Elvissey

by Jack Womack

  "We'll New York it Monday morning," Leverett said. "Set about arranging the American debut-"

  "I mean I wanta go home home."

  "Your reactions aren't appropriate," Leverett said. "I've said timeover-"

  "Home!" E screamed; Willy eased his head around, pressed his face against the glass and stared at what onwent, appearing disappointed that his assistance didn't seem called for.

  "Ah, me," said Malloy. "For a happy land, far away."

  E fetuscurled as before in his windowseat. "Isabel," Leverett said, shaking his head. "Handle this, please. We'll exit ourselves. Aware us when you've settled him."

  "Could be days-" Malloy began to say; Leverett took his arm and guided him outside into the central office, shutting the door behind them as they left. I waited until they were out of earshot, and even then whispered as I spoke to E.

  "We're alone," I said. "Speak. Tell me what's troubling."

  "You don't care," he said. "You just do this 'cause you have to."

  "That doesn't mean I don't care," I said. "You've said naught about homing of late. Why's the thought returned?"

  E sighed; hid his face against his updrawn knees. "I wish you all spoke English. I'll never get the hanga how you talk-"

  "Is it these surroundings? Is it what's oncoming? Why do you want to go home now?"

  "It's an evil world but that don't mean you should get away with everything," he said. "Even if you're God, especially so."

  "Agreed," I said. "But what-"

  "My mamma never did anything to me I shoulda killed her for. I shouldn't have got away with it, I shouldn't have-"

  "Did you?" I asked. "You're here. It's done, E, you can't guilt yourself-"

  "I still see her on the floor," he said. "She's still there."

  "She'll stay there, I expect-"

  "If you all hadn't come when you did," he said, "I'da called the police'n told 'em."

  "Would you have?" I asked. "It didn't seem so-"

  "And I'd be gone now," he said. "Real, real gone."

  "That's what's wanted?" I asked, discomfited to hear him dupe my husband's sound.

  "Always wanted," he said. "Always. No place for me, here or there, I guess."

  Taking his hand I led him away from the window, reseating him at the desk. Beneath his retrofitted mask his spirit's remnants showed, revealing a gleam that no Elvisoid could have ever caught. However younger he was than me, his face showed greater years than mine; I keened my gaze, observing him, trying to seize every shift his mind made. He hadn't cried for months, nor did he then; I imagined it was something he was no longer able to do.

  "You all've kept me hoppin' so I can't tell which way's up anymore," E said. "I don't belong here, I don't care what you all say. You all shouldn'ta ever come after me."

  "Agreed," I said. "Nonetheless, it's fait accomplied. So-"

  "Even if I wanted to stay, it wouldn't be right-"

  "You're talking of what's right after what you did to her?" I said. "To us?"

  "Somethin' got into me. I wasn't the person I am-"

  "Who are you, then? Do you know?"

  "I know I'm not who you all want me to be," he said. "I wanta go home, Isabel, that's all. You got a way to get me back, don't you?"

  Judy's compact Alekhine remained in my purse even as he asked me; when we were still allowed contact, I repeatedly intended to return it to her, and never had. It was reasonless to keep it; however well the other world suited John, it would only genocide me as it had my people, were I to ever return. Even so, I suspect I must have backminded the notion, sub- consciousing my thought: convinced myself that if matters here at any point overwhelmed sans relief, I had an exit readied that I couldn't call suicide.

  "You do, don't you?" E asked me again.

  "No," I told him. "This world terrorizes you so much you'd rather return and suffer penalties in the other?"

  "I'm not scared," he said. "Not really. Just sick of it all. I don't think this's doin' much for anybody involved."

  He closed his eyes and grimaced, expressioning a look suggesting that his head ached so much as mine still did. E may never have learned our world's way; he understood only too well our worldview.

  "As I understand, Sunday'll be the main public show," I told him. "Afterward, you'll be left more on your own. You can have time to think, once you're alone-"

  "You sure I'll be left alone?" he asked. "Everything Leverett tells me's different, anytime I ask. How do I know I won't be doin' this every week?"

  "The strain's too great," I said. "Not just on you, but on him. On me."

  "I just can't take it much longer. I can't."

  "Perform as desired Sunday night, E," I said. "If I can get you back afterward, I will. This has to go as planned. Once it's done, once you've had time to consider, then we'll see. Will you agree, for my sake if none other's?"

