Wish You Were Here

by Barbara Shoup

  It shouldn’t be too hard, I think, when we get to Graceland. The whole street in front of the house has been blocked off. It’s packed with people, at least five thousand, according to Fay Beth, who gives us a rundown of all the other candlelight ceremonies she’s been to, describing how far in either direction the crowd has stretched from year to year.

  Elvis is being blasted from big speakers set up near the gate. All day, everywhere we went, we heard his classic rock-and-roll cuts, but now it’s gospel music and songs like “My Way” and “Green, Green Grass of Home.”

  “Oh, man,” Brady says in his Elvis voice, and Fay Beth giggles.

  I hate him for making fun of everything, for making a fool of Fay Beth. It’s depressing. I think of the Brady I used to know—the one who bought the coat for the old black man in the park, the one who used to get so mad and upset talking about the way the world treats people as if they just don’t matter. What’s happened to him? Can’t he see that Fay Beth and her family matter? Elvis is no joke to them. They believe in him; they think of him as one of their own. In fact, it’s turning out that I’m not exactly immune to Graceland myself. I’d never admit it to Brady, but I envy Fay Beth’s family for being so close, even if it is something as weird as Elvis that holds them together. There’s something else, too. Those pictures of Elvis when he was so young, at the top of the world, and the later ones of him with Priscilla, holding Lisa Marie—I don’t know, they make me feel sad and happy at the same time, the same way I feel when I look at the pictures of my own family from when my parents were together.

  “Haven’t you had enough of this?” I ask Brady when John Elvis shows up and everybody gets distracted again about how cute he is. “Come on, you’ve had your fun. Now let’s get out of here before Travis beats the shit out of us. He knows what we’re up to. Didn’t you see the way he looked at us at dinner? We’ll find out where the Dead are playing tomorrow, and I’ll take you there—”

  “Screw the Dead,” he says. “This is the source. Mecca. Where everything started. Graceland, man. Hey, without Elvis, the Dead never would’ve lived.” He starts laughing hysterically, then repeats, “The Dead never would’ve lived,” as if it’s the funniest thing he’s ever heard in his whole life.

  Fay Beth turns. “What?” she asks, confused.

  Instantly, Brady puts his fan mask back on and gets her talking about how the candlelight ceremony will be. He doesn’t say another word to me, won’t even look at me. I just stand there among the fans, hopeless, invisible, until finally it gets dark and it’s time for Uncle Vester Presley to light the torch from the eternal flame that burns at Elvis’ grave. A hush comes over the crowd as the old man walks down the driveway, the torch like a slow-moving comet, and one by one lights the candles of the Elvis Country Fan Club members. They’re all lined up just inside the gates.

  “It’s not really fair the way they get to do it every year,” Fay Beth whispers. “They ought to let some other fan clubs have the chance.”

  “Hush, Fay Beth,” Lureen says. “This is no time for petty feelings.” She reaches into her tote bag and hands all of us candles that she’s stuck through aluminum foil pie plates so the wax won’t drip on our hands.

  It takes a long time to make our way to the gates, but everyone around us is patient and friendly; no one jostles. One lady who lives in Memphis tells Lureen about coming to Graceland the night Elvis died.

  “It was a sight, I’ll tell you. All these people carrying on. Crying like their hearts’d break. Some fainting dead away. Those they lined up on blankets there, just under the wall. It was awful,” she says. “But I just knew I had to be here.”

  Then suddenly she’s laughing, telling about how she and her girlfriends used to hang out by the gates at all hours when they were in high school, hoping for a glimpse of Elvis. They saw him one time. A limousine pulled up, and there he was in the back of it. “He had those sunglasses on,” she says. “It was him all right, though. Lord, that smile … ”

  “Do you think he’s really buried here?” another lady asks. “I’ve heard that some people think they just say they moved the casket over here from the cemetery. You know, to keep all the people from tromping through there like they had been.”

  “He’s here,” Lureen says, “God bless his soul. I feel it.”

  “Mama, look,” Patsy says, smiling, nodding toward a family that’s drifted near us. There are four of them, a mom and dad and two kids. They’re fat as Pillsbury Doughboys, all wearing Elvis T-shirts and plastic visors with “Elvis” spelled on them in blinking lights.

  “Lord be,” Lureen says. “It takes all kinds.”

  The line of candles snakes up the driveway; soon we’re among them, adding our own light. The last part of the driveway, all the way to the meditation garden, is lined with floral displays: blue suede shoes made of carnations, blue music notes on a staff, blue teddy bears. There are gold records, American flags with Elvis’ picture in the place where the stars should be. Envelopes with flowers spelling “Return to Sender.” Guitars, lightning bolts, hearts—even motorcycles made of flowers.

