Elvis Takes a Back Seat (11 page)

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 speak, 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.

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, overly 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.”

Rae thanks her and sips her Coke. She sings along with the entertainer, her voice low and husky.

“I guess you were right,” I say. “He does remember you.” How, I wonder, could anyone, even Elvis, forget Rae?

* * *

NIGHT HAS NOT yet arrived, but the sun is setting, shadows growing longer, and the light taking on a peach hue. We walk through the alleyway, past a dumpster and several dark doorways. The thick smell of stale beer and grease surrounds us. Music pours out of doorways. Depending on where we're standing along Beale Street and what store or restaurant we're near, we can hear B. B. King, Johnny Cash, or Jerry Lee Lewis. Right now “Great Balls of Fire” rocks the air around us. Rae sings along, giving a little shimmy with her shoulders.

My nerves tighten and my heartbeat quickens. I remember Ben's story of Stu's encounter with an Elvis impersonator on a dark road, and I glance over my shoulder. I wonder if Stu was nervous or scared. Knowing him, he'd have been wired to be around anyone or anything remotely Elvis. Rae doesn't seem nervous. She never does. Her confidence amazes me. But I tighten my grip on my purse and keep close beside Rae.

“A drink, sister?” a voice from a concrete stoop beckons.

I almost jump out of my skin. “I'm sorry but—”

Rae grabs my arm and pulls me away. I glimpse a figure hunkered down behind the garbage dumpster. The rest of the way down the alley, I can hear our footsteps on the asphalt clipping along with the rapid beat of my heart.

“This is it,” Rae says with confidence.

“Have you been here before?”

“No.” She stumbles to a halt.

I look past her shoulder and see two persons in close conversation. They are partially hidden by a stack of crates. The man is shorter than the woman, who has long dark hair. Their low voices mingle with Jerry Lee jamming on the piano keys. Rae clears her throat, once, twice, then loud enough to wake the real Elvis from the dead.

“Hey, what's the big idea?” a gruff voice asks. The woman turns. It's then I realize that she's a he, dressed up like Priscilla Presley with a bouffant hairdo straight out of the sixties. And she, actually he, is talking with an Elvis wannabe, a skinny short guy with a wig that's tipped slightly off center.

“Excuse us,” Rae says. She breezes between them to reach the door.

The alley door to Double Takes has no handle, just a place to put a key.

“If you want in,” Priscilla says in a voice more suited for football huddles, “knock loud.”

“Thanks,” I manage.

Rae bangs on the metal door. Nothing happens. So I reach around her and pound harder, jarring the bones in my hand, in hopes the sound makes it through to the other side. Slowly the door opens with a creak and a groan.

“Yeah?” asks a woman with a voice as rough as the lines on her face. Her heavy eye makeup reminds me of the sixties before the art of blending came into vogue. “Elvis has left the building.”

I laugh.

She narrows her gaze on me.

“But has Howie?” Rae asks. “We're here to see him.”

“Howie?” She grunts. “Hang on.” She slams the door closed and leaves us waiting in the alley with Elvis and Priscilla moving away from us. I hear Rae breathing softly next to me. I imagine all the creepy things that could happen in an alley. Once again I glance over my shoulder. “Maybe we should go—”

The door opens again, and the woman steps aside. “Come on.”

Looking back, I notice Elvis and Priscilla have slipped away into the shadows.

Backstage another Elvis puffs on a cigarette and downs a beer. “You wanna autograph?”

“Oh, uh … thanks but …” I sidestep after Rae.

She moves along like she's the real Priscilla. “We're here to see Howie.”

Elvis nods toward his right. “In his office.”

I grab Rae's elbow and steer her in that direction. We step over cords taped to the floor. “Nowhere to Run” blares from the speakers in between the Elvis sets. When we reach a door with a sign stating “Office,” Rae doesn't bother knocking. She pushes it open and steps into a small room.

“Howie, you going to keep me waiting forever?”

A low whistle escapes the man sitting behind a crowded desk. The man, who looks like an overinflated turtle, plops down a thick cigar into an Elvis ashtray and pushes his chair back from the desk. His eyes tilt down at the outside corners, and his nose hooks downward to a sharp point. “Rae! Where the blazes have you been for forty years?”

“Here and there. Mostly there.” A full smile crinkles her features, revealing her age while at the same time taking years off her face.

He comes around and hugs her, lifting her off her feet. It's an intimate embrace, and I feel like an intruder. “Been too long,” he says, “too long.”

Rae, still smiling, moves away but pats his shoulder. He ushers her into a wooden chair and hollers out the door, “Polly, bring us a chair.” He sets up a folding chair for me beside Rae. “Here you go.” He sticks out a hand toward me. “Howie Restin.”

“Claudia McIntosh,” I say, shaking his hand.

He looks at me for a moment, sizing me. “You Rae's—”

“She's my niece,” Rae interrupts.

He peers closer, studying my features. “Huh. Well, good to know you. Rae, whatever happened to—”

“We need your help, Howie,” she says without preamble.

“Oh?” He squints his bloodshot eyes at me. “You Irish? You don't look Irish.”

I laugh. “No. My husband was. Or someone in his family was once.”

“Catholic?” he asks.

“No.” I shake my head, amused by his intensity.

“Good. Don't trust Catholics. Church of Christ myself. But that's what I was raised. If it was good enough for my mama, then it's good enough for me.” Then he snaps his fat, yellowed fingers. His attention shifts abruptly to Rae. “I took you to church once.”

“A lot of good it did me,” she laughs, “or you.”

“Ah, but that's where I learned your secret.”

“Secret?” I ask.

He nods, his gaze caressing Rae. “You ever sit in on one of them jam sessions with the boss?”

“A few,” she says.

“I bet he ate your voice up. Why didn't you ever tour with him?”

“I don't have a gospel sound.”

“You ain't black, that's for sure. But you got soul.” He looks at me then. “This little lady,” he waves a finger at Rae, “could sing the horn off a rhino.”

“Yes,” I agree. “I've recently discovered that.”

“And the boss … man, oh man, he could really get to the soul of them gospel tunes. Still can get me right here.” He thumps his fist against his chest. Then he sniffs loudly. “Have a seat, have a seat.” He waves at me and returns to his desk. He plops into his own chair, almost tipping
it over backwards with his weight. “You gals wanna drink or something?”

“We're fine,” Rae says.

Howie rocks forward then back in his chair, clasping his hands over his large belly. “Rae. It's been ages.”

“Bet you didn't expect to see me again.” She grins.

“I thought you'd already gone heavenward. If I'd known you were still livin', I'd have looked you up after my divorce.”

“From Glenda?”

“Polly.” He sucks on the end of an unlit cigar, swirling it this way then that and making popping sounds with his lips. “Nah, Glenda and I never married. She went off with some yahoo to Nashville, wanting to sing. But I ain't never heard her on the radio, have you? No, and you're not likely to. She didn't have it. But Rae here, she could have been like Loretta Lynn or Trisha Yearwood. You was something.” He waves his arm as if dismissing his own thoughts. “Nope, Polly and I hitched up after that. Had a couple of kids. But she took a shine to Rance Skye, one of our Elvises. Looks just like the boss. And I should know. But you know me, not one to hold a grudge. They both still work here. And I married Roxanne. She used to be a showgirl. We hooked up in Vegas, and she moved here. But that's enough about me.”