Elvis Takes a Back Seat

by Leanna Ellis

  “In his own house?” I ask as we walk past a wall of gold records. It’s a dazzling tribute to all that Elvis contributed to the music scene and our culture. Yet apparently the gates out front did not protect him. He may have been the King of Rock ’n’ Roll, but he wasn’t even the king of his own castle.

  “Sometimes he liked to make a grand entrance. Coming down that staircase in style.”

  Ivy walks up to us in the carport. “I didn’t see any place that could have been the spot for the bust.”

  “Of course, it’s been years since it disappeared,” I say. “They wouldn’t have left an empty spot, would they?” I’m embarrassed now that that’s exactly what I was hoping for— an empty space preserved with a framed marker explaining how the bust was stolen years ago and that there was still a reward for its return. A stupid hope.

  “Should we ask?” Ivy suggests. “Like, hey, y’all been missing a butt-ugly Elvis head?”

  I laugh. “Something like that. But who would we ask?”

  Ivy waves toward a staffer.

  “Ivy,” I call, but she ignores me and walks over to a man who is wearing all black. “I’m not so sure that’s a good idea,” I say to Rae.

  “It doesn’t belong here,” she says.

  “How do you know?” I ask, still watching Ivy, who looks more like she’s flirting with the staffer than asking about Elvis.

  “I know.”

  “Then why’d we come?”

  Rae smiles confidently. “Everyone should come to Graceland when they visit Memphis. It’s like going to Mecca. Or the Wailing Wall.”

  “The wailing what?” Ivy asks, walking back over to us.

  “It’s considered a holy place, a shrine,” Rae explains.

  “There’s been no bust stolen,” Ivy says. “So are we done here, or what?”

  “We have to see his grave.” Rae steps toward the pool and the walkway leading toward the meditation garden. We follow after her. With a glance over my shoulder, I realize the staffers are watching us closely, as if we’re looking to walk off with a piece of Graceland.

  * * *

  A RESPECTFUL, QUIET crowd has formed a line slowly moving past the grave of Elvis’s grandmother. Once they reach Elvis’s resting place and the eternal flame, they take pictures—flash photography is allowed here—and take their time reading the long epitaph written there. Some even whisper, “Good-bye,” or, “I love you.” Then they pay their respects to Elvis’s father and mother, the line disbanding there as the guests linger, not wanting to end their stay at Graceland.

  The woman ahead of us carries a bouquet of wilting flowers. Tears run down her face. The couple behind us in line giggle. Ivy keeps asking questions about the Moorish stained-glass windows we pass as we walk along the brick pathway, getting closer and closer to Elvis’s grave. I glance at Rae, nervous for her seeing the site for the first time. But she looks calm except for a slight plucking of her sleeve.

  I ask, “Are you okay?”

  “Sure. It’s not the same as you, Claudia.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “When you visit Stu’s grave, you mourn him. For yourself. You’re in the midst of grief. I grieved for Elvis many years before he died. I grieved his loss of freedom. I grieved that I couldn’t help him.”

  “I couldn’t help Stu either.”

  She clutches my hand, and I realize she understands my loss more than I ever imagined.

  “Jeeze, it’s hot.” An overweight man ahead of Rae swipes his forearm along his face. “I gotta get me a beer. Are you ready, Betty?”

  Betty elbows him in the gut. “What a tragedy.” She wipes tears from her eyes and lays a bouquet of flowers along the wrought-iron fence. “So young.”

  “Boy, did I love him.” A woman behind us smacks gum. “I did. He loved me, too.”

  I glance back at the woman with an old-lady hairdo sprayed into place. Others start looking at her too.

  “He did,” the woman argues with the silent accusations. She readjusts her fanny pack around her wide waist. “In 1970, I saw Elvis in Houston.”

  “Where?” someone asks.

  “At the Astrodome.” She lifts her chin indignantly, as if irritated her story has been challenged.

  “In concert?”

  She props her hands on her ample hips. “Well, I weren’t there to see football.”

  “He said he loved you?”

