Dream Angel : Heaven Waits

by Patricia Garber

  “Y’all never been down south to much,” Elvis started, and was quickly interrupted by a wave of screams.

  The outer edges of my mirage remained blurry, but the exquisite vision in front of me was crystal clear. My pulse surged when his lip curled into a smile from behind the microphone.

  “You just think you know what I’m going to do.” He drawled and the arena roared.

  Always the consummate performer, Elvis allowed the audience to simmer. He waited, with his thumbs hooked through his belt, his one leg keeping time with the bass-line beat. When he felt we were ready, he began to explain the story behind a song that everyone knew. With each word, the anticipation grew, until everyone agreed that scrumptious plant that grew out in the woods and the fields had magical powers. Everybody called it, “Polk Salad”.

  “Now that’s a Polk, h-up,” Elvis turned, drew a fist up, and with a thrust of his hip penetrated the air, “salad.”

  Women all around me screamed. The sight of such sexual prowess evoked their deepest fantasies. The passion that he induced from the stage was raw. He was, for all intensive purposes, making love to every woman in that audience and his little smirk told me he knew it.

  My own excitement was predestined to spill over the top, and like the thousands of others, I too found myself screaming out his name. Elvis! Elvis! Elvis!

  He looked down to me with an apprehensive smile that sank my heart into the pit of my stomach. His eyes were tender but they conveyed only sadness, and it was in that sadness that I saw a reflection of my own fears and grief. I stretched out my hand to him but he began to fade.

  No!

  “Samantha, honey,” a faint voice spoke.

  With my eyes closed tight, I smiled lightly at the sound of my name, spoken from lips that never failed to rouse me.

  “Sam,” the voice grew bolder.

  My eyes popped open to reveal a smirking Elvis. I squinted as the morning sunlight filled the car. The brilliance made keeping my eyes open difficult, but I could clearly see his steady gaze resting on me.

  Thank God, you’re still here, I thought with an audible sigh, and then blushed as his smirk spread into a wide smile.

  “Sweet dreams?” He beamed.

  “Yes, thank you,” I said, wondering what shade of red I was this time.

  Avoiding Elvis’ pleased face I turned and pushed myself up away from the door panel. A twinge of pain shot down my neck while I glanced around the empty parking lot, not at all understanding where we were. Then, off in the distance, I saw it, a small painted-many-times-over white clapboard house in a court yard. It was cordoned off by many other buildings not at all from the same era. Elvis followed my gaze.

  “Are we in Tupelo?”

  East Tupelo, Mississippi, was only ninety minutes from Memphis, and judging by the sun’s position, in an eastern sky, it had to be at least 8:00 am.

  How long had we been parked, I wondered, and was not surprised to find my angel listening.

  “Awhile,” Elvis said, rubbing the stubble over his chin. His eyes scanned over the landscape before returning back to me with a smile. “You were resting, and I was… enjoying the scenery.”

  The thought of Elvis watching me sleep had my heart all a pitter-patter. The idea of him patiently waiting for me to get the rest my body needed, that his did not, made me feel treasured and special. Maybe he was not as upset with me as I had previously believed. I could only hope.

  Outside my warm sanctuary, the sun looked fresh in a new day that could have passed for spring. But, when Elvis swung open the car door to exit, a crisp light winter breeze reminded me otherwise. I grabbed my coat, and together we stepped out into the day. While Elvis zipped up his waist-length jacket, I considered how he still looked time dated like a character from one of his own movies. I tried not to stare, but when he placed a felt hat on top of his head, I had to cover up my smile. He was the spitting image of 1967. My favorite year!

  ***

  Nestled in the middle of a quiet neighborhood, the park named after its famous resident, was not all that large. Constructed in an imperfect rectangle, and at half the size of a football field, it was framed by some of the oldest oak trees in town. Besides the residence, the attraction offered visitors a museum, a shop full of souvenirs and two churches to explore at their leisure.