  "You'll get 'em to send me back after it's over?" he asked, monotoning as before.

  "I will," I said. "Am I trustable? Keeping minded that I'm Dero, after all-"

  He smiled, without evidencing happiness; appeared to have calmed, all the same. "Trust you more'n I trust Leverett," he said. "All right."

  "Fine," I said, feeling myself drained of energy if not emotion; wanting nothing more than to let drop awareness, and fall to the floor. "Earplay, meantime-"

  "Hey, Isabel, are you all right?"

  "Why question?"

  "You're gettin' fat," he told me.

  I smiled; each day I showed more, or so I believed. As of the afternoon before, my baby still rested whole and alive within me. "I'll be getting exercise enough while I'm here, certain. Leavetime, now. I have to have an hour or two of sleep, whatever Leverett thinks. I'll be back this evening, predeparture."

  When I stepped out of the office I saw that John had supplanted Willy. My husband looked as he did each time I phoned him; seeing him fleshed and not screened for the first time since we'd left each other comforted so much as troubled, against all expectation. He took my hand as I started past him; I let him hold it. His copy of Knifelife and his fruitbag protruded from his jacket's pockets.

  "We're hotelled together," he said. "Did you know?"

  I shook my head; glanced at his face briefly, unwilling to hurt either of us overmuch. "It's good to see you."

  "Mutual." As he sat, and I stood, his gaze leveled toward me stomachways; when I saw nothing in his look evidence anything untoward, I allowed myself one final fantasy: that, my absence heartfonding him, he would have reconsidered our life together, reappraised its bests and worsts, readied himself to lay claim to fatherhood, and so have finally regooded. It was a lovely imagining, and faded so quickly as it came.

  "You'll accompany us, this eve?"

  "It's an unguarded trip, to lessen attention," he said. "If you're back by midnight, can I visit momentslong?"

  "It'll be late, John, and what'll occur meantime-"

  "To talk?" His hand tightened around mine; the clasp wasn't enough to hurt, and his eyes evidenced sorrow enough for the both of us. I nodded, unable to pull myself away before agreeing.

  "Where's the event?" I asked that evening, as we streetshot; the car grounded and lifted repeatedly as it careened west along Oxford Street.

  "King Charles Memoritorium," said Malloy.

  "Your worshipers may strike you as being somewhat off," Leverett told E, who sat sandwiched between the two of us; Malloy was jumpseated across, clouding the car with eyestinging smoke. "In pursuing your love they often neglect their social skills."

  "Social skills?" E asked, headshaking. Our car nosed upward, missing a fire-vehicle, pruning a line of palms as it skied.

  "Human interaction," Leverett explained. "Communicating one's desires within a multiperson context."

  "Using implements, eating," said Malloy. "Washing at intervals, if only to alleviate scabies."

  E nodded, flipping curls away from his face and shades; Leverett insisted he go wigged, to avoid speculation or com ment, and so E
was domed with a mop-like tangle of dreads. "Crazy," he said. Our car ascended another several meters, shortcutting across Hyde Park. "These people about the same here as they are in the US?"

  "A global unity of spirit solidifies them, regardless of difference," said Leverett. "England is the nodal focus of all theory, still. They've devoted more time here to developing the conceptual theology."

  "Like a caning eventually leads one to leather goods," said Malloy. "Sixty percent of the population here are believers, mind you. That's including agnostics; they'll at least buy the tapes. No offense myself, El, but as regards pop of the period I always preferred the Chairman to the King-"

  "That's disallowable, as circumstanced-" Leverett said. E stared windowways; I eyed the door's lock, certifying that it was on. The car's interior lit up as we regrounded, whitening within as if we were underwaying transfer.

  "Here we are, then," said Malloy. The King Charles Memoritorium stood in the north end of Hyde Park; was the north end of the park, if its parking facilities surrounding were included. The structure's searchlit hulk appeared as a glass rhomboid, enwrapped by cerise and lime-green ribbons. From the neontubed cornice hung a banner proclaiming LONG LIVE THE KING. Whether the sentiment pertained to the place's late namesake or to the object of worship was immediately unguessable. Our driver stopped at the main entrance, which was done in an engorged Palladian mode: winking blue bulbs outlined the fanlights above the fifteen-meter-high doors, plasmas bubbled up the transparent pilasters alongsiding; it resembled a jukebox, designed by Inigo Jones. In less than twenty minutes we'd cleared the detectors and entered the central lobby; "Girls, Girls, Girls" was being broadcast at jet-engine volume.