  When we reach the grave, Patsy, Lureen, and Fay Beth add the red roses they’re carrying to the hundreds that are already there. They stand there a long time, all of them crying. John Elvis gets this unearthly expression on his face. Travis bows his head.

  “The King,” Brady says solemnly.

  Fay Beth takes his hand.

  I remember what he said about Elvis last night at the cemetery, and I have an almost uncontrollable urge to hit him as hard as I can, slam him all the way across the stone walk and into the swimming pool. But I think, what’s the point? Hitting him would give me no more pleasure than hitting some obnoxious stranger. It seems to me then that Brady is the one who died, that it’s for him that I’m going through this weird ritual of grief.

  If my face shows how bad I feel, anyone looking at me must think I’m one of the biggest Elvis fans that ever lived. I stand there with my candle, staring down at the grave, but what I see is Brady as he once was, the two of us together, but spinning so fast down through the years that no one picture holds, and in no time here I am again, smack-dab in the present, hurting worse than ever. I think of something I overheard my mom say a long time ago, talking to a friend: “Sometimes I think it would be easier if Oz had died, if I’d lost him that way.” I felt so terrible when I heard it that I never could bring myself to ask her why she said such a thing, what she meant. Now it makes sense.

  I can’t stand to see Brady with his arm around Fay Beth, his head bent so he can whisper in her ear. I don’t want to hear what he’s saying. I hate the way he reaches up to brush away her tears. They walk back down the driveway, Patsy and Lureen trailing behind, murmuring how sweet they look, what a nice boy Brady is, what a pretty thing Fay Beth is growing into.

  “Oh, Travis,” Patsy teases, taking his hand. “Look at him scowling, Mama. He thinks Fay Beth is still his little girl.”

  I’m quiet going back to the motel—not that it makes any difference. Brady acts like I’m not there. He and Fay Beth snuggle in the corner of the truck bed, kissing. I don’t want to see his hands moving on her; it’s none of my business what he does. I close my eyes and let the hot air wash over me. Still, I’m glad when we get back and Travis says, “Fay Beth, you come on inside now.”

  “Daddy,” she says. Whines, really.

  “Fay Beth,” Travis says dangerously. He gives me and Brady this look like, one word and you guys are going to get what you deserve. Apparently, even Brady can tell he’s serious. “I’ll walk you to the door,” he says to Fay Beth. Travis lets him do that. The three of them and John Elvis walk toward the motel together.

  “Goddamn,” Brady says when he gets back to the bus. “Was that great, or what? Didn’t I tell you Graceland would be a trip, Jax? Virtual reality, man: Elvis through the eyes of his true fans.�
� He laughs. “Too bad about Fay Beth, though. That would’ve been the perfect ending to a perfect day. Dude, I could’ve fucked her, you know? She was so ready. But, oh well, c’est la vie.”

  I’m sitting in the driver’s seat of the bus, ready to go; he’s just outside the window, grinning at me, and suddenly he breaks into a little dance. He hops around, playing air guitar, shaking and thrusting his pelvis forward like Elvis. I know exactly what he’s up to. He’s trying to make me laugh. He figures if he can make me laugh, I’ll forget all the crap he’s put me through since last night, all the pain he caused me by running away. That’s how it’s always been between us. But this time things have gone too far.

  Calmly, I open the door and get out. I stand right in front of him, so we’re eye to eye. He dances on. “You’re pathetic,” I say. “Do you care?’’

  He stops cold, splays his hands in that old helpless gesture, and, for just an instant, he looks sheepish. He looks like himself.

  “Do you?” I ask.

  His face darkens. “Pathetic?” he says. “Yeah? Well, fuck you. You’re the pathetic one, Jax. You’re uptight and pathetic; you always have been. A goddamn drag. Everyone thought so. You don’t know jack shit about anything.”

  I don’t even realize I’m going to hit him until I do. Jesus, I hit him hard. He reels back, trips, and sits down on the asphalt. He puts a hand to his nose, which is gushing blood, and gives me this surprised look.

  I don’t say anything, just reach into the bus and get him one of the motel towels we used for swimming. The hand I hit him with is still in a fist. My knuckles sting, I guess from where Brady’s teeth hit them. I stand there looking at him, breathing hard. There’s a buzzing sound from the lights in the parking lot. Elvis singing through an open window.

  “You didn’t have to hit me, Jax,” Brady finally says, his voice muffled by the towel.

  I shrug.

  “Okay, okay,” he says. “I’m sorry I said what I said about you.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” I say.

