Graceland

by Bethan Roberts

  Instead, she beams and says, ‘Sure is good to be back.’

  It’s a grey Thursday in early February, and they’re both hunched up against the cold. The car’s heating system isn’t working as it should, and Gladys has her hands folded inside the cuffs of her new winter coat.

  ‘What you gonna do in town while I visit with Novie?’ she asks.

  ‘I’ll figure it out.’

  ‘You might get yourself over to Reed’s. Buy a little something for Daddy. They have some high-class neckties there. He’s gonna need a few of those, with all the fine folks we’re meeting.’

  ‘I could get you something,’ Elvis suggests.

  He’s already bought her two Mixmasters, one for either end of the kitchen, so she doesn’t have to walk so far.

  ‘Now don’t you go spending any more on me!’ says Gladys, rubbing his shoulder.

  This is the first time Elvis has been back to Tupelo since ‘That’s All Right, Mama’ came out, and what he most wants to do is drive down Main Street as his new self. He wants to walk outside the courthouse in his new striped pink sport coat from Lansky’s and see if anybody recognises him both as the Elvis he once was and the Elvis he’s now become: the rising star of the Louisiana Hayride, the singer making his mark on the regional country-and-western charts with three records, the young man the local newspapers are calling ‘the Hillbilly Cat’ (he’s not sure about being called a hillbilly of any kind, but Miss Keisker started that one, and she says it’s great). Most of all, he wants to meet somebody from the old days, so he can tell them what he says to anybody who’ll listen: It’s all happening so fast, I just can’t believe it. One minute I’m driving a truck, the next my record is on the radio!

  What he really can’t believe, though he would never admit it to anybody, is how quickly he has come to expect success. With every good notice in the local press, every new booking, every promise from Mr Phillips that the next record will be bigger, he expects more. Mr Phillips has told him: there’s no standing still in this business. You got to keep climbing, or you’ll be sliding right back down that greasy pole.

  He’s certainly climbing. And there are few things more joyous to him than telling his mother exactly how he’s getting higher.

  ‘Mama,’ he says, lowering his voice. He’s been saving up this piece of news for a while. ‘I got a promoter interested in me. A real big one. Mr Neal says this guy knows everybody, even folks out in Hollywood. He’s booked me on a tour he runs, with Hank Snow, and Mother Maybelle and the Carter Sisters, Slim Whitman, all of them.’

  Gladys gives a little shriek. ‘Hank Snow! Son, that’s news!’

  He can’t help but let his voice rise with excitement. ‘Sure is!’

  ‘And Mr Neal reckons this man knows folks in Hollywood?’

  His mama likes Mr Neal, the local disc jockey who Mr Phillips has brought in to manage Elvis’s live appearances. He’s built like a bear, is always laughing, and seems just as excited by Elvis’s success as they are. Elvis thinks of him as the kind of smart, well-dressed, smooth-talking uncle he wishes he actually had.

  ‘Mr Neal thinks real highly of him. Reckons he knows exactly what’s what in the entertainment business. He used to be Eddy Arnold’s manager.’

  ‘What’s this man’s name, son?’

  ‘Colonel Tom Parker.’

  ‘You met him yet?’

  ‘Sunday. After the first show at the Ellis. It’s all fixed up.’

  Although he’s not yet spoken to the man, he’s spotted Tom Parker at a couple of his shows. Elvis was doing his spot at the Hayride when he first noticed the short fat guy with the cigar clamped between his jaws. What was strange was that instead of watching the show he was looking right at the audience. Elvis dismissed the man as a goof until he saw him again, the next Saturday night, doing exactly the same thing, only the girls were on their feet and really yelling this time. Every few moments Tom Parker would tear his eyes from them, glance back at Elvis, nod, then go back to watching the audience. Elvis thought maybe the man got off on looking at the girls until Mr Neal told him who he was, and that it wasn’t the girls who interested him.

  ‘Well,’ says Gladys, ‘when you meet him, be sure to mind your manners. I don’t want none of these big business folks saying I ain’t raised you right.’

  ‘Nobody could say that, Mama,’ says Elvis, and he plants a kiss on her cheek.

  He drops his mother at Novie’s house, then cruises down Main. It’s two-thirty in the afternoon, and the sidewalk is peppered with shoppers. The store windows reflect his car’s streak of cream metal as he glides down the wide street, the radio turned up now that Mama’s not here to complain. Several shoppers turn to look, but he doesn’t recognise their faces.