  Taking my hand, Elvis led the way. The spring in his step suggested he was happy to be home, and while he was busy admiring the landscape I struggled to contain my own excitement. I was in Tupelo. No, I was in Tupelo “with” Elvis Presley! This was every fan’s dream. I wanted to skip beside him, not walk.

  A million questions popped in to my head. What did he think of all the changes? Does the neighborhood look different, and if so how? My curiosity was insatiable, but I held it all in. In fact, it was only when he felt my heavy stare that he glanced down to me, and when he did, I returned with a grin so wide my cheeks hurt. He simply smiled back, giving my hand a tender pat before heading for his childhood home.

  We stood in front of the shotgun shack, a design that has always impressed me. What it lacked in size it made up for in charm. The efficient layout is long and narrow, but open and without much separation of space. Heat was not wasted, and when needed breezes sailed through in the warmer seasons. It was undoubtedly a house representing its time, and the times were rough.

  When Elvis let go of my hand, I turned to see him absolutely beaming. The serenity I saw in his eyes reminded me of what my daddy had once shared about how, when we pass on, we become all knowing. When Elvis stepped in closer to his home, his eyes shined with an understanding that said he no longer questioned why God handpicked him to be Elvis Presley. He had come full circle. And, for all the “whys” that had once haunted him while alive, he now had all the answers.

  The day was young, and Elvis was in no hurry. He strolled along the outer edges of the park, pausing here and there as if we had nothing but time. I should have felt at ease but I was on edge, and not wanting to be left behind, I quickly jumped in behind him. I followed him up the cemented path, to the middle of the plaza. I was hot on his heels. So much so, that when he turned back to see where I’d gone, he bumped in to me.

  A smile flickered across his lips. “Let’s, uh… just relax. Ok, honey?” He sounded with an extra measure of calm assurance that I was sure was for my benefit.

  I nodded my alliance, and held back the need to remind him that people do work in these buildings, and the start of the work day was coming fast. No doubt the “real” Elvis would not go so easily unnoticed in his home town!

  When he continued on up the path, I remained behind in a feeble display of independence. I’ll show him, I thought, but my stomach was already churning the minute he moved from my side. It was only when he stepped up to inspect a bronze sculpture of himself as a child, at the center of the park, did I manage to take my mind off of my worries.

  “The rest is history, so they say.” I spoke softly.

  “Is that what they say?” He asked, and then leaned in closer to inspect the details of the guitar. After a moment, he took a step back and seemed to ponder the small boy, destined to cross all racial lines long before he was twenty, with quiet admiration.

  “I wanted a rifle for my birthday, but mama wouldn’t hear of it.”

  “I thought it was a bicycle you wanted?”

  “No, that was my second choice,” he said, and then glanced at me sideways. “When they gave me the guitar, I played excited, for their sake.”

  To hear him speak of his family only reminded me of my own. Home suddenly didn’t sound so bad. And I found myself picturing my own childhood, a safe place full of family Sundays, and profound conversation around a dinner table. The memories were so clear; I could almost smell my mother’s cooking.

  Although deep in thought, I was torn from my daydream by the sound of an approaching vehicle. Quickly, my attention refocused to a black Ford truck rolling up the street. Now, a truck alone is not all-together odd, but one wit
h oversized tires and a tow wench strapped to the grill unnerved me. It had a menacing, and even more disturbing, familiar look. What was it that rang a bell of worry inside of me? I couldn’t place if it was the concern of discovery that had my hands quaking at my side, or the nagging feeling that I’d actually seen the vehicle before.

  I pretended to dig for something imaginary in my purse while monitoring its every move. I wanted to be sure that it didn’t make a sudden turn for the parking lot. And, if it did I’d do — I didn’t know what — but it would no doubt have supported Elvis’ earlier belief that I was way too jumpy.

  Breathe, Sam.

  The truck paused at the stop sign, and lingered only briefly before turning to head out of town. Once out of sight, I let out a sigh only to draw it back when a click followed by a hum sounded from the main building. I spun around. It was only the water fountain nearby. I quickly looked for Elvis, and found him standing near the brick museum up on the knoll. As he meandered along, showing no signs of even noticing the unexpected passer-by, my heart began to settle a notch.