  "Where now?" I asked, shouting over the din.

  "We'll ankle a bit, and sponge up atmosphere," said Malloy. The building's multilevels were all occupied by those convening. The Memoritorium, within, was reminiscent of one of the newer air terminals, or of a suburban mall whose stores hadn't yet opened. The London ElCon, hardheeling as it did in the Elvissey weekend, attracted believers from all continents; we'd arrived as most evening events were already underwaying, leaving the halls less crowded than I'd feared they'd be. Nearly all of those visibled wore participant ID pinned to their chests, though as observers we wore only our logo, and company name. Most people seen nondescripted; they could have been anyone. That, to Leverett, was what most problematicked, for how could what was hidden ever be controlled? Others in attendance manifested their belief plain, wearing clothes spoored by years along the Elvis trail, or singing topvoiced as they strolled, earphoning tunes that might have been favorites of theirs, if none other.

  "Seven of the more agreeable groups are present, so well as an exaltation of Interpreters," said Malloy. "That is agreeable, in that there's little chance of intersectarian pogroms ensuing, though a certain friction's to be expected. Desired, even."

  "What's the matter with these people?" E asked.

  "Nothing's wrong," said Leverett. "They're yours, all of them. They believe, they follow. See them, love them-"

  "They all look like they got hit over the head with somethin' and don't know it yet," E said.

  "Incoming," Malloy said. "Behave yourselves, now."

  A man approached us, padding over on ropesoled feet; he carried twice the weight that Elvis ever lugged. The pullover he wore bore a photo of the King, legended round with the words ONLY RESTING. Standing before us, blocking the hall with his mass, he studied each of us in turn; drooled as he read Malloy's lapelled ID, wiping his mouth with a dirty cloth afterward. "I never heard of you before," he said; his accent was unplaceably, but unmistakably, American.

  "Then we're even," Malloy said, walking away, raising his head as if to pose for a portrait. We followed.

  "Note that, Isabel," Leverett said, once we were out of earshot. "A grown man in this century who's never heard of Dryco. Now do you understand?"

  "Generally the likes of Porky there overstuff these events, as I gather," said Malloy. "Seminars and theory groups are ongoing in these quarters," he continued, gesturing toward a row of double doors. "Let's see what's ongoing." A ribbonscroll running above the entranceways listed events and the rooms in which they might be found; most of the allusions were so arcane that I had difficulty comprehending what material was being covered in what way, my indepthing in Elvisiana notwithstanding. "Recent Sightings, over here in Chamber Three. Let's eavesdrop."

  Malloy led our quartet into the darkened room, careful not to disturb the meditative state of the onlookers within. I stared at the dais, where a middleaged man aimed a pointer toward a screen behind him.

  11 -this is the conclusive, right here," he said, sounding so American as the man in the hall. A blurry snap of a blond woman wearing glasses imaged on the white glow silhouetting him. A low murmur rumbled through the audience's midst; a woman in a babushka stood and pointed at the screen, speaking with a French accent.

  "Is a photo of a woman," she said.

  "The King held the camera." The audience accepted his word as truth; the most unnerving hush settled over all, even the inquiring woman. Before the speaker could proceed we exited; once we'd halled ourselves I doublechecked E.

  "What's thought?" I asked him, lowvoicing as best I could and still be heard.

  "They're crazy, aren't they?" E said. "Ever' one of 'em."

  "You'd find similar percentages within any group," said Leverett, interrupting.

  "Ah," Malloy said, calling us from across the hall. "This bears a look. The Interpreters are meeting within. Follow, if you dare."

  E braked himself as we entered, and tried to turn away; Leverett seized his arm and pushed him forward as we dove into a sea of Elvii. "As I understand the subtleties, it's an open question as to whether the Interpreters are more shamanistic or fetishistic," Malloy told us, loudspeaking heedless of who might hear; none around us overted any opinion regarding his commentary. "Bit of both, I'd expect. They live their belief at all times, serving as example to all as to how the proper life should be led. Mind you, they can be temperamental."