  Then, outside the TKE drugstore, Elvis’s prayers are answered by a cloud of black hair.

  He toots the horn and pulls in at the kerb. For a moment he sits, watching her in his side mirror. Magdalene Morgan is taller, slimmer, and her saucer cheeks have become more defined since he last saw her, seven years ago. But she still walks with her eyes fixed dead ahead, as if she knows exactly where she’s going and means to waste no time getting there. He notices that her coat is a little shabby about the hem.

  He opens the door and steps out.

  ‘Hi, Magdalene.’

  She has to skitter to the side to avoid colliding with him. Then she squints at his face.

  ‘Don’t you recognise me?’ he asks, pouting, unsure whether he’s thrilled or appalled.

  She continues to squint, so he starts to sing, ‘You may talk about your men of Jericho …’

  ‘Elvis? Is that you?’

  ‘Wanna grab a shake, honey?’

  She blinks. ‘Is this your car?’

  He strokes the hood, which is still warm. ‘Uh-huh.’

  She folds her arms. ‘Well, I’ll be doggone! Elvis Presley! Ain’t seen you in a while!’

  ‘Come on inside, and I’ll tell you all the news.’

  Her mouth is working as if she’s about to make some excuse.

  ‘I’ll buy you a piece of pie,’ he says, grabbing her hand. It’s cold, and he can feel her bones move beneath his grip.

  Tugging her hand free, she says, ‘It sure is good to see you, but—’

  ‘I owe you, Magdalene. For leaving town and not saying goodbye and all.’

  She looks at him sideways. ‘That’s the truth.’

  ‘So are you coming?’

  She sighs. ‘Sure.’

  As they walk through the glass door, he resists placing a hand between her shoulders to guide her to the counter. With lunch recently over, only two other people are sitting there: one old lady who is nursing a coffee and smoking a cigarette very intently, and a suited man eating a cheeseburger over his newspaper. On seeing the menu chalked up behind the soda fountain, Elvis’s mouth waters. He could have anything he wants. He could have two of everything. But he informs the unsmiling waitress that they’ll take a couple of chocolate shakes and a large slice of apple pie to share, and then he tells Magdalene he’ll be back in just one second.

  On the other side of the room, he drops a nickel into the jukebox and the coloured tubes light up. He chooses ‘Blue Moon of Kentucky’. Leaning over the humming glass dome, he watches his record slide and click into place and the needle rest in the groove. Then he closes his eyes and waits for the first verse to finish before turning to face the counter.

  Magdalene is watching him, looking curious but not particularly impressed.

  ‘Who’s that?’ he calls across the room. ‘Who’s that, Magdalene?’ She looks blank, so he strides over to her, arms open wide. ‘You know who that is, don’t you?’ he says.

  By this time, the other diners and the waitress have looked up.

  Magdalene’s eyes slide to the jukebox, then back to Elvis. ‘It ain’t …’ she says. ‘It can’t be!’

  He nods.

  Her cheeks fill with colour, and she claps her hands together twice, as if applauding
him.

  Elvis sits on the stool and basks in her astonishment. For a full minute, all they can do is laugh together. The man tuts and returns to his newspaper, and the old woman lights another cigarette.

  ‘Gosh dang!’ gasps Magdalene. ‘I heard you was singing some, but I had no idea!’

  ‘I’ve cut three records! And they’re playing them all over the South. They even buy them in Texas, Magdalene! Don’t you listen to the Louisiana Hayride?’

  She shakes her head. ‘My mother don’t like it.’

  ‘Well, tell your mother I’m on it! Every Saturday! I’m the star attraction! I tell you, it’s all happened so fast I can’t keep up.’

  The waitress pushes their drinks and pie across the counter.

  ‘Thank you, ma’am,’ says Elvis, grinning at her.

  ‘That your record?’ she asks. She’s a little older than him, has blonde hair screwed into a bun, small shoulders, and a greasy sheen to her forehead.

  ‘Uh-huh. I was just playing it to my old girlfriend here,’ says Elvis.

  ‘I like that one,’ says the waitress. ‘It’s real different.’

  ‘Got another one coming out soon, even better.’

  ‘He never was one to hide his light under a bushel,’ says Magdalene, rolling her eyes.

  The waitress touches her hair. ‘I don’t guess he oughta hide anything at all.’