  “Sure ’nuff. I was up on stage. Yes, sir, I was. Crawled my way up onto the stage. The guards didn’t take kindly to that. So they grabbed me and started carrying me off. I hollered for Elvis. And he looked over, saw me, and did that kinda secretive smile of his. I yelled, ‘I love you, Elvis!’ and he said, ‘I love you, too, baby.’”

  Her story silences those around her into submission. Apparently, none of the others saw Elvis in concert or had the nerve to jump on stage to get close to him. I nudge Rae, wondering what all these people would say if she told them she’d actually known Elvis, spoken to him. I notice she’s smiling secretly to herself. But I know she won’t share her story. Some secrets are best kept private.

  The brazen woman’s companion readjusts his baseball cap. “I didn’t care much for his music.”

  The Elvis attacker glares at him. “Well, I never!”

  “Sissy boy, is what I thought.” Another man postures beside them, already edging toward the exit.

  “He weren’t no sissy,” pipes up a burly man wearing a leather jacket like it isn’t pushing 90 degrees in the shade. “He had a black belt.”

  “Two,” someone else says.

  Then I realize Rae’s standing at the foot of Elvis’s grave. The splashing of water falling in the fountain behind the semicircle of four graves swallows the words of those chattering around us. I give her room, remembering when I stood beside Stu’s grave for the first time. I read the engraved stone over and over as if that would make me finally believe. But the impact of losing him came at night when I crawled into bed alone, when I ate meals alone, when I wanted to tell Stu something and realized he was gone. I imagine Rae’s loss was felt long ago when something happened and Elvis no longer called, no longer remained in her life. Loss, I’m beginning to understand, comes in many shapes and sizes, but the emptiness throbs with the same beat.

  Those behind us grow restless, coughing, clearing throats, whispering, and edging forward. I want to give Rae the time she needs, but obviously the others want their own time with Elvis.

  “Rae?” I whisper, reaching out to her. Slowly Rae turns toward me, her face a closed mask. But she reaches out and takes my hand.

  * * *

  THE HOUSE REFLECTED the sixties and seventies in all their gaudy fashions, but the museums of Elvis memorabilia, from cars to costumes, reveal more of the man. By the time we reach the last elaborate jumpsuit, I’m thinking someone should have said, “Elvis, are you sure you want to wear this? Maybe we should rethink this.” So it wouldn’t surprise me if Elvis had a bust of himself commissioned, as his tastes seemed to grow more ludicrous during the years of the heavy gold jewelry and intricately beaded jumpsuits. But nothing gives me a clue as to where the bust came from.

  Tired from walking, we stop for a burger and fries at an old-fashioned diner near Elvis’s plane, Lisa Marie. It’s more of an early dinner than a late lunch. I give Ivy several quarters for the jukebox, but she comes back and says, “It only had Elvis music.”

  “Well, maybe we’ll hear some different tunes when we go to Sun Records this afternoon.”

  We decide to take the Cadillac rather than the shuttle to the historic recording studio. We take the ten-dollar tour, and I find myself standing next to the microphone used by Elvis Presley, Johnny Cash, and Jerry Lee Lewis. I wonder if Stu ever came here. Rae buys a T-shirt for Ivy and a CD of Sun’s hits for the car. At this point anything is welcome if it’s not Elvis.

  By 5:30, I plop down into one of the chairs in our joined living area. The Elvis bust holds its own secrets as easily as Rae. I wish he could spea
k, tell us where he came from, where he needs to go. I remember feeling a similar desperation after Stu endured his first brain surgery. I wanted to shake him in recovery, see his eyes flutter open, talk to him again, know he was going to be okay.

  “What do you want to do now?” Rae asks.

  “I want to find where Elvis belongs and go home.”

  “I’m gonna call Dad.” Ivy heads to her room and closes the door behind her.

  Before the trip I searched the Internet, googled for anything relating to an Elvis bust. But I found nothing. No old newspaper articles. No conspiracy theories on a fan’s Web site. And now I don’t know what else to do. “This is like looking for a needle in a haystack.”

  “He’s a bit larger than a needle.”

  I start to laugh but can’t summon the energy.

  “I haven’t been there before, but I’ve heard … Well, I think it’s our only option.” She settles her hands in her lap.

  “What do you mean? Where?”

