Graceland

by Bethan Roberts

  After the girls have dressed in the guest room, Elvis invites them into his bedroom. On the dresser, Gladys has left a tray loaded with milk and banana cake.

  The girls sit on his flowered coverlet, chewing their cake and looking around. Frances, the shortest, swings her legs to and fro. Heidi cuddles the stuffed dog. Elvis is tired, now, and beginning to wish he hadn’t invited these teenagers over. He’s had enough of their giggling and their staring. Leaning back, he closes his eyes and suddenly gets lost someplace. This happens more and more, if he lets it. He feels his mind slipping away from the chaos of his life, and it’s not unpleasant. Half-heartedly, he tells himself to come back, repeating the words silently, unsure if they are his own or Jesse’s. Where have you gone, Elvis? Where are you? But still his eyes are closed and here’s celebrated-and-virtuous Debra’s face, right up close to his, her breath warm on his nose. Then Jesse says, Look at you, you’re surrounded by them! Where’s my girl, Elvis?

  A crash from along the hall brings him back. Probably Cliff knocking over another ashtray. Clumsy son of a bitch.

  Elvis opens his eyes. The girls are still there, staring. Heidi says, ‘Where’s your mother, Elvis?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  She’ll be in bed by now, sleeping it off. But from this end of the house, they won’t hear her wet snores.

  Gloria widens her eyes. ‘So we’re all alone with Elvis Presley in his bedroom?’

  ‘Well, Cliff’s just along the hall with my daddy.’

  ‘Like I said,’ says Gloria. ‘All alone with Elvis Presley.’

  ‘You wanna go home, Gloria?’ he asks, unable to resist a flicker of annoyance. ‘I can ask Cliff to drive you.’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Then hush up,’ says Heidi, throwing the stuffed dog into Gloria’s lap. ‘You know nothing’s gonna happen with Elvis here. Don’t spoil it for the rest of us.’

  ‘That’s right, Heidi,’ says Elvis. ‘You are a very sensible young lady. Gloria, you could take a lesson or two from your friend here.’

  Gloria lets out a long huff and flops back on the bed, the dog pressed to her face.

  Frances says, ‘We’re real grateful, Elvis. We know how lucky we are to visit with you.’

  Her quiet confidence reminds him of Dixie in the early days. The way she skated neatly round the Rainbow without a shred of arrogance or self-consciousness. Frances’s little dimpled smile is so sweet and sincere that he has a sudden longing to keep them all right here, on his bed, throughout the night. It would be better than sleeping alone.

  ‘Let me dry your hair before you go,’ he says. ‘I got this really neat new hairdryer.’ He finds it in the top drawer and plugs it in. It is pink, with a silver handle. ‘You don’t wanna catch a chill out there. Come on, girls, let’s sit pow-wow style.’

  He rearranges himself on the bed, sitting cross-legged in the centre, the dryer poised and ready. The three girls follow suit, skirts resting on their rounded knees.

  Beneath his fingers, Frances’s hair springs like something newborn. Her cheeks flare pink as he runs his comb through to the ends, scattering her blouse with droplets of moisture. She seems to be holding her breath.

  ‘You girls ought never, ever cut your hair,’ he instructs, and they all nod.

  He switches the dryer off and combs through Frances’s damp waves. ‘Now. We’d better move on to kissing practice.’ Because they’d be disappointed to leave without a kiss, wouldn’t they? And he can’t disappoint his girls. ‘Whose turn is it?’

  ‘It’s Heidi’s turn,’ says Frances. ‘Gloria went last time.’

  It is typical of Frances to remember the schedule. The others would have cheated. ‘Frances, I knew you would tell the truth, honey.’

  ‘Then it’s really my turn?’ says Heidi, leaning in slightly. Her hair is wild from the pool and her eyes are shining.

  ‘No,’ he says. ‘It’s Frances’s, because she was honest.’

  ‘Lordy,’ says Gloria. ‘Frances? She ain’t never been kissed. She’s gonna pee in her pants.’

  ‘I am not!’ Frances thrusts her fists into the coverlet and looks as though she might cry.

  ‘I’m mighty glad to hear you ain’t been kissed, Frances. That’s the way it oughta be. You girls are lucky I’m here to teach you.’

  ‘We sure are!’ says Gloria.

