Graceland

by Bethan Roberts

  She’s quiet for a few minutes. He keeps driving, sneaking little looks in her direction. She frowns, and starts to fiddle with the hem of her dress, which is white, printed with birdcages, and sits just past her knee.

  ‘Don’t you wanna know what’s going on with the tour and all?’ he asks.

  ‘Sure,’ she says, but she doesn’t look at him.

  ‘I don’t wanna bore you with it.’

  ‘No,’ she says. ‘Tell me.’

  He’s called her every night with an update, but he can’t seem to tell her the details often enough. Telling Dixie makes it all seem real.

  ‘I’m top of the bill, now. Colonel Parker’s real pleased. I think he might wanna be my manager, Dixie! He’s told Mr Neal he wants to keep working with me. Did I mention he knows people in Hollywood?’

  ‘You sure did,’ says Dixie, glancing at the package on the back seat.

  ‘And the last four shows were total sell-outs!’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘But I missed you every minute.’

  ‘That’s why you bought me a gift?’

  ‘Sure, baby,’ he says. They’re approaching the park now. ‘How about I stop somewhere real quiet, then step out of the car while you … you know.’

  ‘You’ll wait outside?’

  ‘You can lock all the doors.’

  She says nothing, but she doesn’t object when he puts his arm around her shoulder and draws her closer so he can kiss her ear.

  He drives towards McKellar Lake, away from the noise of the teen canteen and the dancing pavilion. Finding the quietest spot he can, right out on the far side, he stops beneath the pines. At six o’clock on a Friday, there are a few mothers with young kids packing up picnics and making for home, but nobody else is in this part of the park. He cuts the engine, and the sound of the geese burbling on the water floats through the windows. He fiddles with the radio dial, trying to find some appropriate song, something romantic and passionate without being too suggestive. They both like Mario Lanza, but he can’t find anything of that kind. In the end, Dixie reaches over and flicks the switch, killing the music.

  ‘Are you getting out so I can do this?’ she says.

  ‘Can’t I at least see you open it?’ he asks, stroking her shoulder and gazing into her eyes.

  She sighs.

  He places the package in her lap. Pouting at it, she says, ‘You didn’t oughta’ve gotten this for me.’

  ‘I want you to know you’re still my girl.’

  ‘But I’m not sure I can give you what you want – what I know you really want – in return,’ she says, blinking up at him with her eyes all blurry and pleading.

  Irritation flashes through him. Is she going to spoil this with her soul-searching? He’s already told her he can wait until they’re married. Sometimes he wonders why she has to bring the subject up so often. It’s not as if he’s tried to push her into it. And how does she know what he really wants, anyway? He can get laid, any time he likes. He can take his pick of girls after a show, and he often does, though he’s always careful not to get one of them pregnant. Mama has warned him about that, over and over. The first time he’d sealed the deal, the rubber bust and, on her instruction, he took the girl – she was pretty enough, a few years older, and experienced – to the emergency room in Shreveport to get a douche. The whole thing had been more of a relief than anything. Since then, he’s been more relaxed about it, but he’s gone all the way only with girls who’ve been round the block a few times, although there’s been plenty of fooling around with all sorts of females.

  He almost says, All I want is to see you in the fucking playsuit. Period.

  Instead, he calms himself and says, ‘I ain’t expecting nothing in return, honest.’

  Her pale fingers slide beneath the paper and tease off the tape. Holding up the playsuit, she doesn’t gasp in wonder, as he’d hoped. ‘It matches your car,’ is all she says.

  ‘I can take it right back to the store if you don’t like it,’ he snaps.

  ‘Don’t be like that! I love it,’ she says, covering his cheek in quick little kisses.

  ‘Try it on, then,’ he whispers, outlining her chin with one finger.

  She points to the door. ‘Out!’

  Sitting on the hood with his back to the windshield, he hears her click down all the locks and smiles to himself. The keys are in his pocket.

  The sky is turning deeper blue and it’s cooler out of the car. The scent of warm pine is all around and there’s a little breeze coming off the water. He closes his eyes, feeling the car rock beneath him. Dixie will be squirming out of that dress as quickly as she can. She’s never let him touch anything past her knee. Sometimes he strokes the inside of her arm, which is soft as butter. When he runs his fingers all the way to the top, it makes her shiver and tell him to quit. He doesn’t mind; he wants her to keep herself nice for if they do get married. His mama says he shouldn’t tie himself down too quick but she also says not to let Dixie get away. It’s not easy to do both things.