  Rae stands and slides her bare feet back into her clunky sandals. She wears a silver bracelet around one ankle. “It’s a club. Not far from here, I think. On Beale Street.”

  That’s close to where we were earlier at Sun Records. “A club. You mean, a bar?”

  “Something like that.”

  I hesitate, glancing at the closed door to the girl’s room. “What about Ivy?”

  “What about her?”

  “Will they let her in?”

  “Of course. You’re her guardian.”

  “Ben’s going to kill me.”

  “It’s not a strip club. It’ll be fine.”

  Reluctantly, but having no other suggestions, I knock on Ivy’s door.

  “Yeah?”

  I twist the knob and peer inside. Ivy swipes her arm over her eyes. I’m not sure if she’s been crying or is simply tired.

  “How’s your dad?” I ask.

  “How should I know?” She’s lounging across the bed. Her tone implies she doesn’t care.

  “He wasn’t home?”

  She shrugs. Maybe she simply needed an excuse to get away from us for a while. I can imagine what it must be like to troop around with two older women all day. Exhausting for a teenager.

  “Oh. Well … are you okay? Your stomach still doing okay?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Good. We’re going to a club to look for clues.” I think. “To find where Elvis belongs.” I hope.

  “Okay.” But she doesn’t move to get up. Her foot swings back and forth along the side of the comforter.

  “Leave in five minutes?” I ask.

  “Y’all go ahead. I’m gonna stay here. I’m tired.”

  “But—”

  “I don’t need a babysitter.” Her tone takes on an edge.

  I tread carefully. “Do you feel okay?”

  “I’m not five.”

  “I know.” I glance back at Rae. She shrugs her thin blade of a shoulder as if she’s unconcerned. “We won’t be long. You’ll be all right here?”

  She gives a heavy sigh, like she’s bored.

  I don’t know what to say. I’m not sure what to do with a teenager anyway. Just this morning we were a team, or so I’d thought. Now I feel distanced from her. It would simplify matters if she stayed in the suite. That way I won’t worry about taking a juvenile into a bar. I turn back to Rae. “How long do you think we’ll be gone?”

  “It’s not far,” Rae says.

  “Okay, we’ll be back in an hour … maybe two. Will that be all right?”

  “Whatever.”

  “We could go to a movie after. Or maybe get ice cream.”

  “You don’t have to entertain me.”

  “I know. I just thought it might be fun.”

  “Whatever.”

  “You’re sure you’ll be all right?”

  “Positive.”

  “Okay. Call me on my cell if you need anything. You have the number, right?”

  “Yeah.” Her tone becomes huffy.

  Reluctantly, I leave Ivy in the room alone while Rae and I go on an adventure of our own.

  Chapter Twelve

  Devil in Disguise

  Steel guitar and smoke make the air in the bar fairly sizzle as we enter Double Takes. Elvis, a real flesh-and-blood sort, stands on a small stage at the front of the club, surrounded by tiny tables and ardent listeners. On a neon sign outside, the club boasts the “Best Elvis Impersonators, Better than Vegas.” I check my embarrassment at the door.

  At least I’m not screaming and offering the Elvis wannabe on the stage my hankie to wipe his sweat. Some other woman does that. She’s obviously had too many of the drinks the male waiters—dressed in Elvis-esque jumpsuits—have to offer. Although Rae is much bolder than I, I can’t imagine her behaving in such a way, even with the real deal. Maybe because she wasn’t so ardent, Elvis was more intrigued by her.

  After being seated in a booth toward the back, I’m grateful for the distance from the stage. The impersonator looks more like the Elvis of the seventies, with thick black sideburns and rounded belly. He struts and karate-kicks in a silver-and-gold-studded white jumpsuit with white fringe dancing about him. Sweat flies with each move, making me cringe. If someone—and I don’t care if it was Elvis, the Dalai Lama, or even Stu—handed me a sweat-soaked hankie, I’d hold it by the tips of my fingers and drop it in the nearest washer.

  I still have too many memories of Stu hugging the toilet as I handed him washrags. And the nosebleeds … there were too many sodden rags, too many damp sweaty pajamas, too many horrors. Once when Stu was far into his chemo treatments, he lay on the bathroom floor and joked, “I’m goin’ out like the King.”

