‘You love me, baby, don’t you?’
She looks even prettier here, seeming to glitter for him beneath the reflected light of the chandelier.
Anita nods and holds a finger to his lips to shush him.
‘You’re my best girl,’ he says. ‘You know that, don’t you?’
Anita looks over his shoulder. Her face falls.
‘Elvie?’
He twists his neck to see his mama standing behind him, wearing her pink housecoat. Her face looks much worse this afternoon. Yesterday he’d tried to persuade her to let him fetch the doctor, but she’d refused, saying she didn’t want more trouble, and, concerned that the papers would get hold of the story, he didn’t press her. He’d sat with her all afternoon in the music room, fooling around on the piano before joining her on the couch to eat Reese’s peanut butter cups and watch her favourite shows on TV. Her face hadn’t looked too bad, then. But now the bruise has blossomed into a dark purple flower, yellowed at the edges, and her jaw has swollen, making her head look lopsided.
He releases Anita. ‘Mama.’
‘You two want something to eat?’ Gladys says.
She doesn’t touch her face or try to hide it in any way. In fact, she steps into the light of the chandelier and looks right at him. The sight of her makes him feel nauseous, but he knows he mustn’t show it, for her sake.
Anita’s eyes dart uncertainly between Elvis and his mother. She is aware there was a fight, but Elvis had told Lamar to get her out of the house as soon as he heard the commotion in the kitchen, and she hasn’t seen Gladys since. Last night Elvis told her his mama was fine; that it was just a scuffle; that his father was real sorry and everything had been straightened out.
‘Mama,’ Elvis says, slowly, ‘Anita here stayed on the couch last night—’
‘Well, I figured she did, son.’ Gladys touches Anita’s arm. ‘And don’t you look fresh and pretty even so, honey?’
It takes a moment for Anita to mouth the words, Thank you.
‘Now come on and let me fix you something.’
Because he can’t think of how to refuse, Elvis guides Anita into the kitchen and they sit together at the counter. All through the meal, he keeps his eyes on his plate as his mother chatters on about his next movie project, which is to be filmed in New Orleans, and how she loved it when Elvis took her there for a visit and has Anita ever been, and shouldn’t Elvis take her some time? Anita nods and swallows and nods and smiles and nods some more. When Dodger comes in to pour herself some coffee, she puts a hand on Gladys’s shoulder and says, ‘Sure is good to see you up on your feet.’
Elvis can stand no more. Almost toppling his stool in his rush to escape, leaving his food half-eaten, he tells them Anita’s got somewhere to be, and, ignoring the women’s protests, ushers his girl from the room.
He walks Anita to her car, a year-old Ford that he gave her earlier in the summer, and holds the door open.
‘I’ll call you,’ he says.
It’s hot as hell out here, and he wants to get back in his air-conditioned house and ask his mama where his daddy has disappeared to, so he can find him and make him pay.
‘Elvis,’ she says, clutching her keys, ‘your mama didn’t look so good. Maybe she should see a doctor.’
‘She won’t see no doctor.’
‘Maybe she would, if you told her she’s got to.’
‘I already told her!’ He slams a hand on the scalding roof of the Ford.
There’s a pause. Then Anita asks, in a small voice, fiddling with her keys, ‘Where’s your daddy now?’
‘Gone off someplace.’
She nods. ‘I just couldn’t stand it if I knew my daddy was hitting my mama.’
At this, Elvis has to ram his fists deep into his pockets to stop them beating on the car again. He grits his teeth. ‘Daddy’s been under a lot of pressure.’
Anita gives a little snort. ‘How can you defend him?’
He looks her in the eye, and sees her recoil as he hisses, ‘You don’t know one thing about my daddy. He’s been through more shit than you’ve smelled your entire life.’
Then he turns on his heel and stalks towards the mansion in silence.
Gladys had refused to be drawn in to a conversation about Vernon’s whereabouts, saying that her husband had to answer to God, and his own conscience, now. Her son should go out with his friends and enjoy himself while he could, because he’d be working again soon enough. She’d be just fine at home with Alberta and Dodger.
Telling himself that he’d think about it later, Elvis took another pill and did as she suggested. Now it’s past eleven o’clock, and he’s on his way to his private party at the Rainbow.
