Hot Shot

by Susan Elizabeth Phillips

  It was irrational. He was feeling better and he couldn't justify what he was doing. Even so, he couldn't seem to change his course. He decided to go just a little farther with Angela-only a few more hours. Then he would have her drop him at one of the hotels on the interstate, where he would spend the night. In the morning he would call his driver so he would be back in time for his meetings.

  When he returned to the Toyota, Angela was sitting in the passenger seat holding two cans of soda pop and assorted packages of junk food. He got behind the wheel. She popped the top off one of the soda cans and handed it to him. He was thirsty, so he took a sip. It was overly sweet and awful. He couldn't remember the last time he had tasted soda pop. The second sip wasn't quite so bad.

  His suit coat was mussed and damp. He took it off and turned to lay it carefully over the backseat. Then he started the engine and pulled back out onto the road. "I'm not going much farther."

  "I don't even know why you're here."

  The thought sprang into his head that he was there because he didn't want to die, but that made no sense. He wasn't old, only fifty-nine. And he was an important man.

  He tried to distract the direction of his thoughts with a question. "Why are you doing this? Why is this so important?"

  "Elvis is Sammy's father."

  Joel snorted.

  "You don't believe me, do you? Nobody believes me." He could see her marshaling her forces, but then she turned to stare out the window. Several long moments passed, and her shoulders slumped in defeat as if she had just given up something precious. "I wish he'd been Sammy's father. I wish I'd been able to meet him. They tell such lies about him. That he wasn't faithful to Priscilla while they were married, that he used drugs and acted strange. I never believed any of it. Elvis loved the little people. He cared about people like me. Going to Graceland to pay my respects is the least I can do for him."

  She leaned back against the seat and eventually shut her eyes.

  The rhythm of the interstate and the soft Presley ballads playing on the Bakersfield radio station began to lull him. It was growing dark, and he turned on the headlights. It had been years since he had driven any distance himself. Angela fell asleep next to him with her mouth slightly open. He yawned, feeling relaxed for the first time in ages. Driving was good for him. He would do more of it from now on. That was all that was wrong with him. He just needed to relax more.

  The radio was fading, so that the words to "Kentucky Rain" were interlaced with static, but he didn't change the station. He noticed the St. Christopher medal affixed to the dashboard and a bottle of nail polish lying overturned on the floor. A litter bag advertising State Farm Insurance swayed from the cigarette lighter. He didn't feel sleepy, merely relaxed.

  Next to him, Angela's breathing came in soft, sibilant puffs. Her skirt had ridden up above her knees. He noticed that her legs in their dark stockings were good, but nothing about her stirred him sexually. He had never liked cheap women, not even when he was young. By the time he reached Barstow, she had tucked her legs under her.

  He had to stop again for gas around midnight. She woke up and took over the driving. He immediately fell asleep in the passenger seat.

  They crossed Arizona during the night, shifting drivers whenever they stopped for gas. The next morning they had breakfast at a truck stop near Albuquerque. Angela went to the rest room to wash her face, and when she came out, she had reapplied her makeup. Her figure in its purple stretch top attracted the attention of some of the truckers, and they watched her over the top of their coffee cups. Joel was embarrassed to be seen with her. He took comfort from the fact that no one knew who he was.

  When he went to the men's room to wash up, he saw a stranger in the mirror. His face looked bloated, his skin chalky and unhealthy, and his jaw was covered with stubble. Usually he shaved twice a day, so he wasn't reminded of the fact that his beard was mostly gray, but he didn't have a razor, so he splashed water on his face and looked down at the faucets instead of into the mirror.

  He wasn't conscious of the moment when he made the decision to go all the way to Memphis with her. He simply couldn't make himself do anything else. The driving was good for him, he told himself. He needed a vacation.

  As they approached the eastern border of New Mexico, Angela began to cry again. When he couldn't bear it any longer, he snapped at her. "Will you stop it, for God's sake. You didn't even know the man."

