gladys has reckoned her mind to be empty.
Elvis forks in another mouthful. Will this girl, Dixie, fix his eggs in the way that he likes – well fried, not turned, left on a low flame until they’re absolutely solid?
He wipes cornbread around his plate. It’s often disgusted Gladys to see Vernon eating. The glugging and slurping like plumbing, the way his saliva escapes his mouth and beads his lips. But she finds the spectacle of her son eating nothing but charming. Few things give her greater pleasure than to see Elvis enjoy something she’s made for him. She remembers baking a pound cake for his fourth birthday; she’d saved up the ingredients specially, and had found herself going teary at the sight of him putting it in his mouth, chewing, swallowing, asking for more.
‘You want more, baby?’
The sun shines through the window, covering her son’s knees in brightness. He pushes back his chair.
‘No, thanks, Mama.’
‘So when you gonna bring Miss Dixie to meet your family?’
‘Soon,’ he says, pecking her cheek.
‘A girl won’t reckon you’re worth too much if you don’t let her meet your folks.’
He blows her a kiss before stepping out of the apartment and into the crisp February morning.
In the event, he gives her little time to prepare. ‘Dixie’s coming tomorrow,’ he announces on Friday night, before heading downtown with Red.
On Saturday, Gladys rises early to polish the kitchen linoleum and scrub out the sink. She runs her cloth over every surface of the apartment, then considers washing the covers on the couch, but decides it’s too late to get them dry. She bakes a pound cake, remembering still that birthday treat that Elvis liked so much, and thinking that it wouldn’t be nice to come across too fancy, anyway. A pound cake is good enough. It’d be even better with some cool cream, but she won’t send Vernon to the store, even though they can afford such small luxuries now that Elvis brings home more than his daddy each week.
In the mirror on the back of the pantry door she yanks some grey hairs from her temples. She has on her second-best dress, blue wool with a pink belt. She doesn’t want the girl to think she’s tried too hard.
She means to love Dixie, as Elvis loves her. She doesn’t know the Lockes, but she’s managed to prise some information from her son about his meeting with them: Dixie’s mother was kind and pretty, Dixie’s father didn’t say much of anything. Gladys appreciates that Elvis’s appearance has become surprising, and could, to other families, be kind of alarming. She tries to imagine how it would feel if it were the other way around, if Dixie were her daughter, bringing Elvis for a visit. But she can only imagine seeing beyond Elvis’s long hair and interesting clothes – others might call them flashy, or worse; she wouldn’t – to his impeccable manners and softly spoken charm. How could any mother not be impressed by that?
She goes to the sink and rinses her hands, which are damp with sweat. She wipes the table once more, and peers out of the window. It’s started to rain lightly, and a couple of kids are jumping on and off the sidewalk with their hands held over their heads. Vernon is also out there, waxing the car in preparation for the girl’s arrival, despite the weather. He stretches himself across the windshield, all his back trouble forgotten.
Elvis’s car pulls up and Gladys inches away from the window. She removes her housecoat, scanning the apartment for anything out of place. She hears Vernon say, ‘Well, just look at you!’ and the sound of a girl’s laughter. Then their voices are echoing up the stairwell, Vernon’s taking the lead as he says Elvis ought to give Dixie a ride in the Crown Electric truck some time.
In order to look as though she hasn’t been eavesdropping, Gladys retreats to the kitchen and starts spooning coffee into the pot. Even when she hears the door open and their voices in the living room, she doesn’t turn around, wanting her son to come find her.
‘Mama! We’re here!’
The two of them stand in the kitchen doorway, both flushed and slightly damp, breathing quick and blinking. Elvis has a hand on Dixie’s shoulder. She barely comes up to his chest, and the black curls of her hair rest on her shoulders like jewels.
‘Welcome, dear, to our home,’ says Gladys, stepping forward and taking both of Dixie’s hands in hers. ‘I want you to treat it as your own.’
