by Rio Youers
Red dust swirling. The bruised skin of evening.
The attacker was still carrying the axe, and he was coming for her.
Her mouth opened, but no sound came out. She thought she should say something to her dead husband as she reached across, opened the door, and pushed his body out onto the desert floor. But there were no words. After all, what could she say?
Sally moved behind the wheel. The engine had stalled. Using one hand, still cradling her baby, she threw the transmission into neutral and cranked the ignition. The truck grumbled into life. She smeared blood from the inside of the windscreen, dropped into reverse, and backed up. The twisted front end clattered as it detached itself from the tree, but it was a tough truck, and it was moving.
The attacker was getting closer. She could hear his anger, booming like a collision. She pushed into first gear, put her foot to the floor, and pulled away. Painful sobs broke from her chest. She wiped her eyes, wiped the windscreen, and cradled her son. The truck jounced slowly over the crests and ruts in the earth, its damaged front end pointing south, towards Uluru.
She ran out of diesel less than ten minutes later, three kilometres from the Rock. The truck juddered and sputtered. It lurched and died. Sally moaned and looked out the rear window. She could still see him: darkness, framed by the Tanami, and coming fast. He would be upon them in no time. She had to keep moving.
Caleb cried and twisted in her arms. Sally barely had the strength to hold him. She staggered towards the Rock. Tears flashed down her face. Her heart was aching with grief, but it was nothing next to the fear.
Uluru filled her vision, a sweltering heartbeat filled with the blood of sunset. Shocked, whistling breaths were pressed from her body, mingling with Caleb’s cries to become a boiling kettle of delirious sound. She stumbled on, looking back only once. He was coming fast—easy to see in the expanse of open land. It wouldn’t be long.
The sky was a naked, purple face by the time she reached the Rock, and she could hear her pursuer pounding close behind, breaking through dry bush, uttering the language of anger. She cast around—her heart a massive, maddened thing—looking for some suitable place to hide. A fallen tree. A cluster of rocks. Anything. She started clockwise on the path that tracked around Uluru and came upon a family of shadows. One of them, she noticed, was not a shadow at all, but an ancient cleft set in the red stone. She hurried towards it and ducked inside. It was barely wide enough, but it was deep, and she squeezed all the way to the back.
Caleb’s distressed cries boomed in the narrow space. She stroked his face, the way she did when she was trying to get him to sleep.
“Hush, baby. Come on now. Please…shhhhhh…for Mommy.”
His body squirmed in her arms. She could feel his tiny hands batting against her shoulders.
“Please, baby.”
Sally peered outside, impossible tears springing from her eyes, turning the zigzag of purple sky that she could see into a bloodied, uneven grin. He could hear them, she was sure—her attacker, lurching closer, carrying the axe that was still matted with her husband’s blood.
She unfastened her blouse and brought Caleb to her breast. His warm mouth latched to her nipple and he started to feed. His cries were hushed. Sally closed her eyes and held her breath.
All she could hear was her heartbeat.
He came soon after, dragging the axe through the dirt. He was tired, sucking in greedy rips of air, still muttering in his exotic language. Every word left a smouldering cigarette burn in her mind. Sally looked at him with eyes like full moons. It was lighter outside than in, and easy to determine his dangerous silhouette. She pressed one hand to her mouth, stifling every terrified squeak that wanted to escape.
We are the Rock. It echoed in her mind, and she held to it like the frightened child that she was. She watched as he came closer. His shoulders were rounded muscle. His hair was long, covering his eyes, but she could see the wet splash of his mouth. He lifted the axe and stopped outside the narrow cave.
Sally didn’t breathe. She imagined herself becoming absorbed by the darkness, her body—painted red by blood and dust—blending with the stone. We are the Rock. He shuffled closer and peered into the cramped fissure. His breaths cut through the space, ragged and regular, with a sound like a handsaw cutting wood. We are the Rock. Her eyes were not glowing in the darkness. There was no broken glass glimmering in her hair. She had no eyes. She had no hair. She was sandstone, a birthmark on the land.
