Elvis Takes a Back Seat (14 page)

“Which one? B. B? I get lots of requests for that one. And the frog.”

“Elvis. In the corner.”

“That's my favorite.” The woman smiles proudly. “It's a copy.”

“Really? Of a famous one?” Interested, I walk across the store to take a closer look.

“Elvis. You've heard of him?”

I try to get a read on her if she's joking with me or serious. “I think I have heard of him. Singer, right?”

“Oh, an actor, too.” She laughs and lovingly caresses the top of Elvis's head. “They're really a dime a dozen. You
can find them most anywhere. They don't make too many

anymore. Not in much of a demand.”

“No one wants Elvis on their coffee table?”

“I suppose. Folks buy them more for gag gifts nowadays.”

“I'm sure.” Is that what the bust is from Stu? A gag gift?

“There was a rumor way back that the ghost of Elvis had been seen stealing old souvenirs like this. People will believe anything.”

This from a woman who believes in psychics. But I've been desperate enough to believe in the unbelievable. And now I see that desperation in Ben. “Yes, they will.” I need to get back out on the streets. “Well, thanks.”

“Sure thing. Good luck finding that girl.” She waves the flyer of Ivy. “You know …”

I pause at the door. “What?”

“There's a chapel near here. Friends of mine own it. Real nice folks. Down-home, you know? They mean well anyway. Their doors are open 24/7. They've offered help to the homeless and destitute. Just good folks wantin' to help those down on their luck. Lord knows there are enough of those to go around.”

I nod, thinking it's worth a shot, wondering if Ivy would go into a church.

“They got it all decked out with Elvis stuff. Play his music day and night, too. Not the rock or country stuff, just the pure gospel. Gospel is the only music Elvis won a Grammy for, don't you know?

“And where did you say this place is?”

“Oh, it's just down the block. Turn right on Third
Street and you can't miss it. Right there. Like I said, it's open day and night. Faithland Chapel.”

“Faithland?” My heart skids to a halt. Stu wrote “Faithland” in his note to me. Maybe it wasn't a mistake. Maybe he meant Faithland, not Graceland.

“Well, I wish you luck. I'll be praying that girl's safe. And if you wanna call my friend the psychic—”

“Thanks,” I say with a wave as I rush out the door. Reaching for my cell phone, I head in the direction of the chapel. I redial Ben's number. “Any news?” I ask when he answers. “There's a chance—”

“I'm at a place called Faithland. Ring any bells?”

“Yeah. I just heard—”

“Get here. Fast.”

I call Rae's cell phone and explain where to meet us at the chapel. The wood-and-stone chapel is squeezed among dilapidated buildings and blues bars. A stained-glass window depicts a man kneeling in a church, crying.

From the street, Elvis's “Crying in the Chapel” competes with Jerry Lee Lewis's “Whole Lotta Shakin' Goin' On.” Radio stations played the heartbreaking tune incessantly the week Elvis died. Only thirteen at the time, I wished they'd played something, anything else, especially by Andy Gibb. Stu asked for the same depressing song to be played during his funeral. I agreed but refused to listen. Instead I played my own version of “The Hustle” loud inside my head to keep from curling up on the church pew and covering my ears. I realize now there are a lot of things I did for Stu, things that made me uncomfortable, things he wanted. Was that how it was? Me bending my needs to meet his?

A carved stone above the arched doorway displays the name of the chapel. Faithland. I never imagined it was an actual place. I thought it was just another mix-up in Stu's failing recall.

Could Ivy have come here? Stumbled onto this place? Recognized the name from Stu's note? I draw a steadying breath, swipe the sweat off my brow with my forearm. My skin feels grainy. I heave open the heavy door.

“I'm calling the police right now!” Ben is punching numbers into his cell phone.

“Sir, please!” An older man, with his hair pulled back in a gray pony tail, tries to calm him. “Listen to me.”

“Ben?”

His gaze swerves toward me. His eyes widen with fear, anger, disbelief. “She's here! They so much as admitted it. But they won't let me see her. My own daughter!”

“Did they say why?” I place a hand on Ben's arm, feel the tension in his taut muscles, the heat of panic on his skin. “Hello,” I say to the older man who's wearing jeans and an Elvis T-shirt. “I'm Claudia.”

“Guy Larson.” He holds out a hand. His handshake is firm, his palm callused. Light from the variegated windows splotches his face with unexpected colors, but his expression seems open and friendly.

“His wife's back there with Ivy, but the door's locked!”

“It's our safety precaution,” Guy explains. “Sometimes we get women who've been abused. They need a safe place from—”

“I have not been abusing my daughter!” Ben yells, his voice filled with rage like he might start abusing some latent hippy any minute.

“Ben, he didn't accuse you of that. It's a precaution. It's for Ivy's protection, too.”

“Yes,” Guy says, “you can call the cops. We've already spoken with them. We've worked with them many times with runaways. They were about to contact you when you burst in here.”

