Elvis Takes a Back Seat (13 page)

Armed with pictures of his daughter, Ben arrives at the hotel at 7:30 the next morning. He spent half the night at the airport and took the first flight available.

“Ben,” I hug him close. “I'm so—”

With a tight squeeze he stops any apologies or excuses, lame though they might be. When he releases me, his eyes are red rimmed. Fatigue stretches his features. “The first thing I want to do is talk to the police.”

“They discovered Ivy took the last shuttle to the Sun Records Studio tour last night. Right after we left her for Double Takes.”

“What's over there?” Ben asks.

“Not much,” Rae answers. “We took the tour yesterday, and I don't think she went back for a second look.”

“Then what?”

“It's not a far walk to Beale Street.”

“What's on Beale Street?”

“A jumpin' place at night. Bars—”

“There's a mall not far from there with lots of shopping.”

“Perfect for a teenager,” Rae adds.

Ben's frown deepens. “I think we should split up and start searching the area, showing her picture around to the shops and stores. Somebody had to see her.”

“That's a good idea. But what did her friends say? Did you talk to them before you left?”

“I spent over an hour at Kerry's house. She and Ivy have been friends since third grade. She wouldn't say anything at first, not wanting to betray Ivy. But she finally told me Ivy wants to find her mom.”

“Her mom?” My knees feel weak, and I sit on the sofa.

“When I went home,” Ben says, “I started digging through her room. I found a letter from Gwen—”

“Ivy's mom,” I explain for Rae. “When did she—”

“After Gwen left, she wrote me a letter. I'd hidden it in my desk drawer and forgotten about it. But I guess Ivy found it. The return address was Memphis.”

“So that's why she was so eager to come on this trip.”

“And could explain the car sickness,” Rae says.

“What?” Ben asks.

“She could have been nervous about this reunion she was cooking up with her mother,” Rae suggests.

“What did the letter say?” I ask.

“Not much.” Ben rubs the bridge of his nose. “Gwen wasn't much of a writer. And she didn't want to say why she left. Why she wouldn't come back. I guess I'm glad for that now, for Ivy's sake. She just said she couldn't handle it, couldn't be a mother.”

“How awful,” Rae breathes.

“Poor Ivy.” I reach sideways for a solid form, needing Stu's strength. It's something I've always done, reach out in my sleep for him, reach out when I need reassurance. But my hand touches cool plaster. It's Elvis, not Stu. Anger thrums inside me. If Stu hadn't sent us on this wild goose chase, then I wouldn't have taken Ivy away from her dad. And I wouldn't be responsible for her disappearance. She wouldn't be on the streets alone. Lost. Maybe even …

“Can you imagine what Ivy must think? That her mother didn't want to be a mother to her. That it's her fault!” I understand how it feels to be emotionally abandoned by a mother, separated by death from a spouse. Neither brushed me aside on purpose, yet the loss is the same. But I also know all too well how guilt eats away at the soul.

“Not to mention if she knows the truth.” Ben curses.

I lift an eyebrow in question. But when he doesn't answer, I ask, “What do you mean?”

“Doesn't matter now. But I was wrong. This is all my fault. I should have told her. I should have—”

I reach toward him, wanting to help but not knowing what to say or do.

“We've got to find her.”

“Could Ivy's mom still be here in Memphis?” I ask.

His jaw tightens. “No.”

“We should tell the police. Just in case.”

Rae looks at me, then back to Ben. “Do you know where her mother is?”

“Yes.” His answer sounds curt.

“Do you think she'd meet with Ivy?” I ask. “Maybe you should call—”

“No.” His word slams the door on that idea.

“Did you ask Ivy's friend, this Kerry, if Ivy was having any other problems?” Rae asks.

“What do you mean?”

I try to stop Rae with a slight shake of my head. I suspect where she's headed. “Rae …”

“What is it?” Ben's voice sounds tight.

“Does she have a boyfriend?” Rae asks. “Has she used drugs?”

“Drugs?”

“Rae!”

“It's a possibility.” She looks pointedly at me.

I gulp, feel the weight of Ben's stare. “We don't know that for a fact.”

“Forget it.” Ben grabs the door handle, then turns back to face us. “My daughter is not a drug addict. She's an A— okay, B student. Now are you going to help me find her?”