Dixie smiles. ‘It’s sure good to meet you at last, Mrs Presley! Elvis has told me so much about you!’
‘Call me Gladys, honey.’
‘Is the coffee ready, Mama?’ says Elvis, eyeing the cake on the table.
‘You two go sit and I’ll bring it on through,’ Gladys says, waving them out of the kitchen.
When she has the cake and the coffee served, she tells Elvis to scoot along the couch so she can sit next to his girl. Sandwiching herself between them, she says, ‘What do you reckon to our television set over there, Dixie? Elvis got it for us.’
‘It’s real fine, Mrs Presley.’
‘We love Candid Camera.’
‘Never miss it,’ says Vernon.
‘And did you see our piano, too?’ asks Gladys. ‘Since he’s been working, Elvis just keeps coming back with these little surprises! But I’m sure he spoils you as much.’
The truth is that Gladys frets over her son running up debts, but his joy at bringing such treasures home prevents her from mentioning it.
Dixie shifts forward on the cushions so she can look directly at Elvis. ‘And you call call me high class? When you have a TV and a piano both?’
Elvis slaps her leg playfully and she returns the gesture with a delighted squeal, prompting him to slap her again. This goes back and forth for a full minute, leaving Gladys with nothing to do but sit in the middle and witness the flirtation.
When their game is over, Elvis says, ‘Dixie’s Assembly of God, Mama.’
‘That’s real encouraging to hear, Dixie. We all need a little guidance in our lives, don’t you think? Especially when we’re young and all. What do you make of our Pastor Hamill?’
‘He’s neat,’ says Dixie. ‘Real dramatic.’
Elvis launches into a long tale of how they met at Bible-study class. As he talks, Dixie follows his every move, nodding, smiling and laughing a bit too loud at all the correct moments. Gladys watches her, thinking that she looks like a little doll. She decides that Dixie must have lived a sheltered life, with a father going out to the same job every day in a smart suit and tie, and a mother who has never had to dirty her hands in a laundry, hospital ward or field. How else could her brow be so smooth and her eyes so bright? How else could she sit there and smile and smile and eat up all that cake and drink in Elvis’s every word and glance like it was nothing at all?
After they’ve finished their coffee, Vernon sugge
sts that Elvis help him finish up waxing the car. Dixie shoots a look at Elvis, clearly alarmed, but the two men rise and leave the room, leaving Gladys alone with the girl.
Dixie turns to Gladys and shrugs. ‘They won’t be too long, I guess!’
‘Don’t bank on it, honey. Takes those men the whole afternoon to polish up one car sometimes. I swear they love them old automobiles more than anything in this world.’
Dixie swallows and looks at her shoes.
‘Anyway,’ says Gladys, stretching her legs and leaning back on the couch, ‘this gives us girls a chance for a real good talk, don’t it?’
Dixie nods and makes a small noise that sounds like agreement. Glancing at the piano, she says, ‘Does Elvis play that thing?’
‘He sure does. Taught himself on my brother-in-law’s piano, not long after we moved to Memphis. He never played for you?’
‘Oh, he sings a lot. And plays guitar, of course.’
‘Ain’t that a beautiful thing?’
‘Do you sing too, Mrs Presley?’
‘A little. But Elvis’s daddy is a better singer than me. He used to serenade me some when we was dating.’ Keeping her eyes on her coffee cup, she continues, ‘Do you love Elvis, Dixie?’
Dixie lets out a high-pitched giggle.
‘I hope you don’t mind me asking you that question. You see, I know my son is a very loving boy, he’s always been that way. And I know he loves you.’
‘He does?’
‘Why, ain’t he told you so?’
Dixie plays with one of her curls. ‘Not in so many words.’
‘Well, you know how boys can be, Dixie. Some of them find it a little hard to say these things.’
‘I do love him awful, Mrs Presley!’ Dixie blurts, kneading her fingers together in her lap.
Gladys takes her hand, which is warm and slightly sticky, and pats it. ‘I could tell the minute I saw you, dear.’