  The gallery must have held five hundred Interpreters of all ages, sexes and colors crammed shoulder-to-shoulder. Every one wore black hair, puffed and upswept; each wore a polychromatic jumpsuit of trad design, if amateurish execution. Caucasoid males going in for fullest decolletage crisped and teased their chest hair; Asians, Indians or those not so natureblessed glued merkins to their pectorals-to their breasts, in the case of women. The room's humidity peeled the wigs up at the edges; some Interpreters appeared to have tucked furry animals into their bosoms as if to warm them. Nearly all were multinecklaced, with chains dangling icons and personal totems: twelve types of crosses, stars of David, swastikas, ankhs, watches, painted miniatures of the King, shrunken heads, bulls' ears, lightning bolts atop the initials TCB, weasels' skulls, crystals and chickens' feet. Feeling something bumping against my leg I stepped away, and looked down; a nongender-specific child grinned at me as it adjusted its bejeweled cape. The Interpreters stood chatting, comparing leg and hip wiggles, studying karate gestures, running ringed fingers over each other's scarves, headshaking in order to demonstrate proper methods for flopping one's hair; all radared the room, looking roundabout to see who might be the most real.

  "E," I said. "Are you all right?"

  "Get me out," he said; his face gleamed with sweat. As I laid my hand on his shoulder I felt his shake. "Please, Isabel, it's too much. Please-"

  "Leverett," I said, "this is madness overmuch. We're leaving-

  "Wait," he said; must have moved too carelessly, for at once he upset an Interpreter standing nearby.

  "Watch it, dad," he told Leverett, his accent decidedly Slavic. "My shoes."

  "Excuse," Leverett started to say; before he could distance himself the Interpreter took hold of his collar, drawing him back. "Unhand me, please-"

  "Hey, who are you?" the Interpreter said. "Why you here? Guys, look who I have. Is colonel Interpreter."

  The
Interpreter we'd offended was one of a larger contingent; examining his ID's nametag beneath the Elvis-head pin, I gathered that he and his compatriots were Bulgarian. They were barely contained by their white and red jumpsuits; by their size I estimated them to be miners, or even Olympic lifters. As Leverett struggled to loose himself from the Interpreter's hold, one of the others splashed a drink in his face; the surrounding crowd, including the child, laughed.

  "Please, don't-" Leverett said.

  "Our fault. Sorry," said the lead Bulgarian, lifting Leverett off the floor onehanded. More Interpreters were onlooking now, their eyes shaded with specs of many styles, their sneers uniform. "Let me dry you off, please." As he held Leverett he brought up his other arm, clipping his elbow against Leverett's face; blood trickled from Leverett's mouthcorner, and he staggered as the Interpreter let him go. I grasped E's waist and started guiding him doorways, trying not to bump anyone else.

  "Too bad, colonel. Hope you get better." The crowd around us laughed louder, and closed in as we withdrew. Malloy was so tall as any of them, though not so broad; blackclad as he was, from on high he must have appeared as flyspeck upon a pastel field. Placing one hand on Leverett's shoulder, he interposed himself between the Interpreters and us.

  "We're leaving, mate," he said, smiling as if something pleased him; nothing in his expression suggested any sign of upset. "Pardon the trouble. We'll be off-"

  "Can't you see we're Dryco?" Leverett said, his hands muffling his speech as he pressed them against his bleeding lip. Most Interpreters hearing the word remained reactionless; the Bulgarians, however, recognized its meaning.

  "Dryco?" said the one originally offended. "My father slaved thirty years for Dryco factory. Then thrown out like other trash when old."

  "Dryco killed my brother," said another. "You hate us. You hate all people."

  "Fuck Dryco," said a third.

  "It's been real," Malloy said, pushing us forward as he turned his back toward them, unmindful of trampling anyone else as he spurred us to flight. E was first through the door, shooting hallways as if from a pressure chamber; Malloy kept close behind me as I exited, holding tight grip on Leverett, guiding him along. "Don't run," he said. "It'll challenge them." So we quickly strolled through the halls, passing the exhibits and sales-stands, ignoring the stares of other attendees. I glanced behind me, hearing mobsound; saw the Bulgarians leading much of the room's populace after us. Not until we exited did they begin throwing anything, and then rather than rushing our party they stayed inside, cursing us as we dashed into the parking lot. For long minutes we lingered there, bathed in building-light, catching our breath.