  Elvis laughs, but says, ‘Now, girls, this here’s a serious moment. Frances’s first kiss.’

  They all nod and try to compose themselves.

  Frances is staring at him, flushed to the neck. Her lips are tight and unsmiling. When he touches her shoulder, he realises she is trembling. ‘You don’t have to worry none, honey. I’m gonna be real gentle.’

  Gloria and Heidi lean in as he moves his face closer to Frances’s, until the four of them are in danger of toppling together on the bed.

  ‘Scoot back, you two. Frances, close your eyes.’

  ‘But she wants to look at you, Elvis,’ says Gloria.

  ‘Hush up,’ says Heidi.

  Frances shuts her eyes. Elvis glances at the others, who gape back. He winks, then focuses on his task. As he touches her lips with his, he puts his whole being into the kiss; it is deliberate and studied. Starting gentle, he slowly increases the pressure, and her shoulders go limp beneath his fingers. He thinks of Dixie, that first time in the car, the way she’d opened for him. The way she’d been so grateful. Not like those girls in Hollywood.

  Feeling Frances’s lips begin to loosen, he draws back and says, ‘Frances, that was your first kiss. How did it feel?’

  She cannot look at him. She shakes her head and covers her mouth with a hand.

  ‘Frances? You OK, honey?’

  But she can’t seem to speak. A small stab of panic goes through him. Perhaps she’s going to run home to her daddy and say, ‘Elvis forced himself on me!’ The Colonel will be hopping mad if he finds out the girls are here without chaperones. If the papers get hold of it, he might as well forget his career. This will put the hullaballoo over him grinding his hips on Milton Berle in the shade.

  Heidi puts an arm around Frances, who buries her face in her friend’s shoulder.

  ‘Frances?’ says Heidi.

  Suddenly Frances lets out a sob and grabs Elvis’s arm, tightly. He shakes her off and leaps from the bed as if she were a rattlesnake. ‘What’s wrong with her?’ he demands of Gloria. ‘I ain’t done nothing wrong! I’d never hurt none of you girls!’

  ‘She’s always been a little sensitive,’ says Gloria.

  ‘Frances?’ says Heidi. ‘Are you all right?’

  Frances raises her head and looks at him, her eyes wet with tears. ‘That was … the most wonderful thing that ever happened to me,’ she says.

  Elvis is so jumpy about Frances that instead of going to bed, he paces the patio, waiting for Cliff to return from delivering the girls home. From here, he can hear his mama’s snores, and every one grates on his nerves. He thinks about going in the house and shaking her awake, partly to ask for her advice on this, but partly to stop that sound she’s making. It’s like a spade dragged through wet gravel.

  Cliff appears.

  ‘Everything all right?’ Elvis asks, aware that he’s standing too close to his friend.

  Cliff studies Elvis’s face for a moment, then says, ‘Just fine.’

  Elvis looks back towards the house. ‘You want something to drink?’

  ‘Naw.’ Cliff pulls up a lawn chair and sits, and Elvis does the same. They both look over the pool.

  ‘I was a little concerned,’ says Elvis, ‘that those girls got the wrong idea …’

  For a while, Cliff is silent. They watch the bats flicker among the trees. Then, very slowly, Cliff says, ‘You know, I don’t wanna speak out of line here, but you might be careful not to ruin those girls.’

  ‘What did those little bitches say?’

  ‘I only meant – well, think about it, boss. Will they ever get over it? That girl, Frances – she looked like a goddamne
d zombie in the car. And they was all talking about how you kissed her.’ Cliff shakes his head and laughs.

  ‘We was practising, was all,’ says Elvis. ‘It was a game.’

  ‘It’s just – well. Seems to me that girl ain’t never gonna have a thrill like that again. I mean, she just kissed a goddamn movie star! How’s her husband gonna beat that?’

  Elvis looks at Cliff and grins. ‘Seems to me like I ain’t ruined nothing for her, then.’

  ‘How you figure that, boss?’

  ‘I’ve ruined things for her husband, is all.’

