When he reaches for her again, Dixie slaps his hand away, making him yelp with surprise.
‘I can’t,’ she says. ‘I’m sorry.’
As she hurries down the stairs, he calls out, ‘Congratulations on getting married and all! I’ll send you two a gift. Anything you want! Just name it!’
Then Elvis’s eye is caught by his reflection in the mirrored wall. He blinks, surprised to see himself. He hasn’t looked at his own face since his mother died. The wall trembles before his eyes, making his reflection seem to bend. He points at it and laughs, and the image does the same, which makes him laugh some more. Then everything goes double, and his image repeats itself across the wall.
‘Look!’ he says, stepping back to get a better view. ‘Thousands of little Elvises!’
When he takes his eyes from the mirror, Dixie is slamming the door, and his father and Colonel Parker are coming for him with Dr Evans, who is carrying a pouchy brown medicine bag.
Elvis’s legs go liquid, but Vernon catches him by the elbow. ‘The doc’s gonna give you a shot, son,’ he says.
‘Let’s get you into bed, now,’ says Dr Evans, his balding head sweating. ‘You need rest.’ He takes a firm grip on Elvis’s other arm.
Elvis smells the Colonel’s cigar, and feels a pressure on his back.
The three men steer him up the stairs. It is nine days before he leaves his bedroom again.
He cannot leave his bedroom, because Mama is talking. Every time Elvis removes his sleep mask, a nurse – he notices Dr Evans has sent his oldest, most matronly staff member – is right there, offering a milkshake and a shot. She asks if he would like her to send down for food, and he tells her to just give him the damn shot. Because every time she does, Mama is waiting, wearing her lilac crêpe and her diamond drops. The two of them curl together in their shared bed, back in East Tupelo. Outside, the wind shakes the house and the Frisco train releases its long whistle. She talks and talks, her voice light and smooth, saying things he’s never heard her say before. He doesn’t dare look her in the eye in case she vanishes, so he buries himself in her arms and listens.
My son, she says. When Jesse was lost I thought everything was gone, but then you came. I’d reckoned on two babies but couldn’t know for sure till you was born. I thought I’d die that cold January morning. But you made me live.
You always said you was gonna be home soon. I asked if those Hollywood folks was treating you good and you said yes. But I never believed a word of it. They don’t know you like I do. When I saw your face on the movie screen I wanted to turn away, because how could it really be you, if you couldn’t see me?
He buries his face deeper into her chest. In this sweet spot, everything drops away, and Mama keeps on talking.
Is Daddy still at the gate, with the girls? They’re all yours, those girls, but Daddy reckons he has a claim on them. He’s wrong. Don’t forget that.
He opens his mouth to speak, but she tells him to hush up and let her say her piece.
Listen, now. I know you won’t wanna listen, though you’ll put on a good show of it. You’re the world’s best at putting on a show, ain’t you? But listen, now. Listen. Because Mama is telling you her dreams. And you know that Mama’s dreams come true. Didn’t I dream that your car would burn up beside the highway? That you would sing to a dog? That you would dance in a jail? That you would be torn apart by little girls?
He wakes with a start and peeks out of the mask. It’s night-time. The pink housecoat is still in his arms; he can smell his mama there, and he inhales her deeply. He can see nothing in this room – Mr Golden did a good job with the decor, and it’s the darkest blue, just as he wanted – but he senses the nurse has gone. He wonders if she was ever there. He takes a couple of pills from his bedside drawer, swallows them, and goes back to sleep before his mind can remember what it is he must face.
* * *
Before returning to Fort Hood, Elvis takes Cliff, Red, Anita, Lamar and Billy to the Rainbow.
At the door, Mrs Pieracinni is waiting for them, together with her strapping sons. She’s all in black and is wearing no lipstick, which makes her look even smaller than usual.
‘I couldn’t make it inside the chapel,’ she says. ‘The crowds were so crazy.’
‘I’m glad you weren’t there, Mrs Pieracinni,’ says Elvis. ‘It was a circus. The whole thing.’
‘I wanted to pay my respects to your mother. I heard she was a real fine lady.’
‘She was an angel,’ says Elvis. ‘She was my best girl.’
Inside, the rink looks as though it has been polished in his honour, it gleams so deeply. Instead of the usual popcorn and teenage sweat, there’s a whiff of beeswax and Lysol, and the music is turned low. He’s instructed Lamar to keep an eye on the jukebox and to select his mother’s favourites – Jimmie Rodgers, the Blackwood Brothers, Hank Williams – where possible. There is to be no rock ’n’ roll tonight.
As Elvis stands by the door, looking the place over, the others hang back, unsure what to do. The tables to the side of the rink are full of food, but nobody helps themselves. He feels watched, as never before. He’s used to all eyes being on him, to his every move being followed, but this is different. Now he is being scrutinised, and he senses that nobody will utter one word without his encouragement. They are waiting for his reaction in order to decide what their own should be. And he has no idea how to act out this new, motherless Elvis.
So he simply crosses the dimpled rubber floor, sits on a chair, and removes his shoes. He slips his feet into his roller skates and laces them good and tight. Roy Acuff’s ‘Wabash Cannonball’ comes on the jukebox. Once he is up on the skates, and the Wabash train whistle is blowing, Elvis feels something lift from his shoulders, and he soon gains momentum.
‘Turn it up, Lamar,’ he yells, and Roy sings louder.
On the glossy surface, Elvis spins in wide circles, gathering speed, letting the skates take him where they want to go. Roy sings of the rumble and the roar, and the wheels vibrate beneath the soles of Elvis’s feet, making his legs thrum. That train is coming. He can hear the mighty rush of the engine. Nothing can stop it. So he gathers all his strength and pushes on, pumping his arms, leaning forward, his lungs expanding, his feet driving the skates, his whole body balanced and ready for whatever is coming to meet him.
When the song is over, he tells Lamar to play it again. Then the others follow Elvis onto the rink, and together they glide round and round to the music.
Acknowledgements
I am very grateful to the Royal Society of Literature for awarding this book a Brookleaze Grant, which enabled me to travel to Tupelo and Memphis, and to the Royal Literary Fund for granting me a Fellowship while I was writing this novel.
Many sources were useful in researching Elvis’s story, but particularly valuable to me were Peter Guralnick’s Last Train to Memphis and Careless Love, Elaine Dundy’s Elvis and Gladys, Karal Ann Marling’s Graceland: Going Home with Elvis, and We Remember Elvis by Azalia S. Moore, Guy Thomas Harris, Sybil Presley and Lee Clark.
I’d like to thank the following people for taking the time to talk Elvis with me: Mike Freeman, Roy Turner, Larry Geller, Tish Henley, Guy Thomas Harris, Wayne Mann and Neil Cameron. Jennie Bradford Curlee looked after me in Tupelo, and Alexandra Mobley let me sleep in the Elvis apartment at Lauderdale Courts.
The following writers were generous enough to read and comment on drafts of the manuscript even though they don’t particularly dig Elvis: Hugh Dunkerley, Karen Stevens, Edward Hogan and David Swann. I’m grateful, too, for the advice I received from Claire Keegan.
I’d also like to thank Poppy Hampson and Véronique Baxter for their advice and support. And Mum for starting the whole thing. And Hugh and Ted for their love.
Thank you. Thank you very much.
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