  A duck swoops low, almost touching his head as it lands awkwardly on the water, squawking and flapping, making him open his eyes and curse, and miss her unlocking the doors.

  ‘Elvis.’

  His first thought, on turning to see her standing next to the car, is that he ought to have bought her some shoes, too. The playsuit doesn’t look as good as it would if she were wearing high heels.

  But those thighs. Just as white and smooth as he’d hoped, if a little wider than he’d expected, considering the size of her waist, which he can get both his hands right round, easy.

  ‘Come on over here.’

  ‘Does it look OK?’

  ‘It’s beautiful, honey. Come closer.’

  She takes little steps towards him, combing out her hair with her fingers as she walks, keeping her eyes on his.

  Before she reaches him, he sticks out a hand. ‘Hold it right there,’ he says. ‘Now, sit on the hood, and cross your legs.’

  She hesitates, seeming to wonder if he is serious.

  ‘I just wanna see you good.’

  She slides herself onto the metal.

  ‘It’s kinda hot on here!’ she says, springing off.

  ‘Just relax into it. You’ll get used to it.’

  Biting her lip, she sits on the hood, resting her feet on the fender and raising her thighs off the body of the car.

  ‘Now tip your head to the right, and give Elvis a big, big smile.’

  ‘I feel silly!’ she says, but she giggles and pushes her breasts out.

  ‘You look like a goddamn movie star up there on the Caddy, Dixie.’

  ‘Honestly?’ she says, tossing back her hair and showing her teeth.

  ‘That’s it,’ he says. ‘Perfect.’

  After he has admired her from all angles, they spend a long time necking in the car. Dixie lets Elvis slide his hand up one of the legs of her playsuit. Then she takes hold of his fingers and pushes them further in. Feeling the wetness there, he snatches his hand away.

  ‘Elvis,’ she says into his shoulder, breathing quick, ‘let me show you how much I love you,’ and she tries to put his hand back where it was.

  He shakes free of her grip and springs away from her.

  She looks at him, and her face is flushed, her lips red. He finds it hard to meet her eye.

  ‘Dixie,’ he says, ‘you don’t have to show me nothing.’

  ‘But you been gone so long!’ she says, kneading her fingers on her naked thigh. ‘I worry about losing you to somebody else.’

  ‘Why would you even think that?’

  She yanks the legs of the playsuit down as far as they will go and sits on her hands, her knees clamped together. Her mouth twists. ‘Why wouldn’t I, when you got so many girls throwing themselves at you?’

  At this, he cannot contain his rage.

  ‘Seems to me like you got plenty of your own opportunities, right here!’

  She shrinks back, shocked. ‘What does that mea
n?’

  ‘I heard you was at the Rainbow while I was away!’

  She stares at him for a moment. Then she says, in a small voice, ‘Well, it gets kinda boring, sitting home and waiting with your mother.’

  ‘You don’t have to go around with other guys though, do you? Maybe one of them taught you this stuff, huh?’

  ‘What stuff?’

  ‘What you was doing just there. Nasty stuff.’

  There’s a pause. Then Dixie says, very slowly, her eyes on her knees, ‘Elvis, please get out of the car so I can dress.’

  He does as she asks, slamming the door good and hard, but as soon as he’s outside, listening to the gabble of those goddamn ducks, he pounds his forehead with the flat of his hand and yells, ‘Presley! You dumb ass! You heel!’

  The ducks take fright and fly across the lake, into the dying sun.

  Elvis paces the length of the car, yelling at himself and banging on his own head, until Dixie finally opens the door.

  ‘Get in here,’ she says. ‘You’ll frighten the fish, you keep going like that.’

  ‘I’m sorry, baby,’ he says.

  She nods, quickly.

  He climbs in beside her and says, ‘You know that we’ll be married some day, don’t you?’

  ‘I know.’

  The Colonel has already advised him that he must hide any steady girlfriend from the press and never speak publicly of marriage, in case it puts the fans off. But Elvis hasn’t yet found the right moment to mention this to Dixie.