  * * *

  It’s as cold as a meat locker on the sidewalk, even in her long fur coat, but the golden light coming from Goldsmith’s Christmas windows sets the street ablaze. Gladys apologises as she bundles her unwieldy frame past Dottie Harmony’s neat little body and into the heat of the store. Once inside, both women stand and gaze around in awe. Every square inch of the high ceiling is festooned with ribbon, taffeta and crêpe-paper frills, and all the counters are edged with tiny multicoloured flashing lights. A giant white teddy bear dressed as Santa waves a greeting and barks out a ‘Ho, ho, ho’. Bing Crosby singing ‘O Little Town of Bethlehem’ seeps over them, and Gladys smiles, despite herself. After all, this will be their first Christmas at Audubon Drive, and the first time she’s been able to do all her shopping at Goldsmith’s. She even has a charge account. Perhaps this will make amends for having to share the holidays with a Vegas showgirl.

  Dottie seems at home in the store. She looks, Gladys reflects, like part of the display. To Gladys’s surprise, despite lighting up a cigarette at supper last night, Dottie Harmony – not her real name – has so far proved herself well mannered and cheerful in an almost homey way. She has even agreed to assist Gladys with the Christmas shopping.

  Gladys has spent the last week compiling the list now clutched in her hand. She glances at the paper. Presents – Male is written on one side, and Presents – Female on the other. Beneath each heading is a list of items which have caught her attention in magazines or on TV. She does not know who these items will be for. Her son has told her to buy thirty gifts suitable for women, twenty-five for men. She should spend around $50 each on the first ten, $25 on the rest. He’s assured her that the important thing is not what goes to who, but that they buy enough, and that those gifts suit the kind of family they are now – they should be modern, luxurious, top of the range. Dottie can help, he said. She’ll know the quality stuff. He gave her a wink, and a glimpse of that knowing smile that’s never far from his lips these days. What a showgirl would know about quality Gladys wasn’t sure, but she’d resisted the temptation to ask.

  If only she could get one of these girls to stay long enough for marriage! Then they could all live together and she’d be sure Elvis would always come home – if not for her, then for his wife and children. But the girls come and go like leaves blown along Audubon Drive. They have little substance or staying power. And her son, she has to admit, doesn’t do enough to hold on to them. He enjoys one for a few weeks, then it’s on to the next, and she must learn a new name and try her best to make the girl stay, to make her hers, as well as his.

  Dottie picks her way through soft furnishings like a flamingo. Everything about her is flushed pink: her cheeks, her lips, her cleavage – exposed beneath her little wool jacket; even her white-blonde hair is dancing and pert, gleaming in the bright lights of the store. When she arrived at the house, Vernon looked at her as if she were the well he’d been walking for days to drink from.

  Spotting a sign to Santa’s grotto, Dottie claps her hands together. ‘Ooh! I loved to visit Santa, when I was a little girl.’

  ‘You don’t need Santa now, honey. You have Elvis.’

  Dottie examines Gladys’s face for a moment before letting out a high laugh. ‘You’re too much, Mrs Presley!’

  Gladys touches Dottie’s shoulder. ‘This here jacket is just adorable. Did Elvis buy it for you?’

  But Dottie is reaching for a cushion, and doesn’t seem to have heard. ‘Look at these, Mrs Presley. Wouldn’t they be perfect for the ladies’ list?’

  The list does not say ‘ladies’. It says ‘female’, which is an entirely different thing.

  ‘How about perfume?’ says Gladys. ‘Come on, dear. Let’s go try some …’

  She grabs Dottie’s arm and steers her through the aisles towards the cosmetics department. At each polished counter, another young girl looks up and registers the presence of the mother of Elvis Presley. Gladys smiles and nods at every one of them. To her satisfaction, they do not seem to recognise Dottie Harmony at all; in fact, most of the girls scowl at her.

  Before they reach the perfume counter, Gladys is distracted by a display dedicated to the Crown Jewel electric shavers she’s seen advertised on TV. Beneath a sign saying Dare to bare more of you!, dozens of them rest on cerise silk purses. Gladys had been a little shocked at the idea of electric shavers for women, but the woman in the advertisement had seemed so calm and reassuring – and she’d worn the most sophisticated evening gown.

  ‘Dorothy, do you reckon one of these would be, you know, suitable?’

  Dottie picks up a shaver and weighs it in her hand. It is pale pink and decorated with tiny crystals. Frowning slightly, she says, ‘Sure, Mrs Presley. It’s real pretty. Although I wouldn’t use one, personally.’

  ‘You wouldn’t?’

  Dottie whispers in Gladys’s ear. ‘The electric ones don’t get close enough, if you know what I mean.’ Then she flips the thing back onto its silk nest and saunters towards the perfume.