  Rae touches my arm. “A different world, isn’t it?”

  I glance at the dark walls, flashing lights, and eager fans. “Definitely.”

  A wry smile touches her lips, then broadens as the waiter in a jumpsuit open to his navel arrives. We place our order and the waiter says, “Thank you. Thank you very much.”

  “Does this bring back memories?” I ask. Or nightmares?

  “Some. Not of Elvis. The Elvis I knew … well, he wasn’t on stage. I wasn’t in this environment much. But I’d seen him on television, watched women swooning when they saw him.”

  I lean forward, propping my elbow on the table, my chin in my hand. “So was he worth swooning over?”

  Her eyes twinkle. “He was beautiful. His eyes …” She sighs. “And he had a fabulous mouth. And that voice … well, it could melt you from the inside out.”

  I smile, wishing I’d had someone who had melted me that way. But I suppose Elvis was one of a kind. Not everyone had an Elvis in her life. And it didn’t mean I hadn’t loved. I had. Stu just wasn’t a celebrity with heavy-lidded eyes, pouty mouth, and a voice to die for. But I’d loved him. I still love him and will always, with more of a real love than most of these women have an opportunity to experience with Elvis. I wonder if he ever had anyone truly love him.

  Stu’s life was cut as short as Elvis’s. “Elvis was forty-two,” he’d said. Forty-two. He’d accurately predicted his own death at the same age. Even though we hadn’t had riches or an extravagant lifestyle, Stu had claimed he had no regrets at the end. I wonder if Elvis was so fortunate. Stu had died with me beside him, holding his hands, with friends and family who loved him, but no ardent fans. Elvis had died alone on his bathroom floor. The stark contrast cut me to the core.

  The impersonator finishes the song with a flourish and begins what’s famously known as the American Trilogy. I’ve heard Stu play it often on his stereo. The sweat on the tanned impersonator’s skin glistens like diamonds in the spotlights.

  A woman wearing a sixties-looking outfit walks around carrying a case of CDs, photographs, and memorabilia. When she stops at our table for us to peruse her wares, I ask, “Do you carry bigger souvenirs?”

  “What did you have in mind, honey?” She winks.

  “A bust.” I keep my eyes from straying to her large, over
ly exposed one. “You know, of Elvis’s head. Do you carry things like that?”

  “No, but you might find one in a shop here on Beale Street, or even over on Elvis Presley Boulevard.”

  “Really? Are they common?”

  “Money can get you whatever you want.”

  It’s not the answer I’m looking for. And I doubt money can give anyone the elusive things most of us want, like love and security. Wasn’t Elvis proof of that?

  “Is Howie working tonight?” Rae asks.

  “Howie who?”

  “Restin.”

  “Oh … you mean Howard.” The girl beams. “Oh, sure. You know him?”

  Rae nods. “Can I send him a note backstage?”

  “Sure.”

  Rae scribbles a note on a paper napkin. I peek at the message. It reads, “The original Devil in Disguise.” Rae sends it along with a ten-dollar tip for the girl.

  “Who’s Howie?” I ask when the waitress has moved two tables away.

  “You mean Howard?” She grins. “Many things change, yet nothing does. He’s an old friend. I knew him when I lived here in Memphis. He worked for Elvis for a while.”

  “And what did the note mean?”

  Her eyes widen.

  “I’m sorry; I shouldn’t have read it. But—”

  She laughs, tilting back her head and letting her long hair fall in a silvery wave. “I was hell on wheels back then, and Howie was sweet on me. A year or so after I left, I wrote to Howie. It was pre-cell-phone days. Before e-mail, too. Letters went back and forth between us for a while. After Elvis’s song ‘Devil in Disguise’ came out, I signed my letters to Howie that way.”

  The lights on stage flash and swivel around in psychedelic colors. The Elvis impersonator swaggers about while singing “Rubberneckin’.” Rae taps her fingers to the rhythm and laughs.

  A few minutes later the busty woman comes back. She leans forward, revealing more of her cleavage than I care to see. Her eyes are fringed with what I guess are fake lashes. I wonder if everything in this place is a facade. “After the show,” she says, “Howard says to come on back. Just walk around the back alley and come through the stage entrance.”