I glance at Rae. Without another word we go in search of a hurting young woman in need of a mother.

* * *

WE SPLIT UP, checking in by cell phone periodically, and spend the day traipsing up and down Beale Street. The sidewalk is uneven and awkward, perfect if you're drunk and off-kilter but not so great if you're stone sober and in a hurry. I've tripped more times than I care to admit today. Music spills out of doorways. Each building is playing a different song. It's like walking through a life-size jukebox, the songs changing constantly.

Anyone I see, I show them a picture of Ivy. Sad,
curious, and concerned eyes meet mine. I hand them a flyer with Ivy's picture that Rae thought to have made up and move on to the next pedestrian or shop.

Pushing noon I find Ben near Dyer's, a famous burger joint that boasts of using the same grease year after year. He's speaking with the police, and I wait until he's through. “Any news?”

“None.” His fatigue has turned into a haunted look. “Where could she be?”

“Have you eaten?”

He looks at me like I've just asked him if he wants to dance.

“Come on,” I take his arm and drag him into the burger joint, which smells of smoke and grease. The floor is sticky, as if someone spilled a soda on the brick-red tile. “If you fall over, it won't do Ivy any good.”

He frowns at me. “I'm fine.”

“Well, I'm hungry.” But I'm not. I think putting a bite of anything in my mouth will be like swallowing rocks. I hand Ben a menu and push him into an open booth. He pushes his arm outward, then toward himself, squinting down at the tiny words.

“Do you just want a burger?” I ask.

“Whatever,” he sounds like his daughter and tosses the menu to the side. I order us both burgers, fries, and Cokes. When I put my wallet back in my purse, I realize Ben is staring out the plate-glass windows toward the street. I can only guess what he's thinking. Probably running through the possibilities the police began checking: the Peabody mall, twenty-four-hour restaurants, highways for hitchhiking, the airport, bus stations, hospitals …

“What?” he says when I put my hand on his arm and give him a straw. “Oh, here. Let me …” He reaches for his wallet.

“It's taken care of.” I push my straw into an icy drink and notice he's still holding his. I unwrap the straw for him and stick it in his cup. The cold drink tastes good. “It must be pushing a hundred degrees out there.”

“Where's Rae?”

“She walked over to the mall.”

Ben glances toward the door. “I don't have time—”

“Yes, you do. Collapsing on the sidewalk from heat exhaustion and starvation won't help Ivy. You need your strength.”

He's staring at nothing, his gaze distant. “Ben? You okay?”

He nods. “I was praying.”

I wonder why I hadn't thought of that. But then I know the reason: Prayer didn't work with Stu.

When our burgers are served, Ben eats as if on autopilot. The greasy meat lands like a boulder in my stomach. But I force-feed myself in hopes Ben will keep eating. He pushes his plate away first, half a burger and most of his fries left.

“I should have talked to her. Like you said.”

“Ben,” I put my hand on his arm, feel my throat tightening, “you can't beat yourself up over that. You'll have that talk when we find her.”

“What if we don't?” His Adam's apple works up and down as he fights the emotions that threaten to overwhelm us all.

I slide out of the booth, around the end of the table, and onto his bench. “Hey,” I put an arm around his broad shoulders, “we're going to find her. You've got to believe.”

“Is that what you told Stu?” he asks.

Guilty, I look away, stare at the paper napkin he threw on the table. The truth lodges in my throat.

“Do you really believe it?”

Shifting, I wrap my arms around him. He lays his head against my shoulder. We sit that way for a minute or two, then his arms tighten. It feels as if he might squeeze the life out of me.

I remember being in the hospital waiting room, watching other patients' family members pace and make phone calls. Ben sat beside me. When the doctor came in wearing his scrubs, Ben stood, but I couldn't. The doctor knelt in front of me, told me Stu had made it through the surgery but that he couldn't be sure he'd gotten all of the tumor. Right beside me, Ben was there. I hadn't felt it then, but I remember now his arm was around my shoulders holding me together. And so I hold onto him now, trying to be strong for him.