  Magdalene looks at the waitress, then back at Elvis. ‘Well,’ she says, pushing back her stool, ‘it sure was nice to catch up! But I’d best be getting along.’

  ‘You just got here!’ he says, hanging on to her sleeve. ‘We used to sing together, didn’t we, Magdalene? I reckon this gal here started this whole thing.’

  Magdalene waves a hand across her face. ‘Oh, now.’

  ‘Ain’t that precious,’ says the waitress. She turns her back on them, and begins polishing the sundae dishes.

  Elvis grins. Magdalene grins back. They share the pie, and Elvis orders another slice. Leaning her chin on one hand, Magdalene watches him eat the lot, then says, in a small voice, ‘So how come you never wrote me?’

  He swallows. Should he tell her about the marriage licence? About how he sat on her porch steps for the longest time with his declaration of everlasting love in his pocket?

  She sucks up the last of her shake. ‘You plumb broke my heart.’

  ‘Magdalene,’ he says, solemnly, ‘I never meant to hurt you.’

  She lets out a loud laugh and slaps his hand so hard he winces. ‘I’m just kidding!’ she says. ‘Guess I can forgive you now, anyway, huh? I see you had plans, all along.’

  Recovering himself, he announces, ‘I got great plans, Magdalene. Like you wouldn’t believe.’

  She smiles and nods, apparently ready to hear more.

  What can he say? His plan is just to keep going. To sell more records. To go all the way. The word ‘Hollywood’ has been firmly planted in his head by Mr Neal’s talk of Colonel Parker’s contacts, but sitting here in TKE’s with Magdalene Morgan that word seems impossible to say. She might laugh at him again, and he couldn’t bear that.

  The song comes to an end. ‘Want me to play it again?’ says Elvis, jumping up.

  They listen to it five times in a row, and share another shake. When Magdalene leaves, saying she has to go fetch her cousin from school, Elvis tries to make her promise she will come visit him in Memphis. ‘But you’re a big star now, Elvis,’ she says, buttoning up her coat. ‘Why would you want to bother with me?’ And she strides down the sidewalk before he can reply.

  * * *

  After performing their first Sunday-afternoon spot at the Ellis Auditorium in Memphis, Elvis, Scotty and Bill are delayed by the line of girls seeking autographs, and, worried about being late for their meeting with Colonel Parker, they have to race down the wet steps and out into the rainy street. They are all still steaming from the show.

  An approaching car slows, tyres hissing on wet asphalt, and sounds its horn, making Bill hold up his hand like a traffic cop. ‘This here’s Memphis’s own Elvis Presley!’ he bellows through the rain. ‘You can’t run him down! He just played the Ellis with the Blue Moon Boys!’

  When they reach the other side, Elvis asks Scotty if what he’s heard about the Colonel is true.

  ‘What you heard?’ asks Scotty, setting a brisk pace.

  ‘That he knows Hollywood folks.’

  ‘Oh, that,’ says Scotty. ‘I guess that’s true. I thought you meant about him being a carny and all. ’Cause every bit of that is true.’

  ‘Colonel Tom Parker has toured the nation with bearded ladies, performing bears, and men encased in ice. Not to mention dancing chickens and psychic dwarves,’ Bill cuts in.

  ‘Some of that ain’t true,’ says Scotty. ‘Far as I can fathom.’

  Having reached the canopy of Palumbo’s restaurant, they stand beneath it for a moment, each catching their breath. Elvis adjusts his necktie and brushes the rain from his shoulders. Bill combs his hair. Scotty checks his watch, informs them they’re ten minutes late, and puts his hand to the door.

  Before they go in, Elvis asks, ‘Do you reckon this could be, you know, real big for us?’

  Scotty keeps his hand steady. ‘Depends what Sam says, I guess.’

  ‘We’re already big!’ Bill pats Elvis on the back. ‘He’s booked us on that tour of his, ain’t he? That’s us and the goddamn gorgeous Carter Sisters, Elvis! Now let’s get in there and hear all about it.’

  It’s warm, hushed, and almost empty inside. Elvis can see five men arranged around a table beneath a low, multicoloured glass shade at the back of the restaurant. On one side are Mr Phillips and Mr Neal, and on the other are Oscar Davis, Colonel Tom Parker and a man Elvis doesn’t recognise. Mr Davis has been handling the promotion on a couple of their shows, and, as always, looks a real gentleman: fresh flower in his lapel (today’s is a purple carnation), immaculate suit, shining silver hair. The Colonel has on a faded tan jacket, no necktie, and his unruly eyebrows are bunched together as he talks to Mr Phillips, who is leaning back in his chair, arms tightly crossed.