In order to get around the city without being recognised, he’s started using a truck again. It’s a beat-up old Ford, not unlike the one he drove at Crown Electric, and he keeps it parked at the back of the mansion. He refuses to wear a disguise – tonight he’s in a pair of black pants and an orange-and-black knitted shirt – but the truck itself seems to be disguise enough.
To wrong-foot the fans, Cliff puts a hat and dark glasses on and drives the purple Cadillac out of the gates. Then, while the fans are still gazing and calling after that car, Elvis races out in the truck, and heads in the opposite direction.
All evening, he’s been fantasising about smashing his daddy’s face to a bloody pulp. Maybe he could get one of the guys to do the job for him. If Red were here, Elvis is sure he’d be more than happy to oblige. Or maybe he could pay somebody to beat Vernon, and make it look like a ransom thing. He overtakes a Chevy, putting his foot to the floor to get past it before a junction. He can see the headline: Elvis’s Father Tortured in Ransom Drama. No broken bones or anything, just mess him up good, so his face gets all puffy and dark like Mama’s. When he’d looked at her before he left the house, he’d wanted to whimper and crawl beneath some porch to hide his own face. And when she’d told him she’d be fine, all he wanted was to hold her so he could comfort her, but also so he could comfort himself. For some reason, the look on her face and the way she held her body – which looked so broken, even though it was big – told him not to try it, and he’d let her usher him out of the door.
Realising he’s close to Anita’s apartment, Elvis suddenly swerves the truck across the street, almost crashing into the stop lights. It’s all too much. He needs his girl by his side.
He has to ring the bell several times before Miss Patty opens the door. She’s wearing an embroidered housecoat and has rollers in her hair. Seeing him, she folds her arms.
‘Why are you hauling decent folks from their beds at this hour?’ she says.
‘Hello, Miss Patty. Sorry to call so late. Can I see her?’
She tuts. ‘Why should I let you, when you treat her so bad? She’s been crying all evening.’
‘I don’t know what she’s told you, ma’am, but—’
‘She don’t need to tell me nothing. I can see it all in her eyes. And I read about your exploits in the newspapers, just like she does.’
He looks up at the murky sky and takes a breath, knowing what he must do.
‘You’re right, ma’am. I’ve come to apologise. I acted plumb crazy, earlier.’
Miss Patty touches her rollers. ‘You oughta be telling this to Anita, not me.’
‘Well, I will, if you’ll let me.’
Anita must have been listening on the stairwell, because as soon as Miss Patty calls for her, she’s at the door.
‘Forgive me, Little,’ he says, and she falls into his arms.
Mrs Pieracinni, who owns the Rainbow, has done a good job of organising the party. Her nephews, all tall and broad but with the same miniature nose as her, stand by the doors to keep out uninvited guests. The Rollerdrome is decorated with multicoloured bunting and streamers, and the lights, which usually brighten every corner, are turned low. The tables beside the rink are groaning with hot dogs, popcorn, potato chips, and paper cups of Pepsi. The music’s up so loud that Elvis fee
ls it coming through his shoes. Ricky Nelson, unfortunately.
There are already twenty or so people in the room, including Heidi, Gloria and Frances. The three girls are huddled round the jukebox, sipping their drinks and taking everything in. Spotting them, Elvis raises a hand in greeting and they all break into wide smiles and frantic waving, but only Cliff and Billy, Elvis’s younger cousin, approach.
‘You made it!’ says Cliff, slapping him heartily on the back, as if Elvis has completed the journey from overseas.
Elvis grins at Billy. He’s fifteen, and this is his first time out with the group. He’s styled his pale hair just like Elvis’s for the occasion.
‘You sure you’re good and ready for this, Billy-boy?’ Elvis asks. ‘It can get a little rough out there.’
‘I’m ready,’ says Billy, holding his freckled face still and serious.
‘Cliff, I want you to take care of Billy here,’ says Elvis. ‘Don’t let him mess up his hair.’
‘Sure, boss.’