The attacker raised the axe’s thick blade and studied the darkness, waiting for a flicker of movement, or to hear the slightest sound.
Sally was motionless. She was silent. Not breathing. Even her tears had stopped. They had crystallized to the bedrock of her face. Caleb continued to feed. The only movement was the imperceptible pulsing of his cheeks.
We are the Rock.
The attacker made a deep sound in his throat. He pushed his broad shoulders into the gap and appeared to look directly at her. It was all she could do to keep the screams from blistering through her fingers. He leaned closer, swinging his head from side to side, his mouth glistening through the straggles of his hair.
Had she really disappeared? Had the mystic, powerful Rock wrapped its arms around her and protected her, just as she was protecting her baby? She would never know. The only clear thought in her mind was that she was alive. Her baby was alive.
The attacker had retreated. He had withdrawn from the narrow gap and disappeared just when she was sure he had seen her. Sally heard him stagger away, barking unlikely words, until there was only darkness and silence.
Sally learned to breathe. She learned to cry. And when she was sure that the attacker was far, far away, she learned to scream. It was an impressive, beautiful sound, and it ruptured the tiny space as if the universe were trembling.
She remained in the crevice all night and emerged to the tangerine glow of morning. It was like being born.
By mid-afternoon she was staggering through the blood-washed streets of Yulara. She gathered what food she could find (their stock had been pillaged; there was precious-little) and crossed the buckled Lasseter Highway. She placed Caleb on a pile of blankets and set the great fire burning. The flames were broad and high and made a sound like laughter.
She sat by the fire and waited. Caleb smiled. He touched her lips.
They came for her three days later.
PROMISED LAND BLUES
MUSICAL INTRO.
There is an extra verse in Chuck Berry’s version of “Promised Land”—the second verse, where he sings about stopping in Charlotte and bypassing Rock Hill. This doesn’t make Elvis’s cut. The King just blazes on through. And Jonathan didn’t have a problem with that. In fact, Jonathan didn’t have a problem with anything that Elvis Presley had chosen to do. From joining the army to movies like Tickle Me and Clambake. Some decisions, admittedly, were better than others. But as far as Jonathan Roberts was concerned, the King could do no wrong.
His ambition—his dream—growing up, had been to meet Elvis. To shake hands, shoot the breeze, and see how much common ground they shared (Jonathan was positive they shared a good deal). This dream shattered on August 16th 1977, and was replaced with a new dream: to visit Graceland. It was forty-three hundred miles from London to Memphis, but Jonathan worked hard and saved harder, and in 1986 his dream came true. When he returned to England, he told everybody that it was everything he’d hoped it would be. Not exactly true. Memphis was fine. Less glamour—more poverty—than he’d been expecting. And Graceland was something of a disappointment. Sure, he had seen Elvis’s numerous personal artifacts, he had floated awestruck through the many rooms, and had shed a tear at Elvis’s grave in the Meditation Garden. But there was no sense of connection, spiritual or otherwise. He had fully expected a revelation of sorts…an epiphany. After all, he was tuned into the King on a unique and personal level, so it was a trifle disheartening to be shepherded through Graceland, and to be treated like just another of the multitude.
It was during this long-ago pilgrimage to Graceland—whilst appreciating the slick lines of Elvis’s pink Cadillac—that a new ambition was born. Inspired by Elvis’s version of “Promised Land” (his favorite song), Jonathan would—one day—hire a pink Cadillac. A ‘55 Fleetwood Series 60, just like the King’s. He would drive it across America and visit every city mentioned in the song, from Norfolk, Virginia to Los Angeles, California.
A new ambition. A new dream.
The Promised Land was calling.
Jonathan didn’t know it then, of course, but it was a call that would challenge his state of mind.
NORFOLK,VA.
Twenty-four years later, at the age of fifty-one, Jonathan decided it was time to make the dream come true.