  For a second, Elvis considers ducking right back out the door. What could he possibly add to this conversation? He knows Mr Phillips means well by introducing him to all these fellas, but he’d really rather be back across the street in the auditorium. His mama and Dixie are coming to the next show, and he wants to make sure they get their seats right at the front.

  But then a waiter in a long white apron appears, and Scotty introduces himself. The waiter smiles and ushers the three of them across the patterned carpet to the table at the back of the room.

  None of the men looks up. They are too busy listening to the Colonel, who is in the middle of a speech. His voice is relaxed, as if he’s merely stating the obvious.

  ‘… boy can’t come to nothing while he’s on Sun Records. He needs a national stage. That’s the fact of it.’

  Mr Phillips has his mouth set in a thin line, but his eyes are popping with disbelief.

  Mr Davis holds up a hand. ‘Now, what Tom means to say, Sam, is that you’ve got a great act here’ – he gestures towards Elvis, Scotty and Bill – ‘a great act, and it would be a shame to waste such potential when you’ve already done so much.’ He smiles broadly. ‘Welcome, boys! Don’t pay us no mind! We’re just having a little discussion here … Take a seat, why don’t you? No call for formalities.’

  Mr Davis offers Elvis a seat next to Colonel Parker.

  Scotty and Bill drag chairs from the next empty table, and perch close to Mr Phillips, who is still scowling at the Colonel.

  Mr Davis does the introductions. Colonel Parker nods at Scotty and Bill, then turns to Elvis and shakes his hand with warm, meaty fingers.

  ‘So you’re the sexy hillbilly singer, huh?’ He fixes Elvis with a clear stare. ‘My wife tells me you got all the gals in a spin!’ There’s something boiled-looking about his face: his cheeks are pink and shiny, like a doll’s. Elvis almost laughs, seeing the man up close. But t
he Colonel’s voice is deadly serious. ‘I was just telling Mr Phillips here that if you really want to make it, you gotta go national,’ he continues. ‘You look to me like a boy who really wants to make it. Am I right?’

  ‘Yessir,’ says Elvis.

  ‘There you go!’ barks the younger man next to Colonel Parker.

  ‘That’s Mr Diskin,’ says the Colonel. ‘He’s my lieutenant.’

  Mr Diskin performs a goofy salute.

  Elvis smiles, and looks to Mr Phillips for guidance, but Mr Phillips is staring at the Colonel and asking, ‘May I speak, now?’

  ‘Mr Phillips, you may speak whenever you like,’ says the Colonel.

  ‘I find your attitude a little hard to take, Mr Parker. You stroll into my town and tell me my label ain’t worth a damn—’

  ‘Colonel didn’t say that,’ Mr Davis cuts in. ‘What he said was—’

  ‘What he said was, my artist won’t get nowhere if he sticks with me. Least, that’s what I heard.’

  Elvis has seen Mr Phillips’s chin jut out at this kind of angle before, when he’s feeling something real good about a song, and he’s heard him when his words start running off in all directions, either from excitement or frustration, but he’s never seen him get real mad. It makes Elvis’s gut shrink, because there’s nothing he can say to make this any better, and, without ever meaning to, he seems to have caused the whole thing. He wishes he could leave, right now. He doesn’t really see why he’s needed here, anyway. The businessmen could deal with all this stuff without him.

  ‘Who are you to tell me my business, anyway, Mr Parker?’ says Mr Phillips, whose voice has gone a little squeaky. ‘I make the decisions about my artists! I’m the label man, here! Last time I checked, you were just bookings and promotion!’

  Scattered on the cloth before Colonel Parker are numerous emptied sugar packets. He reaches for another from the dish at the centre of the table, rips off the corner with his teeth, empties the contents into the dregs of his coffee, and flicks the packet onto the pile. Quietly, he says, ‘You’re taking this way too personal, Mr Phillips. My concern is to help these boys get to where they want to be. Where they rightly should be. Which is on a national stage, just like I said. I think that’s what everyone around this table wants.’ He sups the last of his drink. ‘And, last time I checked, these boys don’t belong to nobody.’