  "I'll cry if I want to. I didn't invite you to come with me. You can get out any time." She reached for the radio and spun up the volume. Since morning she had been listening to news reports coming from Memphis.

  "… the twenty thousand mourners who were lined up along Elvis Presley Boulevard this morning have now swelled to fifty thousand, all of them hoping for a chance to view the body of the King of Rock and Roll as he lies in state in the drawing room at Graceland. Vernon Presley, the father of the singer, has ordered that doors to the estate be opened to allow as many of his fans as possible to file through and pay their respects. Thousands of floral tributes have arrived from all over the world since yesterday after-noon, many of them bearing the simple inscription, 'To the King.' All of the mourners share disbelief that the King is dead…"

  Joel snapped off the radio dial. He didn't want to hear about kings dying. He didn't want to think about…

  Angela turned the radio back on. He gave her an icy glare-the glare that had intimidated heads of state and corporate presidents. She ignored it.

  Outside of Amarillo they blew a tire. The service station was dry and dusty and the heat rose in waves from the cracked asphalt. They sat at a rickety picnic table in the sparse shade of a dying ailanthus tree while they waited for a new tire to be put on.

  "Elvis gave so much to me," Angela said. "When I was upset or sad, when my husband Frank treated me like dirt, Elvis was always there. His songs made me feel at peace with myself. This might sound sacrilegious, but I don't mean it to be. Sometimes when I'd kneel in church to pray, I'd look up at the statue of Jesus. And then it would seem like it was Elvis hanging there. He sacrificed so much for us."

  Joel couldn't think of a single thing Presley had sacrificed except dignity, but he didn't say so. The woman was crazy. She had to be. But then, what did that say about him?

  "Did you go to high school, Joel?" she asked. It was the first time she had addressed him by name. He wasn't accustomed to women like Angela calling him by his first name. He would have preferred her to call him Mr. Faulconer.

  "I went to a military academy," he replied stiffly.

  "Did they have cheerleaders?"

  "No. Certainly not."

  "I used to be a cheerleader. I was one of the best." Softly, sadly, under her breath she began to chant, "We've got the team, we've got the steam, go fight. We've got the team, we've got the steam… I was so popular in high school. All the kids liked me because I was never stuck up, not like some of the other girls. I was nice to everybody. You know what I liked best about high school? Your whole life was ahead of you, and in your mind you made all the right choices. In your mind everything came out perfect. Not like real life, when you marry the wrong man and have trouble with your kid. Not like what's happened to you and me."

  He jumped up from the picnic bench so suddenly that it tilted, nearly unseating her. "Don't you dare presume to speak for me. My life is perfect. I wouldn't have it any other way."

  She gave him a look so sad that it cut right through him. "Then why are you going to Graceland?" she asked softly. "If your life is so perfect, why are you going with me to Graceland?"

  He turned away from her. High, dusty weeds spoiled the polish on his expensive shoes. A coffee spot marred the spotless white of his custom-made dress shirt. "I've been tired, that's all. I needed to get away. I need a rest."

  This time she was the one who gave a soft snort of disbelief. "Never kid a kidder, Joel. You're even lonelier than me."

  He wanted to strike out at her for her presumption, but he couldn't summo
n up words that were cruel enough. She came up behind him. A hand settled in the center of his back and rubbed gently, like a mother comforting a child. His eyes drifted shut with the pain of her soft, soothing touch.

  The service station attendant called out that their tire was ready. It was Angela's turn to drive.

  "God has Elvis now," she said as she merged with the traffic in the right lane. "I keep trying to tell myself that."

  "Do you really believe that?" he scoffed.

  "Don't you?"

  "I'm an Episcopalian. I give to the church. Sometimes I even attend, but-no-I don't believe in God."

  "I'm sorry," she said sympathetically. "I think it must be harder for men like you to believe. You have so much power that you start thinking you're God, and you forget how unimportant you really are. Then, when bad times hit, you don't have anything to fall back on. With me it's different. I've never been important, and I've had faith all my life."