  The resonance of cascading water echoed with a soothing sound, and I closed my eyes. I forced myself to concentrate on the smell of winter. The moist crisp scent of fresh dew on the grass, and the spice from a bark exposed birch tree close by, all lingering in the morning breeze. This was a new day, a day far from the confusion and the troubles of last night. I was going to get it right today, I promised myself.

  I had elected not to follow Elvis. I thought it best to give him privacy, a luxury he was denied in life. Besides, simply watching him as he read a series of six-foot plaques in front of the museum was a joy in itself. The way he stood, so erect, with hands behind his back and the fingers of his left hand clasped around his right wrist. He had air of sophistication, though he was uncommonly still. And because his broad shoulders blocked my view, I couldn’t see which section of the heartfelt sentiments, written in his honor, had captured his attention. I tried to envision the words from memory, but it had been too long between visits. And as time passed he brought his hands back to the front, and I smirked, envisioning him now fiddling with the ring finger of his left hand. It was a nervous habit, done without thought, but I found it endearing just the same.

  The tranquil sight of Elvis the angel, reading words left for Elvis the man, helped to further ease my nervous tension. And as I was beginning to consider if I shouldn’t just give up my watch, and go to him, he turned and headed back my way, towards the tiny shack. His blue eyes locked onto mine as he sauntered in a spellbinding strut that warmed me from head to toe despite a chilly morning.

  “Come sit with me,” he said, passing me to step up to his home.

  He took a seat on the small two-person porch swing that hung on the tiny veranda. He sat in typical Elvis style, knees set wide apart and his long legs stretched out across the deck. His broad smile was like that of a proud son returning home after a long time away.

  “Well, come on now. I can’t wait all day.” He patted the vacant seat next to him, insisting I join him on a bench swing that barely held two people.

  I looked to the “must-have-ticket” sign.

  “Ah, ignore that.”

  When I sat, he did not allow for any extra space between us. He merely lifted his arm and encircled my shoulders to bring me closer. Finally I was in his embrace, and my whole body seemed to sigh as I reclined against his sturdy chest, savoring the feel of his warm cheek against my own. This was what I required, what I needed, I thought as I closed my eyes to relish in the moment.

  “Comfy?” His breath tickled my ear.

  “M-m-m,” I purred while my blood warmed with ease as it always did when I was so close to this dreamy man.

  Slowly, he rocked us in the stillness of the morning. Of all my experiences in my young life, this moment could easily have been considered my best, my heaven on earth. Everything was perfect. We were alone. The birds were whistling a tune all around us, celebrating the sunshine that made the chill that much more bearable, and I felt safe.

  This was what I'd wanted back at Graceland. The thought came before I could stop it.

  “Are you telling me, Samantha Lynn, that after all your antics all you wanted from me was a hug?” His chest rumbled with a hearty chuckle as I let out a heavy sigh.

  “It would have been a good start,” I teased and felt Elvis’ lips brush my flushed cheek.

  “You do realize baby girl if we were to, uh,” he cleared his throat in my ear, “indulge in our human weaknesses, our situation would only become further complicated?”

  I was both distracted by his admission of having considered such desires while simultaneously puzzled over what exactly “our situation” was. I could not decide which mystified me more, why he came back or when he would leave. All I knew was his evitable departure felt like an anvil of doom hanging over my head. It swung ever so slowly, reminding me there were still so many words left unsaid between us. I’d escaped it once, but could I do it again?

  The last thing I wanted to hear was an angelic version of a Dear John speech spoken from his lips. I decided right then, if I had anything to say about it, I would avoid this “talk” my angel was so frantic to have back at Graceland.

  “Now Samantha, I want you to promise me, no more stunts.” Elvis’ voice suddenly turned serious.