  As he starts the engine, he can tell from the way she moves closer that she will forgive him, at least for the time being.

  * * *

  At Sun, Gladys is the only woman in the studio. Miss Keisker had greeted her and offered to take her coat, but Gladys declined, not meaning to stay longer than was necessary. Now Miss Keisker has dissolved back into the office, leaving Gladys surrounded by men in suits, one of whom is carrying the biggest camera she’s ever seen. Mr Phillips has sold Elvis’s record contract to RCA Victor for $35,000. The papers have been signed, and the man from the Scimitar wants Elvis’s picture.

  This is the first time Gladys has been in the studio that her son has told her so much about, and she’s a little shocked at how empty and plain the white-tiled room is. It’s a late November day, and it’s kind of chilly in here. There’s a piano in the corner, and a few microphones lined up along the wall. And then there are these men, who are laughing together, and keep shaking one another’s hands and clapping her son on the shoulder. Everyone in the room is smiling at Elvis. Vernon hangs back, his jacket open, giving the occasional nod, saying nothing.

  To Gladys’s surprise, Mr Parker isn’t in the centre of the action. He leans against a wall, smoking a cigar, observing the others, much as she is doing. All summer, he has been making her telephone ring, trying to convince her to sign the contract that would grant him the right to act as Elvis’s sole manager. When they’d first met, he’d smoked his cigar right at her kitchen table and assumed Vernon to be in charge. All his talk of million-dollar record contracts and Hollywood deals was directed to Elvis’s father. He’d also referred to Elvis as ‘our boy’, as if he already had ownership of him. And so Gladys refused to sign, even though Elvis begged her to do so. He kept telling her that she just didn’t understand: Tom Parker might be an old carny, but he knew everyone who counted for anything in the music business and the movies, too. Without Parker, he’d never really make it. When he’d said that, Gladys had realised the full extent of her son’s ambition: being an entertainer wasn’t enough; he wanted to be a movie star. How could she stand in his way? By October, she had relented, and Tom Parker promised her that Elvis would make so much money he would no longer have to do live shows. Instead of facing a crowd of frenzied fans, he would be in front of a movie camera. He would be safe. Whenever she doubts her decision to sign, she brings this promise to mind.

  Mr Neal clasps her hands. ‘You sure look elegant today, Mrs Presley!’

  Mr Gill at Goldsmith’s fixed her hair this morning, putting on more colour and lifting up the sides with cute little slides. She’d gone on to the department-store restaurant, too, and, encouraged by Vernon, had taken a couple of steadying beers with her lunchtime sandwich.

  ‘Why, thank you, Mr Neal!’ Gladys sings. Keeping hold of his hands, she draws him closer and lowers her voice. ‘Tell me, are you sure my boy will be all right with these new recording folks?’

  Mr Neal is a true gentleman; he never laughs off a mother’s concerns. ‘Mrs Presley,’ he says, seriously, ‘Elvis is gonna be more than all right. He’s gonna be swell. These folks are the very best in the business.’

  She nods. ‘Kind of a shame for Mr Phillips, though,’ she says. ‘Elvis is gonna miss him.’

  They both look over at Sam, whose face is split by the width of his grin as he listens to something one of the other men – Gladys thinks it’s the man from RCA – is telling him.

  ‘I think Sam did pretty good out of this,’ says Mr Neal.

  ‘Elvis said that,’ says Gladys. ‘And so did Mr Parker. But I can’t help but feel sorry. And what about Scotty and Bill? They’ve been so good to my boy, Mr Neal. Taken care of him real well on the road. But Elvis tells me they ain’t a part of this thing with Mr Parker.’

  Elvis has also told her that though he feels bad about Scotty and Bill going on the payroll rather than getting a slice of everything he makes, he has to look out for his own career now.

  Mr Neal places a firm hand on her arm. ‘It’s a good deal for everybody, Mrs Presley.’ He beams, and she sees his gums. ‘Scotty and Bill will be just fine. They’re still the band, and any band of your son’s is onto a real good thing.’

  ‘I hope so, Mr Neal.’

  ‘Did Elvis tell you the Colonel already has his first television appearances booked?’

  ‘He sure did!’