  Gladys instructs the salesgirl to wrap two shavers and have them sent to the Presley house. Then she takes a pen from her pocket and strikes through Crown Jewel.

  When she catches up with Dottie, who is trying a lipstick, Gladys tries not to look at her own reflection, but the mirrors glare down from every counter. She knows the fans and the press are disappointed that Elvis Presley’s mother is not beautiful – there’s a trace of prettiness still there, maybe, but the overall impression, as she glances at her reflection in the mirror of the Elizabeth Arden counter, is of bulk and tiredness. Remembering her mother’s comments about the breadth of her shoulders, Gladys tries to ignore the sweat on her top lip and focus on the make-up girl, who is spraying perfume, and saying something about her son’s movie being just so exciting. Gladys grips the counter, and the girl chatters, and everything wobbles slightly beneath the lights.

  ‘Mrs Presley, are you all right?’ asks Dottie. ‘You don’t look so good.’

  What she really needs is to take this dead animal from her back, sit down, and consume some alcohol. Once she makes this decision, Gladys snaps back into focus.

  ‘How about we take a load off, in the restaurant upstairs?’ she says.

  ‘We haven’t done much shopping.’

  ‘This nice girl here will wrap us up five bottles of scent, won’t you, dear? It’s for delivery to the Presley house.’

  The girl is blushing. ‘I know, ma’am. Right away.’

  ‘Come on, Dorothy. Let’s take a little refreshment.’

  In the elevator, it’s like she’s already had that drink. She watches the buttons illuminate and fade as they fly to the top floor, and feels so much lighter that she almost giggles.

  It’s cooler and quieter in the restaurant. The potted palms are festooned with baubles, but the room is uncluttered compared with the rest of the store. A few ladies turn their heads as Gladys and Dottie cross the patterned carpet, and she is glad that the waiter offers them a table in the corner, away from the others.

  It is so good to remove her heavy coat, sit on the padded chair and smooth her hot hands across the thick white tablecloth.

  Dottie perches on her seat and looks around. ‘Everyone in this room knows who you are, Mrs Presley.’

  Gladys shrugs. ‘They may know my name, but they know nothing at all about me.’

  ‘But isn’t it exciting to be recognised?’

 
‘Oh, sure.’ Back in East Tupelo, everybody knew Gladys’s name and most things about her and her family. And she knew them in return. It is a strange thing, to be recognised, and to have folks expect things of you, without knowing anything of them. Gladys suspects that if she starts to think about the strangeness of such things, she will need not four or five but six, or even seven, drinks a day. If she thinks about such things, she may have to stop coming to Goldsmith’s altogether.

  ‘Let me buy you a snack, Dorothy—’

  ‘Just coffee for me, Mrs Presley.’

  ‘Call me Gladys, honey.’

  Dottie moves closer. ‘Don’t look now,’ she hisses, ‘but that woman over there is gawping at us!’

  Gladys glances over her shoulder and gives the woman a small wave. ‘Without these folks, I would not be shopping here at all,’ she says. ‘Now. Let me buy you something to eat.’

  Dottie lets out a sigh. ‘I guess I could use a doughnut.’

  When Gladys asks the waiter for a club sandwich and a small beer, Dottie’s eyes dart up from her purse, but Gladys doesn’t care. She’s had only one this morning, sitting at the breakfast table with Vernon, who was looking out at the girls beyond the gate. With her son home and sleeping, at last, she’d told herself there was no need for the beer, but then Vernon rose from his seat and tapped on the window, and she’d pictured his face as he gave those girls a wave – increasingly, she sees something wolf-like in those pointed front teeth of his – and she’d gone to the refrigerator. Her husband squinted at her, coughed, but said nothing. If he’d made an effort and said something like, Gladys, do you really need that? then she might have put it back. But instead he’d turned to the window again. So she’d gulped the beer, and, later on, just before leaving for downtown, she’d taken a nip of vodka in her grapefruit juice, too.

  ‘Do you believe in Jesus, Dottie?’

  The showgirl snaps her purse shut. ‘Pardon me, Mrs Presley?’

  ‘Because whatever the newspapers say about him, that’s real important to Elvis. He believes in the Bible.’

  ‘Oh, I know. He read to me from it last night … It was – real sweet.’