  “What? Of course not,” I fumbled, batting my eyes and wondering which of all my actions, exactly, qualified as “stunts”. Probably, all of them!

  “Samantha, promise me now,” he demanded, not at all distracted by my efforts to appear innocent.

  I nodded, careful not to speak words that I might not be able to keep.

  “No. I want hear you say it.” He slowed the swing.

  “Okay, okay I’ll behave,” I said, and secretly crossed my fingers on both hands while he hugged me tighter.

  Satisfied, Elvis returned to swaying us once again. And when he began to hum a little tune, my content smile grew wider. I'm not sure if this random singing was a conscious act, a habit, or a way of relaxing more than anything else, but I was so entranced by the reverberation of his voice, I was instantly lulled into a dreamland. I went limp in his arms, brought back to reality when, to my surprise and right in the middle of the song, he lightly kissed the base of my neck. What was that for? I pondered while the feel of his soft full lips woke my desires, and I resisted the urge to turn and taste his mouth.

  “What’s your job in heaven?” I strategically shifted course.

  “Again with this job business,” he muttered and picked up my left hand.

  I bit down on my lower lip as I watched his hand engulf mine, and his long tapered fingers entwine with my own.

  “Well, how about your heavenly task then? My father preaches we’ll all have one, you know.”

  “Your hands are so delicate honey, just like the rest of you.” He said, now rolling my fingers over in his hand, and inspecting each one with interest.

  Once satisfied, he kissed them, and then placed my hand on top of his knee. He held it there, and his leg bounced with untamed energy under my palm. The air around us felt electric, and I couldn’t help but imagine what all that vigor might accomplish when properly focused.

  “I bet you follow God around all day singing to his every step,” I added, hoping to break the spell that was spinning my head. “That’s it, your God’s theme music!”

  My idea must have tickled him, because he dropped my hand, and placed a firm but quick peck to my cheek.

  “I do sing honey, but everyone sings in heaven.” He tilted his head so that he could see my face. “And, Heaven’s work starts right here on earth, you know.”

  “I-I don’t think I’ve been called to do anything special.”

  “Honey, everyone’s called. It’s just a matter of listening.” As he spoke, he curled dark strains of my hair around his finger. A quiver corkscrewed down my spine.

  “Even me?”

  “Especially you,” he whispered hot against m
y ear.

  What a flirt, I thought, and caught a glimpse of his smile. Admittedly, I loved our easy banter. We had this game we’d play. I’d act like I didn’t want his attention, and he’d try harder. It was childish, and usually reserved for the playground, but we enjoyed it. The problem was, on this day, he really was driving me mad.

  “Do you know what my calling is?” I prayed that he had missed the crack in my voice.

  “Baby, you smell so good,” he growled and snuggled closer, burying his nose deep in my hair. “I’d forgotten.”

  He wasn’t playing fair, but that was no surprise. Sure, Elvis had a quirky sense of humor, but he knew exactly what he was doing which only made me dig my heels in even more.

  “You’re not going to tell me, are you?” I said with a flat tone, hoping to suggest I was unmoved yet my jaw hurt from the clenching of my teeth.

  When he unraveled me from his embrace, he stood, and just stared at me for a moment. “Nope,” he finally said, smiling over me. I couldn’t help myself, I stuck out my tongue but his grin only widened.

  As he drew in a deep chest-widening breath, he gave me a wink, hoisted up his pants, and stepped off the porch. Without looking my way, he held out his hand and I didn’t hesitate to take it.

  “Let’s get you home, baby girl.”

  Chapter 11

  As we sped through the miles of predictable highway, soulful music filled the Escalade. As sad as it was, the blues guitar on the local radio station soothed me. I watched Elvis as he drove. He tapped lightly on the steering wheel, keeping with the beat. He had a smile on his face, but his eyes remained unreadable and shaded behind a pair of trendy aviators.

  I was pondering what my heavenly job might be when my stomach interrupted with a thought of its own.

  “When was the last time you ate?” Elvis turned toward me, but the dark tint kept his eyes hidden.