  "God is nothing but a crutch for the ignorant."

  "Then I'm glad I'm ignorant, because I don't know what I'd do without Him."

  They continued their odyssey-Amarillo to Oklahoma City, Oklahoma City to Little Rock, Little Rock to Memphis-two middle-aged people on their way to Graceland, one of them mourning the passing of her youth, the other on his way to see death so he could make up his mind if he still wanted to live.

  They reached Memphis early Thursday morning. A crowd of several thousand had kept vigil at Graceland throughout the night, and it was already difficult to find a parking place anywhere near. Angela parked the Toyota in front of a fire hydrant some distance away. Joel badly needed a shower and clean clothes, as well as a decent meal. He thought of calling a taxi to take him to a hotel. He thought of a dozen things he could do, but he ended up walking to Graceland with her.

  The day was already heavy with humidity. Helicopters circled over the mansion, and all the flags they passed hung at half mast. The sight of the flags deeply disturbed him. It seemed inappropriate to mourn a rock and roll singer so lavishly. Would the California flags be flown at half mast when he died? He shook off the thought. He didn't intend to die for a very long time. When he got back home, he would see his doctor and tell him how badly he had been feeling. He would tell him about the tightness in his chest, about the fatigue and depression. He would get some pills, watch his diet, start exercising again.

  Although it was still early, souvenir hawkers plied the crowd that had gathered around Graceland's high brick walls and spilled out onto Elvis Presley Boulevard. Weeping mourners hugged Elvis T-shirts to their chests along with photographic postcards and plastic guitars made in Hong Kong. Joel found the vulgarity unspeakable.

  The funeral cortege would be emerging through Graceland's famous music gate, and Angela wanted to be able to see it all. Joel moved her to the front of the crowd that had gathered in the shopping center directly across the street. It took some time, but despite his disheveled appearance, people sensed his importance and made way for them. He noted the heavy police presence and numerous first-aid stations set up to tend to those who were fainting from heat or hysteria. The city officials were obviously worried about the temper of the crowd, which seemed to change indiscriminately from a noisy outpouring of grief to almost carnival gaiety. A woman in green rubber shower thongs told Angela that at four o'clock that morning a kid in a white Ford had jumped the curb and hit three teenage girls who were keeping vigil. Now two of them were dead. Life seemed increasingly arbitrary to Joel.

  Cars began entering through the music gate for the funeral service which was to be held inside the mansion. Angela thought she spotted Ann-Margret in one of them. Another bystander said he had seen George Hamilton, and there was a rumor that Burt Reynolds had slipped in through the back. It amazed Joel that these people actually cared about minor motion picture celebrities, not one of whom could possibly have been accepted for membership at his country club.

  Joel could probably have gained entrance to the funeral with nothing more than a few well-placed phone calls, but the idea repelled him. He was not a participant, but an observer of this plebeian carnival of loud voices and excessive emotions.

  The morning dragged on, and the heat grew so oppressive, breathing became difficult. He bought two rickety camp stools from a vendor. They sat on them in sight of the gates and waited for the funeral cortege to emerge.

  "What's important to you, Joel?"

  The question was presumptuous, so he remained silent.

  She lifted her hair off her neck and fanned herself with a flattened red and white cardboard popcorn box. "Sammy and my friends are important to me. Your daughter. Going to Vegas. Going to church. I like doing hair and being with my girlfriends. The old ladies laugh at my jokes, and I make them feel pretty again-I like that. But most important is Sammy." She set down the popcorn box and studied one fingernail where the purple-red nail polish had started to chip. "I know I embarrass him-the way I look and the kind of person I am-like telling a few people that Elvis is his dad. But I won't change, not even for him. I tried changing for Frank, and it didn't work. A person has to be what they are. I like wearing flashy clothes and having a good time. Otherwise, before you know it, you're fifty and you haven't ever lived."

  He was fifty-nine years old. Did she think she was talking about him? "I live on one of the most beautiful estates in California," he said coldly. "I have homes all over the world, cars, everything a man could possibly want."