He thought he was going to fall at the first hurdle: finding a pink Cadillac. There were plenty of classic rental companies across America that carried them, but they were mainly chauffeured, used for special occasions like weddings or proms. One-day rentals. Following exhaustive e-mails and telephone conversations, he found a handful of companies that offered long distance rentals, but the cost was astronomical. Factoring in transportation, insurance, and daily rental fees, it would cost thousands of dollars—perhaps as much as ten thousand—depending on how long it took him to drive cross-country. You also had to factor in the cost of gasoline. Jonathan was no expert, but he knew those old Caddy V8s were thirsty beasts. Then you had hotels, food, and entertainment. And he still had to get to the United States. Flights weren’t cheap these days. He worked in the post office for a modest salary; money was an issue. All things taken into account (and he went over the numbers again and again), renting a classic automobile and driving it from Virginia to California was going to cost too much money. Way too much. It wasn’t going to happen.
But Jonathan was a determined soul. Obstinate, some would say. He would not allow his dream to slip through his fingers without fatiguing every possibility. He flirted briefly with the idea of buying a pink Cadillac, reasoning that he could ship it back to England following his excursion, and perhaps sell it for a profit. However, the logistics of paperwork, taxes, and customs’ forms proved too troubling, and there was no guarantee he could sell a limited market car in such a worrisome economical climate. Not to be deterred, he visited classic car forums on the Internet and appealed to the demographic:
elvisfan55: Hi, I’m new to the forum. Does anybody know where I can find a pink Cadillac (preferably a 55 model year) to rent and drive across the USA, from Virginia to Los Angeles? It’s been my dream for a long time. Would appreciate any help. Thanx.
He even tried his luck on Twitter:
elvisfan55 #needed. Hoping to rent a #pinkcadillac for drive across USA. Will pay $$$ Please RT.
None of the responses were helpful—not to begin with, at least. Chinks of doubt began to appear in the armor of his dream, and he considered a compromise. If he couldn’t make the journey in a classic, custom Cadillac, maybe he could rent a new model. Leather seats and air conditioning. Keyless ignition and GPS. He could go in style.
While the idea had appeal, it wasn’t the dream. The pink Cadillac was the dream, and just as Jonathan was beginning to despair, he received an e-mail:
hi. got your email from a freind on the american clasics internet website. he say’s you are loking for a pink cadilac to drive cross the country. i may be able to help. i have a 1955 fleetwood series 60 that i have sold to a buyer in Anaheim Ca. shes as pink as a babie’s ass. need to get it their quickly. i am in Birmingham alabama. My phone # is 205 555 1230. let me know if your intrested. sooner is better. thanks.
Jonathan was so excited that he could barely contain himself. He called the number right away, forgetting about the six-hour time difference, dragging the owner from his bed at four in the morning.
“What in Jesus’s sweet name time do you call this? Get gone, goddam you. Call me back when it’s dark over there.”
He was beside himself, pacing so tirelessly that Julie, his wife, had to take him shoe-shopping just to take his mind off it.
“What do you think of these?” she asked, parading a pair of faux leather casuals with a low heel. He kept running through the e-mail in his mind. It was a ‘55 Fleetwood Series 60. Exactly the same as Elvis’s. As pink as a baby’s ass. The owner lived in Birmingham, Alabama—one of the cities mentioned in “Promised Land.” It was on the itinerary. In fact, in the song, the poor boy rides the Greyhound from Norfolk to Birmingham. He could do the same. Perfect. Ride the ‘hound to Alabama, then hop in the Caddy and roll to L.A.
“They’re wonderful,” he said.
“You’re not even looking at them.”
“I am. They suit your feet.”
“Honestly, Jon, I take you shopping to try …”
He waited as long as he could, clock-watching, subtracting six hours. Eleven A.M. in Alabama. Too early? Maybe the owner was a late riser. Give him time to get up, scratch his ass, grab some coffee. Call me back when it’s dark over there, he had said in his grumpy four-in-the-morning voice. But it was June, and it didn’t get dark until nine P.M. He couldn’t wait that long. No way.
One-thirty in Alabama. Jonathan called.
“Yes, sir,” the owner said. His name was Stan Lannett. “She’s a creampuff, all right, except for a little ding in her front end. But she rides like air, and she’s little-girl-pink. That’s what you wanted, right?”