  ‘You must be real proud. And the great credit to you is that he’s such a fine boy. Everybody comments on his good manners and attitude. And that’s all down to you.’

  He’s told her this before, but hearing it in this room makes Gladys glow with pleasure. Looking at her son, radiantly handsome in his dark suit, ringed by businessmen congratulating him, she finds herself giggling.

  ‘I guess I did all right, Mr Neal!’

  ‘You certainly did.’

  Thirty-five thousand dollars. He’ll see only some of that money, of course, but Elvis has told her it’s the most ever paid for a single artist’s recording contract.

  ‘Folks! Would y’all be so kind as to line up over there?’ asks the man from the Scimitar. ‘I need to get me a picture!’

  The men look up. Elvis grabs his own leg, as if to control it, and says, ‘I’m shaking with excitement here!’ and everyone laughs, including Gladys.

  Elvis takes her by the arm and steers her across the room. ‘You look happy, Mama,’ he says.

  ‘So do you,’ she replies.

  As they line up, Elvis keeps her close, so Colonel Parker must stand behind her. Vernon manages to slip in on Elvis’s other side.

  ‘All this is for you, son,’ she whispers, and, turning her back on the Colonel, she kisses his cheek. The camera flashes.

  He kisses her back, and as the camera pops again he says, quietly, ‘No, Mama, it’s for you.’

  And, at this moment, Gladys is happy to believe this might be true.

  Graceland, July 1958

  A week before they are due to join their son in Texas, where he is completing his army training, Gladys receives a telephone call. Since Elvis left, he’s called home every night to fill her in on his activities. As she picks up, she is expecting to hear about the weight of the pack he had to carry, what the other men said about the sergeant, and what horrors the army canteen dished out today.

  ‘Mama.’

  There’s a waver to his voice which Gladys recognises immediately. Knowing what’s coming, she closes the kitchen door, then pulls up a stool and parks herself by the wall,
cradling the receiver between her chin and her shoulder.

  ‘What’s wrong, son?’

  ‘Mama, I …’ He trails off, and lets out a dry sob.

  ‘I’m right here, Elvie. Whatever it is, you can let it out.’

  Often he calls her from his friend Mr Fadal’s house. Mr Fadal is a disc jockey who has made Elvis feel right at home; his wife cooks the food he likes, and Mr Fadal has even bought special hi-fi equipment for Elvis to listen to his favourite music. She guesses he must be there now, away from the base and the other recruits.

  ‘Mama …’

  ‘What’s going on, baby? Those army folks treating you right?’

  ‘It ain’t that.’

  ‘Then what?’

  There’s a pause, then he asks, very quietly, ‘Am I a good son?’

  ‘Elvie! Of course you are!’

  His breath shudders over the line. ‘Mama, I want you here.’

  ‘Me and Daddy are coming in a week.’

  ‘You oughta be here. You’re sick, ain’t you, Mama? Real sick. I know it. I see it with my own eyes. You’re in pain.’

  She twists the cord around her fist and clears her throat. ‘The doctors ain’t found but one thing wrong with me.’

  ‘My own mother is sick, and I’m four hundred miles away, doing nothing about it! I’m useless, Mama!’

  Gladys steadies herself against the wall. ‘Son. I’m fine. Mama just misses her baby, is all.’

  He’s weeping now. She can picture him precisely: one hand on his forehead, shielding his face. His open mouth straining downwards.

  ‘You at Mr Fadal’s?’ she asks.

  ‘Uh-huh.’ He lets out a moan, and sobs again. ‘Mama …’

  ‘I’m here, baby.’

  ‘Mama, I miss you so much.’

  ‘I know, son.’

  ‘Mama …’

  ‘Elvis …’

  ‘Mama …’

  ‘Elvis …’

  On and on it goes. Every time he says it he cries a little louder, and Gladys takes the receiver from her chin, clutches it tight, and lets a tear slide down her own face. It’s such a relief to hear him weep for her, and to weep in return, that she almost takes pleasure in it. But the pain of not being able to hold him is physical. She hugs herself with one arm, feeling the hardness in her belly, and rocks back and forth on her stool. Her throat aches from withholding more tears, but she manages to control herself enough to say, ‘Listen to me, Elvie. Mama’s gonna be with you soon, you hear?’