  "Despite all that, I feel sorry for you."

  He was furious with her. Where did she get the audacity to pity him? "Save your pity for someone who needs it."

  "You seem to be missing out on all the good parts of life." Once again she began to fan herself with the popcorn box. "You don't believe in God, and you won't make up with your daughter."

  "You leave Susannah out of this!"

  "She's a special girl. She's kind and sensitive, and Sammy's probably going to hurt her. You should be there for her."

  "She doesn't deserve anything from me. She's made her own bed, and now she can damn well lie in it."

  "Sometimes the best part of loving somebody is loving them even though they've hurt you. Listen to me, Joel. Any fool can love somebody who's perfect, somebody who does everything right. But that doesn't stretch your soul. Your soul only gets stretched when you can still love somebody after they've hurt you."

  "Your husband for example?" he said scornfully. "You women are amazing. You let men walk all over you because you're too spineless to stand up to them, and then you hide your weakness under the cover of sacrificial love."

  "Loving never makes you weak. It's being untrue to yourself that does that. It's like with Sammy. He wants to make me over into somebody like Florence Henderson. That's how he is. He buys me things like little pearl earrings and white cardigan sweaters. I always thank him, but those things aren't my style, and as much as I love him, I won't let him change me. That's how I stay true to myself. So I keep saying my prayers and hoping one day it'll be better between us. It should be like that with you and Susannah. Just because she did something you don't approve of doesn't mean you should cut her out."

  His face was stony. "I refuse to have anything to do with someone who has betrayed me."

  "She wasn't betraying you. She was just following her own star. It didn't have anything to do with you."

  "It would be impossible for me to forgive her after what she's done."

  "But. Joel-that's what makes it love. Otherwise it's just shaking hands."

  He didn't want to think about what she'd said, but he couldn't help it. Was it possible that this cheap, gaudy woman knew something about life that had escaped him?

  Suddenly the music gate opened. A limousine as white as Elvis's Las Vegas show costumes crept forward, followed by another. Next to him Angela gave a dry, broken sob. One by one, sixteen white limousines passed in a mournful parade through the gate. People were crying. Tough-faced men and overweight women let tears fall unashamedly down their c
heeks. And then Angela clutched his arm as the white Cadillac hearse appeared-the hearse bearing the body of the King of Rock and Roll.

  Angela took a deep, shattered breath and whispered, "Good-bye, E."

  Joel watched the hearse turning slowly out onto the boulevard. He felt a sharp pain in his shoulder and rubbed it. He didn't want to ponder the fate of kings. He didn't want to think about his own mortality and why he had come on this strange odyssey, but suddenly the emptiness of his life pressed down on him with so much weight that he felt as if he were being pounded through the pavement into the dry, hot, Tennessee earth. He thought about what Angela had said-that the best part of loving was being able to love someone who had hurt you. He pressed his eyes shut and remembered just how badly Susannah had hurt him. But in the face of death and funerals, it no longer seemed to matter quite so much.

  And then he finally admitted how badly he wanted her back. He wanted Susannah back, and he wanted to be able to love Paige the way a daughter should be loved. He envisioned his family gathered around him at Christmas dinner with rosy-cheeked grandchildren at the table and Kay at his side-silly, frivolous Kay, who used to make him laugh and helped him forget the pressures of holding power.

  As he clutched his shoulder and struggled to breathe, he saw his faults stretched out in front of him like a long unbroken line on a sales graph. He saw his sins of pride and selfishness, he saw his small cruelties and his foolish belief that he could shape the world through the strength of his own will. He saw the arrogant way he had squandered the love of the people who cared for him.

  The pain gripped him, traveling from his shoulder down into his chest, and he thought of the little girl he had pulled from her grandmother's closet so long ago. She had given him perfect, unconditional love-the most precious gift of his life-and he had thrown it away. Panic swept over him as he realized all he had lost. Was it too late? Could he have her back?