“Exactly, yes,” Jonathan said, fighting to curtail his enthusiasm. “Just like Elvis Presley’s Cadillac.”
“I tell you this right now,” Stan Lannett started, “I could drive her to Graceland and do the old switcheroo with that one parked in Elvis’s driveway, and nobody would ever tell the difference. Except for that little ding, of course.”
Fireworks were exploding in his soul. His mind sizzled. “That sounds wonderful, Mr. Lannett. I wonder if it would inconvenience you to e-mail a few photographs?” He didn’t need the photographs. He knew exactly what the car looked like. Every line. Every detail. But they would fuel his excitement, and, furthermore, confirm that this was real—that it was happening…the dream was happening.
“Well, I ain’t so technical-minded,” Lannett said. “I got a computer, ‘n all—won it at the Bingo, but I don’t know frick about it. Junior set it all up. Maybe I can get him to take a few snaps and send ‘em to you. He lives way out in Macon, though, so no promises.”
“I understand, Mr. Lannett.”
“Just Stan.”
“Stan…yes, of course.”
“I’ll see what I can do. In the meantime I got two questions for you: do you want to do this? And when can you get out here?”
“Oh, my goodness,” Jonathan said. “Well, it’s going to depend largely on how much money you want.”
“Money?”
“I assumed there would be a charge?’
There was a long silence, broken by Lannett’s creaky drawl: “Say…five hundred bucks? No. Seven hundred.”
Jonathan paused. That cagey bastard, he thought. He wasn’t going to charge me at all. I’m doing him a favor here. He was probably able to bump the selling price without a transportation fee, and sell it quicker in the bargain. Cagey old git.
Still, seven hundred dollars to drive a pink Cadillac (a ‘55 Fleetwood Series 60, for the love of God) across the USA was better than he could ever have dreamed of. Chump change, compared to what the rental companies wanted. However, he felt that Stan was trying his luck, pulling a fast one. And Jonathan didn’t take to people pulling a fast one. He decided to call his bluff:
“Seven hundred dollars seems like a lot of money, Stan, considering we’re scratching each other’s backs here.”
“Yeah,” Stan said. “Shit happens. Cry me a river.”
“Indeed,” Jonathan agreed. “And I would imagine your buyer would want to renegotiate the selling price if he suddenly had to pay a sizable transportation fee.”
He could almost hear Stan frowning at the other end of the li
ne.
“Seeing as we’re helping each other out,” Jonathan continued. “How about I pay for my own petrol? It seems only fair, considering I shan’t be taking a direct route.”
“I don’t want you running up the goddam miles,” Stan snapped. “She was sold with one-thirty-eight on the clock. We’ve allowed for the journey, but don’t think you can hit California by way of Alaska.”
“Not at all,” Jonathan assured him. “The itinerary is six days, maybe seven. Two thousand, three hundred and sixty-five miles. Exactly.”
“Maybe so,” Stan said. “But I don’t know you from Jojo Schmo. How do I know you’re not going to haul ass with my car? If it don’t get delivered, I don’t get paid.”
“Well, you don’t have to worry about that, Stan,” Jonathan said. “I’m not going to steal your car. And if I was, seven hundred dollars wouldn’t dissuade me. This will have to be one of those trusting, gentlemanly agreements. The same way I trust that you won’t change your mind after I spend almost seven hundred pounds on a flight.”
Stan grumbled, but said nothing.
“Do we have a deal, Stan?”
“Two hundred bucks,” Stan countered. “Wear and tear for the extra miles.”
Jonathan smiled. “That sounds fine. And fair.” Even though he thought it fairer to give his two hundred dollars to the chap who had bought the car. “And I’ll pay for the petrol.”
“Damn right you will,” Stan said. “And I don’t know about petrol. She runs on gas, and lots of it.”
“Of course. Gasoline. T’may-toe. T’mar-toe.”
“Huh?”
“Quite.” Jonathan’s excitement surged. He imagined cruising along a fat American highway with the windows down, the V8 rumbling, waving at truckers and pretty girls. It was going to happen. His dream was coming true. The fireworks in his soul were extremely loud and colorful. He took a deep breath.