My gaze shifts toward the front of the chapel, and my breath catches in my lungs. It's just as I imagined it would be. At the front of the chapel sits a shrine with silk flowers in the shape of a guitar. A deep-set impression in the wall arcs like the stained-glass windows in front. A pedestal holds the place of honor. It's empty, yet large enough to hold an Elvis bust.

“Of course, it's just a precaution,” Guy says, picking up on my comment. “Myrtle, my wife, is makin' sure your daughter is okay. We wanna know she ain't gonna run again. We don't want her goin' anywhere. She's safe here. We're gonna get all this straightened out and get her the help she needs. You're gonna have to trust me, sir.”

“
Why
would I do that?”

“Because you don't have a choice.” His frank, open manner is disarming. “Now if you want me to call the cops on you, sir …”

Ben steps back, but the tautness remains. His cell phone rings. He answers, speaking tersely into the receiver. “Okay. I understand.” When he disconnects the call, he looks drained. “That was Detective Berringer. He said you've handled these situations before.”

Guy nods.

“You better know what you're doing.”

The door near the raised dais opens, and a woman with
short, spiky red hair enters the chapel. She's wearing a tight-fitting white shirt and snug jeans on her overly curvaceous body.

“Now don't you worry, Daddy-o.” Myrtle, I guess, waves her hand as if shooing a lazy fly. “We're doing just fine back here. Just fine. Ivy's calm now. I actually got her to eat a little something.” She winks and smiles, showing a gold eye tooth. “Popcorn. Works like a charm with teenagers.” She sees me and stops. “Are you mama bear?”

“No, just a friend.”

“How-do. I'm Myrtle.”

“Claudia. Could I see Ivy?”

“Not right now.” Her answer is firm.

The front door opens, and we all turn as Rae breezes inside, her hair loose around her shoulders in a carefree way. “You found her?”

I nod and make quick introductions. Focusing on Myrtle, I ask, “How is she?”

“Oh, she's better. She was a pure mess last night. But she managed to sleep a little this morning. She wouldn't tell us who she was or where she come from. That's why we hadn't contacted you personally. Besides, we always contact the police. They know us. When these things happen, and they have many a time, we like to make sure our guests are safe and comfortable first. Then we try to find out what has happened to cause them to run away. Sometimes they're a bit reluctant to say. Sometimes they're more open, desperate to talk.”

“And Ivy?” Rae asks. “Was she reticent?”

“Actually no. She's very open about her situation.” She waves her hand toward the pews lining the chapel. “Why don't we all have a seat?”

“I want to see my daughter.”

“Of course you do, Mr. Moore.” She pats his arm. Ben's frown deepens. “And you will. You will.” She moves toward the front pew and sits on the front step leading up to the altar and empty shrine.

I want to ask about the pedestal, what went there, if it was an Elvis bust, but I don't dare. Ivy is more important than the Elvis bust. Still, I can't help staring at the blank, empty spot that reminds me of the hole Stu left in my life. I suppose Ivy feels the same hole in her own life, the one her mother left behind.

“Mr. Moore,” Myrtle says, “Why don't you tell us what's been happening with Ivy lately?”

Ben slumps in his seat, seeming deflated. “I don't know.” He taps his thumbs together between his knees. “I really don't. For so long it's just been Ivy and me. Her mom left when she was three.” He shrugs. “And I thought we were doing okay. You know?”

He looks first to Myrtle, then to me, as if seeking confirmation. I offer him an encouraging smile.

“I'm sure things were just fine,” Myrtle's voice soothes like a hot cup of tea. “But Ivy's growing into a woman. When did you first notice some changes?”

“About six months ago. Her grades started to slip. She became kind of sullen. Not as talkative as she used to be.”

Rae nods as if she suspected as much, and I can almost hear her thinking,
Drugs
. Or is that my mother speaking inside my head?

Myrtle listens, her head tilted to the side as if she's heard it a thousand times before—not in a jaded, callous way, but knowledgeable. “Yes, yes.”

“When this trip came up, I thought it might do Ivy some good. To get away from me for a while, to be around other women, you know, mature women who might be maternal toward her.”

“Very solid thinking,” Myrtle says.

“But I'm just a dad. I don't know anything.” He pulls an envelope out of his hip pocket and unfolds it. Age has yellowed it. He turns it over in his hands. “Then I find out she's wanting to see her mom. I thought I handled all that the right way. Years ago the counselor said to wait until she was old enough to understand about her mom. But … ,” he rakes his fingers through his hair, “she's been impossible to talk to lately.

“What's going on?” He leans forward, bracing his forearms on his thighs. His eyes darken and his gaze shifts sideways toward me, then Rae. Finally he looks back at Myrtle. “Is it drugs?” His voice is almost inaudible. He drags his fingers through his thick, wavy hair, leaving tracks like unanswered questions. “God, what did I do wrong?” Then his head snaps upright. “She had a boyfriend. Could he have gotten her to use cocaine or—”

“I don't know,” Myrtle says. “We asked her about drugs and she denied taking, smoking, or snorting anything. I even searched her bags when she was asleep. I hate to do that, but we have to be careful, too. Can't have illegal drugs on the premises, you know. Besides, if it is an addiction, then we can only do so much. She'd need professional help. But I think you're right, Mr. Moore. Ivy needs a mother. She's a young woman with a lot of questions right now. She's needs that maternal guidance.”