  “Pals,” he says, and gives me the old Brady grin. He gets up and throws his bloody arm around me.

  I let him do it. It doesn’t matter—what I said was true. But it’s not because I’ve forgiven Brady like I always used to, like he assumes I have now. It’s true because the person he’s become can’t hurt me. Sorry or not sorry, it doesn’t matter. Suddenly I’m so tired I can hardly keep my eyes open. All I want to do is sleep.

  I might as well. There’s no way thinking or talking will change anything between us now. I get back in the bus and lie down in the middle seat. Brady settles into the backseat, but he’s too wired to sleep. He starts talking about old times, all the fun we used to have.

  “Yeah, yeah,” I say if he demands a response. But I keep drifting off, and what he’s saying begins to seem like part of a dream to me, a dream life. The last thing I remember him saying is, “Tell Oz I met Garcia one time. Garcia, man. It was so cool.”

  In the morning, when I wake up, he’s gone. I’m really not surprised. And I’m not mad, even when I check my wallet and all the money that was in it is gone. I don’t feel guilty for hitting him, either. It seems strange to me that I hit him at all; in fact, I might even think it had been a dream except for the way that my knuckles are skinned up and sore. I don’t feel any better for hitting him, or any worse. In fact, I could make a list of all the things I don’t feel about Brady right now. God, for the first time in a whole year, I’m not worried about him. I figure he’ll get by.

  I get out of the bus, stretch, and go find a pay phone in the Days Inn to call Mom.

  “Jackson! Oh, honey, I’ve been so worried about you,” she says when she hears my voice.

  “I’m fine,” I say. “Really. I’ll be home tonight.”

  “Brady?” she asks.

  “Gone,” I say. “I’ll tell you all about it later.”

  Next I call information, get Amy and Kristin’s mom’s phone number, and dial it.

  Kristin answers. I talk to her a little while, ask her what she’s been up to. Then I ask her if she’ll give me Amanda’s address.

  “Sure,” she says. “Are you finally going to write to her?”

  I tell her that’s exactly what I’m going to do and she says, “Well, it’s about time,” in a prissy voice. I have to laugh.

  Just a postcard to begin with. In the motel gift shop, I pick one with the music gates on it and write on the back.

  Dear Amanda,

  Would you believe it if I told you Graceland changed my life? I’ll write you a real letter with the evidence when I get home.

  I hesitate a second, then figure what the hell, and finish,

  Love, Jackson

  “I can mail that for you right here.” The clerk grins. “Even got an Elvis stamp for it, if you need one.”

  “Great, thanks.” With the money I’d kept in my jeans pocket, I buy the Elvis stamp, an Elvis beer mug for Ted, The Presley Family Cookbook for Mom, and teddy bear earrings for Kristin and Amy.

  It’s still pretty early, just after nine. I look across the courtyard to Fay Beth’s room, but the curtains are pulled. I wish I could apologize for what Brady and I did yesterday, but since she never figured it out, I’d probably just make her feel bad. I’d like to talk to Lureen and Patsy, though.

  I’d ask them, “So, is caring the answer? I mean, having something that really matters to you—anything, as long as it’s yours?”

  But first I’d have to explain about Brady’s running away and everything that’s happened to both of us because of it—maybe everything that’s happened in our whole lives. It’s better just to let it be.

  Climbing into my bus, I feel the last year settle inside me, become part of what I am. I know I’ll never stop wishing that my parents were still together or that I’d listened—really listened—to what Stephanie was saying to me or that I could make Brady see that the person he’s hurting most is himself. I’ll never stop wishing that the world was a better place.

  I turn on the engine, pull out onto the highway. At Graceland, it’s business as usual. The barricades have been removed, and traffic zooms along where thousands stood last night. The buses are already ferrying a new crop of fans through the gates, up the driveway. It’s hot and hazy. Poles of sunlight slant down through the trees.

  The R.E.M. tape is in the tape deck, where Brady left it. I pop it in, and music blasts out: the song I heard yesterday, just before I fell asleep, “It’s the End of the World as We Know It (And I Feel Fine).” And I can’t help smiling.

  Fine? I think.

  Well—okay, maybe.

  Yeah. I feel okay.

  About the Author

  Barbara Shoup was the writer-in-residence at the Broad Ripple High School Center for the Humanities and the Performing Arts (Indianapolis) for almost twenty years. She has mentored young writers and makes many visits to schools annually. She has been the recipient of numerous awards and grants, including a Master Artist Fellowship from the Indiana Arts Commission and the PEN/Phyllis Naylor Working Writers Fellowship. She is also an assistant editor for OV Books.