‘You could?’ says Dixie, blushing.
‘Oh, sure. But then, who wouldn’t love him?’
Dixie laughs uncertainly.
‘Now,’ says Gladys, ‘tell me. Are you a dancer?’
‘I have done a little ballet—’
‘I thought so! Your head sits in just exactly the right place on those pretty little shoulders.’
‘You’re too kind.’
‘Oh, Dixie, I always hoped Elvis would marry somebody just like you.’
Dixie stares at Gladys, her eyes brighter than ever.
* * *
It has been six months since Elvis and Dixie started dating and, at Gladys’s suggestion, the girl has agreed to join her in cooking a celebratory lunch. In the Piggly Wiggly, Dixie had suggested buying the ingredients for a fish gumbo and a baked Alaska, but Gladys managed to steer the first course back to meat loaf and mashed potatoes.
They arrive home from the supermarket before the men, who have gone to pick up Vernon’s car from the repair shop. While Dixie sets the table, Gladys focuses on the meat loaf. Once she’s got it in the oven, she takes the weight off, sitting on a chair to watch Dixie whip the egg whites for the dessert.
Gladys points to the spotted scarf Dixie is wearing to hold back her hair. ‘I wish I could wear a something like that!’ she says. ‘It looks so … carefree.’
Dixie stops beating the eggs and pulls the scarf from her hair. First shaking it out, she hands it to Gladys. ‘It’s yours,’ she says. ‘Why don’t you try it?’
‘Oh, I’m too long in the tooth for that kind of stuff,’ says Gladys, but she strokes the scarf, feeling its milky texture.
‘Come on,’ says Dixie. And, leaning close to Gladys, she loops it around her head, tying it on top, then steps back to admire her work. ‘It looks cute,’ she states.
Gladys touches her hair and lets out a giggle. The doctor has prescribed her some pills to help her reduce her weight, and they make her giddy with energy one minute, exhausted the next.
Dixie resumes her beating.
After a moment, Gladys says, ‘I ain’t sure if this is something you wanna hear, Dixie, but I want you to know that there are things you can do to make sure you don’t have a baby until you’re married.’
The beater stills, egg dripping from its wire.
‘I don’t mean to pry,’ Gladys continues, ‘but I do know how men can be.’ She believes Elvis to be different to his daddy, but she doesn’t want him shamed by this girl’s pregnancy.
Dixie starts up whipping again, even harder than before. ‘Elvis ain’t like that!’
‘I’m sure glad to hear it, honey, but if you’re ever worried about anything, you can talk to me, you hear?’
Just then, Vernon and Elvis burst in. Perhaps for Dixie’s benefit, Vernon has started wearing cologne, which makes the apartment smell like a hairdresser’s shop. Elvis shouts for his mama and rushes into the kitchen with his face all lit up, saying he’s got news, but, seeing Dixie with the wire whip in her hand, he pauses in the middle of the room.
Gladys says, ‘Congratulations on your six-month anniversary, son. Dixie here wanted to celebrate with a special family meal.’
‘I’m making baked Alaska,’ says Dixie, her cheeks still flushed.
Elvis doesn’t move towards either of them. Instead, he swallows and says, ‘What in the world is that?’
‘You’re gonna love it,’ says Dixie.
‘Well, what are y’all standing there for?’ says Gladys. ‘You men get washed up so we can enjoy our lunch.’
Vernon looks at Elvis, who blurts, ‘I got a call, Mama! From Sun Recording! They want me down there!’
‘What?’
‘Rabbi Fruchter downstairs just told me Miss Keisker telephoned—’
‘Miss who?’
‘She works with Mr Phillips, the owner … I didn’t tell you, ’cause I wanted it to be a surprise, but I went over there for a sort of audition—’
Gladys’s heart leaps as she begins to understand what he is telling her. ‘You did?’
‘And now Mr Phillips has a song he wants me to try!’