Anita grips his hand. He can feel her scanning the room for other, younger, prettier girls. He doesn’t recognise any of them, apart from Cliff’s date and the three teenagers. Lamar has picked them all from the crowd at the gate. A few of them were skating when Elvis came in, but they’ve stopped now and are leaning on the barriers, watching him intently.
He thinks of Dixie in her white skirt and pantyhose, as he always does when he comes to the Rainbow. Of how he’d been amazed that she wanted to talk to him. He’s heard she’s settled into her own home now. He can just picture her, serving up meat loaf to some white-collar guy who has no idea how his wife’s cherry ball was fondled by Elvis Presley.
‘Let’s get the games started,’ he says, and Cliff claps his hands to gather everyone to the rink.
‘Why don’t you take the weight off, baby?’ Elvis asks Anita.
‘I’d like to skate some,’ she says.
He touches her cheek. ‘We don’t want you to chip your nails,’ he says. ‘You’re too special for this stuff.’
And he’s gone before she can protest.
They start with Crack the Whip. Not wanting to be the leader every time, Elvis lets Cliff head up the line. He tells Lamar to be the caboose at the back of the chain, and takes his position in the middle, holding hands with Frances and Gloria. Cliff gets up some good speed, then changes direction suddenly, causing the end of the whip to curl in on itself. Lamar hurtles to the ground, and Elvis doubles over with laughter.
His recording of ‘Ready, Teddy’ comes on, and the speed of the line increases, with the girls squealing when their hands slip from his. As Frances lets go, he says, ‘Too bad, honey,’ and watches her fly, arms flailing, into the railing.
Elvis lifts his hand, the signal for everybody to stop, and goes to check on her. A kiss on the forehead and a couple of the painkillers he gets from his dentist seem to make everything all right again. The pills are strong enough to allow him to play these kinds of games without hurting too much.
After a few more rounds of Crack the Whip, he peels off his sodden shirt and plants it in the trash. Anita brings him a clean one from the truck.
‘I wish you’d let me play,’ she says, grasping him around the waist. ‘I’m lonely here.’
He kisses her on the mouth. Then he whispers in her ear, ‘Will you wait for me, Little? Till I’m through this crazy part of my career? Then we can be together, really together. I meant what I said, about marriage and all.’
She looks up at him with shining eyes, and he wants to take her back to the mansion right away and tell his mama he’s going to marry this girl. It would make Gladys so happy. She’d embrace him, and everything would be good again.
Lamar calls out, ‘Knock Down!’
Elvis looks over to the rink. Everyone is clapping and chanting for him.
Anita sighs. ‘Go on and play with your friends.’
First, he hands out some painkillers, because this one can get a little rough, and is for the boys only. The aim of the game is to knock everyone else on the rink down. Whoever is left standing is the winner.
The girls line up along the barrier to spectate, Anita included. Elvis skates around the edge, avoiding the blows for a while, letting the others get started. Cliff and Billy are the first to be knocked down, but they get up and skate towards one another again. Billy goes down once more, knocked to the floor by Cliff, and drags himself to the side. Elvis skates over to his cousin. ‘Don’t feel bad,’ he says. ‘Bound to happen. You’re the youngest.’
While he’s talking, a friend of Cliff’s – Elvis doesn’t know his name – skates past and whacks Elvis with his elbow, making him yell and stumble backwards. Righting himself, Elvis skates as fast as he can at the first body in his path. It’s Cliff’s, and he falls easy. Elvis hears the smack of Cliff’s head on the floor, even over the din of his own music, but he doesn’t stop skating. Picturing Vernon in those goddamn overalls, he heads for George, walloping him with his whole body and sending him spinning across the floor. A cheer rises, and Elvis looks up to see all three hundred pounds of Lamar coming towards him like a bull, head low, shoulders hunched. Elvis stops skating and laughs. He stretches his arms wide and says, ‘Come on, man! Come get me!’, figuring he can skate out of Lamar’s path. But as he twists away, his skate comes loose, and he stumbles. Lamar slams into him, pushing him backwards. They travel together for a few seconds, Lamar holding Elvis by the shoulders and grunting.
‘I’m gonna kill you, you son of a bitch!’ Elvis yells.
They smash into the railing. Luckily for Elvis, his friend goes down first, breaking his own fall.