But all my doubts and fears, all the possibilities, darken my thoughts. I knew after that last surgery that Stu couldn't fight off the cancer that so wanted to eat him alive. I knew. And yet I'd said, “You can beat this.” I'd tried to be positive. I'd lied. Because deep inside I remembered the doctor saying, “We couldn't get it all.” Those optimistic lies choke me now.

The sounds of the burger joint creep into my conscious thoughts, and suddenly I'm aware of others glancing at us. My arms tighten around Ben's shoulders. I want to shield him from the pain I felt when I lost Stu, when I lost my own child.

Maybe that's how Mother felt when I lost my baby. Did she remember how her own heart broke? Did she try
normalcy to fend off the dark waves of depression that threatened to pull me under?

Feeling Ben's heat press into me, I smooth my hands over his shoulders and back. The hair at his nape is soft, curling at the ends. It's been a long time since I felt a man's arms around me. I feel the muscles along his back, the dampness of sweat. His scent is a mixture of lingering soap and the heat of the sun. I notice his neck is sunburned and remind myself to buy sunscreen for all of us braving the heat of the day.

“It's true what they say,” Ben pulls away, sniffs, pulls himself together.

“What's that?”

“You never walk alone.”

Even though I've felt alone in my own grief, I realize others—Ben, Rae—have been there with me. “That's right. I'm here.”

A wry smile tilts the corner of his mouth. “I know. But I meant God. I feel His presence in this.”

A knot tightens around my throat, choking off any response.

Ben swipes his hand over his face. Then together we leave the shop, separating in search of his daughter.

* * *

ABOUT THREE O'CLOCK I hand a Japanese couple a flyer about Ivy, then enter a souvenir shop. In the window are coffee mugs with Elvis's face on all sides, a Russian matryoshka doll in Elvis's likeness, a ceramic frog with a pompadour and leather jacket, foot-tall busts of B. B. King,
even Elvis and Priscilla salt and pepper shakers. In the corner a small bust of Elvis catches my eye. Its similarities to the one in our hotel room cannot be ignored.

Johnny Cash sings “Walk the Line” as I enter the open door. The store smells musty. Along one wall are old magazines, newspapers, and record albums. Covering the walls are posters of the young, svelte, hip-swinging Elvis in a suit right alongside those of the weight-battling Elvis in a formfitting jumpsuit. A rotating display case holds a wide assortment of Elvis-styled shades. I should have brought some of Stu's souvenirs and sold them here. Maybe at least I could get an idea about what some of his things are worth. Stu has a pair of sunglasses the King himself supposedly wore.

Waiting for the clerk, I glance at a record from the movie
Roustabout
with a whopping price attached. My mouth actually drops open. Blinking, I look again and shake my head in disbelief. I consider taking pictures of Stu's souvenirs and posting them on eBay to sell.

“Looking for something specific?”

I turn toward a woman with an Aunt Bee hairdo. “Actually, I'm searching for a young girl. A teenager. Her name's Ivy.” I show her a picture. “She's been missing since last night. Have you seen her?”

The woman studies the picture carefully. Most people only glance at the picture and turn away, not wanting to get involved. Or else they start asking nosy questions. But this woman really looks at the picture as if she's memorizing Ivy's features. Hope billows inside me as if a wind of change has taken hold. I hold my breath and wait.

“Sorry. I'm pretty good at faces, but I haven't seen her. I know a gal who's psychic if you're interested.”

“I'll let you know.” I'm desperate but not that desperate. Not yet anyway. But if we decide to hire a psychic to find Ivy, maybe the psychic would give us a two-for-one deal and lead us to the owner of the Elvis bust.

I notice a rotating stand with reading glasses perched on little spiky arms. Smiling to myself, I pick up a pair that has tiny red fake stones spelling out “Elvis” across the top and buy them for Ben.

“I'll post that picture in my window with the girl's description if you want,” the woman suggests, “and I'll keep an eye out for her.”

“I'd appreciate that.” I turn toward the door, purchase in hand, but pause when I see the small replica Elvis bust looking out the store window. This bust has Elvis wearing a blue jumpsuit, not white like the one Stu found. “Excuse me?” I glance at my watch, knowing I should keep moving. The more people I talk to about Ivy, the better. But I have to know about the bust. “Could you tell me about that bust in the window?”