She jumps to her feet, nearly knocking Dixie’s bowl of eggs from the table. ‘Then you gotta get over there!’
‘I gotta change first.’
She gives her son a little push on the arm. ‘You look great! Get going!’
Elvis looks back at Dixie. The wire whip is still suspended in the air.
‘Sorry, honey,’ he says.
Dixie nods, but says nothing.
After he’s gone, Gladys beams at her husband and says, ‘We’ll just have to eat lunch at suppertime, won’t we?’
‘Just relax, and let me hear a song that really means something to you, now.’
Mr Phillips expects something from him, but Elvis isn’t at all sure what that something might be. The song Mr Phillips asked him to sing first – ‘Without You’ – hasn’t gone so well. It’s the kind of heartbroken ballad that Elvis loves, but he couldn’t get behind it, somehow. It just didn’t have the yearning that it needed, and it remained little more than a wheedling complaint. When the song was over, Mr Phillips had rubbed at his ear, as if the sound had been an irritation to him, and he wanted to wipe it away.
‘Sing something that comes from your own experience,’ he suggests now. ‘Anything at all.’
Elvis stands, hanging on to the microphone stand, rocking back and forth on his heels.
‘Elvis?’
He doesn’t think Mr Phillips wants to hear a gospel song, not even ‘The Old Rugged Cross’, or ‘Milky White Way’. He’d like to sing ‘My Happiness’, but it took Mr Phillips a year to call him back the last time he tried that one on him.
‘You’re doing just fine. Sing anything you want.’
‘Anything, sir?’
‘Anything that’s special to you.’
Knowing this may be his only chance to impress somebody within this thing called the record industry, Elvis panics. There are so many songs that are special, and he cannot seem to recall a single one right now. He pinche
s his nose, laughs, shakes his head.
‘I just can’t think of a song, sir.’
‘Sure you can,’ says Mr Phillips.
It has to be a ballad. A ballad was what Mr Phillips called him in for, and ballads are what Elvis has always liked the most, ever since he sang ‘Barbara Allen’ in class, ever since he heard his daddy singing ‘Clementine’. Ballads are sweet, and sad; they express the best emotions.
He clears his throat, then starts in on ‘Tomorrow Night’, which he sometimes sings to Dixie on her front porch. He tries to picture her pretty little face as she drinks his voice down and gazes at him as if she’s still thirsty, but Mr Phillips’s shiny chin keeps interrupting the image.
When he’s finished, Mr Phillips tilts his head and rubs his ear again.
‘OK, son. Thanks for coming in. Thank you very much.’
The green light goes off. Nothing more is said.
Elvis doesn’t go straight home, despite the celebratory meal waiting there. Instead, he drives the Lincoln too fast along Riverside Drive, making the engine growl and cough. Keeping the radio switched off because he cannot stand to hear anybody’s voice right now, he considers how he could murder Mr Phillips and Miss Keisker, both. Maybe he could smash his car through the front window of the studio, straight into her neat desk, cleaving it in two. Maybe he could keep going, through that wall behind her and into the glass of the booth and right through Mr Phillips’s shining chin. Finish them both off.
He parks up and stares at the big brown river. He can smell its claggy dirt. Maybe he should drive down the muddy bank and into the water, let the river swamp the car, seep into his clothes and hair, fill up his mouth and lungs and ears. There’d be hardly any sound down there, beneath the surface. He wouldn’t be able to hear one voice, not even his own. He remembers the time at the swimming hole with his daddy, when he panicked that Vernon wouldn’t resurface. But Vernon always seems to come back up, to keep on going, no matter how tough things get. Many times, Elvis has been sure that his father was broken – after the pen, after Mama found out about the woman on the road back in Tupelo, after they first moved to Memphis and they were so poor Vernon had lined his shoes with cardboard. But Vernon has a habit of rising again. It’s something that Elvis knows he must learn if he’s to be any kind of man.
Graceland Page 21