With his face squashed against the folds of Lamar’s sweating, fleshy neck, Elvis considers biting down on it as hard as he can. But then he remembers the girls at the barricade and he swiftly disentangles himself from Lamar’s big body and holds up his hands so that everyone can see he’s all right. Using Lamar for ballast, he scrambles to his feet. Then he skates across the rink, turning circles and waving despite his trembling legs.
He feels absolutely no pain.
Lamar manages to sit up. ‘You OK, boss?’ he calls out.
‘No damage at all, Buddha,’ Elvis calls back. ‘Not one scratch.’
Everybody applauds, lightly. He glances at Anita, who is watching the other girls.
Perhaps there’s no need, he thinks, to rush into a marriage proposal.
* * *
After Gladys’s bruises have disappeared and Elvis has left for another tour, Lillian visits Graceland.
‘Vernon must sure be worried about you, if he’s calling on me,’ she says, patting at her hair, which looks like it’s got a stiff new permanent on it.
It’s a Sunday afternoon in October, and they are sitting in the dining room, sipping tea from crystal tumblers. Gladys knows her sister would be more comfortable in the kitchen, but it’s been months since her last visit, and something made Gladys want to subject Lillian to the fancy room, with its uncomfortable modern chairs and relentlessly glossy tabletop.
Lillian lowers her voice. ‘He said you been drinking more than you oughta, Glad. Is that true?’
It is useless to deny it. Her sister always could see right through her.
Lillian sighs. ‘I just don’t understand it,’ she says, leaning back in her chair. Her gaze lingers on the new TV console in the far corner. ‘You got it all, Glad. Every little thing.’
Gladys eyes her sister – still thin, still upright, still getting on with her life, and a deep shame seeps through her body, weakening her aching limbs.
‘You want something?’ Gladys asks, hauling herself upright. ‘I got more jewellery than I know what to do with, Lillian. You can have it. I’ll go fetch it for you right now.’
‘Sit down,’ says Lillian, quietly.
‘How about a Mixmaster, then?’
‘No, thank you.’
‘Or a new vacuum cleaner?’
‘Glad. I don’t want none of your stuff. I came to check u
p on you, is all.’
Gladys sinks into her chair. ‘Well. You can see with your own eyes. Your sister is low-down miserable.’
‘But how come?’ asks Lillian.
How can Gladys explain anything about her own existence to her sister, who still lives in a small duplex across town, works regular hours at Fashion Curtains, and – unlike many other members of the family – doesn’t come knocking on Elvis’s door for handouts?
‘Is it Vernon?’ Lillian asks. ‘I know he can be kinda cold sometimes, but that’s just how men are.’ She gives a little laugh. ‘You never could understand that, could you, honey? Seems like you always expected more.’
Gladys shakes her head. ‘Elvis ain’t cold. Never has been.’
Lillian sighs. ‘Elvis ain’t here.’
Gladys stares at the window, which is lit golden by the setting sun. There’s a long silence.
‘Here’s what we’re gonna do,’ says Lillian, pushing her tea aside and grasping Gladys’s hand. ‘I’m gonna come visit every day, just to see how you’re getting along. OK?’
Gladys nods, but keeps her eyes on the window. If she looks at her sister, she fears she may weep. Or draw her hand back and slap Lillian’s face.
* * *
Elvis is alone in his dressing room, shrugging on his gold lamé jacket. The full tuxedo – named ‘the ten-thousand-dollar gold suit’ by the Colonel – is, he thinks, a joke. Made from $2,500 worth of gold leaf by Nudie Cohn, who has designed suits for Hank Williams and any number of exotic dancers, it has diamanté-encrusted lapels and cuffs, and comes complete with a gold belt and gold lace tie. When he’d first worn the full outfit, the Colonel had warned him not to perform any knee slides, in case the gold wore off the lamé pants. Elvis had felt like he’d stepped into a magician’s box and was about to get sawn in half.
Tonight’s show at Los Angeles’s Pan Pacific Auditorium is important enough for him to want to wear the jacket, though, because nothing shines quite like it. Onstage, it’s as if the jacket is lit from the inside. He can wear it with black pants and a black shirt.
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