“Which she didn't find with us,” I say, feeling guilty and helpless.

“Now I wouldn't say that,” Myrtle tsks. “I'm sure you did the best you could. What Ivy wants is her real mother. Her own. Not a substitute. She said she looked in the phone book but couldn't find her. She called directory assistance—”

“Her mother's dead,” Ben states matter-of-factly.

It feels as if Ben's words suck all the air from my lungs. “What? Gwen?”

Ben and Gwen married not long after Stu and I. We'd talked many times about wedding things—flowers, rings, mothers-in-laws. I remember sitting in the church, watching them take their vows. Stu stood next to Ben, supporting his friend the way Ben had weeks earlier championed Stu during our wedding. Together we rejoiced with them when Gwen became pregnant. We visited baby Ivy in the hospital the day she arrived.

When Gwen left their little family, we grieved with Ben, feeling resentful and betrayed ourselves as if she'd duped us all. We asked all the same questions, starting with
why
. But I'd always imagined her living somewhere alone, maybe, or starting another family, pursuing some dream. I never thought, believed, or hoped for her death.

Hearing Ben say it now feels like a rebreak of an old injury, the throbbing pain more penetrating, the bruises fresh and swelling, the anger screaming inside my head. I can barely speak when I ask, “When?”

“The year after she left. I–I didn't say anything because she was gone already. And I thought it would be harder. It was hard enough. I couldn't talk about it. But Stu knew.”

“He did?” Once again I feel outside the loop, oblivious of the undercurrents sweeping around all of us. Why did Stu keep the secret from me?

“Then,” he says, “I simply blocked it out. Ivy was too young to know. I knew someday I'd have to tell her. We'd have to talk about it. But I waited—I guess too long.”

I touch his arm, trying to understand, suspecting how painful it must have been, the deep resonance of his loss. He'd dealt with it alone. Tears press against my eyes. “I'm so sorry, Ben. So sorry.”

Words feel inadequate, but Ben accepts them.

“What happened?” Rae asks.

Ben leans back, his shoulders look weighted down with exhaustion and worry. “She killed herself.”

I slump suddenly back against the pew. Tears spill over. Now I understand. Or think I do. Had shame kept Ben silent? Regret? Guilt? Sorrow so deep it couldn't find words? “Oh, Ben.”

Moving toward him, I wrap my arms around his shoulders. He puts a hand on my waist. He doesn't turn toward me, but he doesn't turn away either. It's as if he doesn't need the comfort, but he offers what he can to me, as if he's tried to shelter all of us from this news.

“Ben, I'm so sorry. I don't know what to say.”

“There isn't anything to say.” He lifts a shoulder, not suggesting he doesn't care, just an uncomfortable shrug that no words can convey. “She wasn't happy. And I couldn't make her so. She left because she was lost. I think it ate her up even more. But she couldn't find her way back emotionally. So she ended it all. I couldn't tell Ivy.”

“Of course not. I understand.”

“She'll have to know now,” Myrtle says.

“I don't know how I'll tell her.”

I can't speak for the tears clogging my throat. Laying my
head against his shoulder, I offer the only comfort I have— warmth and closeness. I remember Gwen fretting over her wedding dress. “Is it beautiful? Will Ben like it? How do you know Stu really loves you?” Her words float back to me.

Was her insecurity her undoing? Did Ben make her feel unloved? I can't imagine that, although I don't know what went on between them behind closed doors. But I remember how Ben looked at her with eyes shining, how he would watch for her when we would meet after work at a restaurant, saving a seat beside him, uneasy until she arrived. Even during all these years suffering her absence, he kept any disparaging comments to himself. I realize there are no answers for the questions churning inside me.

“Ivy has something pretty difficult to tell you, too,” Myrtle says, interrupting our quiet grief.

Ben stiffens. “What?”

“She's scared. It's one of the reasons she ran away. Why she needed her mother. She was scared how you'd react. She didn't know what else to do.”

“She's pregnant,” Rae says.

Her words fill the room like a loud heartbeat.

“Yes.” Myrtle confirms.

Silence descends on the chapel like a prayer. I don't know what to say or feel. Then Ben erupts. He jumps up from the pew and spews language I've never heard Ben use, much less in a chapel.

“Ben!” I reach for his arm.

Myrtle waves me back. She watches him, not flinching at his words. Maybe she's wise to let him blow all his anger now. Better than in front of Ivy, which would not do any good.

“How old is Ivy?” Rae asks when Ben, mottled face and sweating, sits back down as if he has no steam left.

“Fifteen,” I answer.

Ben leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees and holding his head in his hands. He looks defeated, the way Stu looked when the doctor told him to contact hospice, that there was nothing else to be done for him. My throat tightens with words I want to say, should have said, but they can't get through. Finally I put my arms around Ben again and just hold on tight. He did the same for me when Stu died. Then I hadn't known who was holding whom together. But I suspect now he doesn't need me.