Elvis Takes a Back Seat (17 page)

“Yes, but I
know
.” Ivy sets her napkin beside her plate. “Myrtle already told me.”

“She told you she was looking for a bust of Elvis?” I ask, my heart beginning to pound.

“She told me the story of how the bust disappeared.”

That bit of news causes my eyebrows to lift in question, or doubt, or both. But I lean forward, elbow on the table.

“What did she say?” Rae asks.

Ivy gives a secretive smile, as if she has us all right where she wants us. “It was on the tenth anniversary of Elvis's death. The city was crammed with Elvis fans, right?”

Collectively we nod. Not something a teenager who hadn't even known who Elvis was before coming to Memphis would comprehend. So I figure Myrtle told her that much.

“That's the night the bust disappeared.”

I look at Ben to see if the information lines up with what Stu told him, if that had also been the right time for their college football game. He nods his affirmation.

“You mean, stolen,” I correct. After all, we know the bust didn't vanish into thin air. It's sitting in our hotel suite. It was in my attic for twenty years. I have a sinking feeling Stu's guilty conscience weighed on him near the end of his life. Never before would I have believed my husband was a thief, but considering his obsession with Elvis, I suppose anything could have happened. Especially in his younger, wilder days.

“Stolen by Elvis,” Ivy says.

“Oh, please.” I roll my eyes in disbelief, then smile at how Ivy has rubbed off on me. “Not another conspiracy theory. Was he abducted by aliens? Or is he living in the Caribbean under an assumed name?”

“No!” she protests. “I swear. It's true! More than one person saw Elvis that night. Plain as day. But not Elvis … you know, alive. This was a ghost. Myrtle saw him. She was coming back to the chapel after a candlelight vigil.”

“Uh-huh.” Disbelief saturates my tone. But I notice Ben and Rae remain silent, listening … maybe even believing what my father would have called “hogwash.”

“It's true, I'm telling you!”

“They knew Elvis, too,” Rae says, her voice husky. “Guy and Myrtle knew him. She'd recognize him.”

“Okay, okay. It's true.” But I don't necessarily believe it. Under my breath, I whisper, “What was Myrtle smoking that night?”

“She was not high or hallucinating,” Ivy defends her friend.

“Okay, let's just pretend this is all true. If Elvis is floating around Memphis, then why would he care about some bust? Wouldn't he be more concerned about his daughter marrying Michael Jackson? Wouldn't that have been a good time to step forward and say, ‘Here I am! I'm stopping
this
wedding!'”

Ben laughs. With his arms crossed over his chest, he looks as skeptical as I feel.

But no one offers an explanation, which to me is proof they're all loony tunes for even contemplating the possibility of a ghost. Ivy's young, gullible. Rae's nodding her head. She's not young. Far beyond gullible. So what's her excuse for believing? Is she eccentric enough to believe in aliens or ghosts?

“Stu saw him, too,” Ben reminds me, making me wonder whose side he's on.

I glare at him. “Oh, sure, how could I forget that?” Has everyone lost their minds but me? “So why would Elvis stop Stu on some lonely back road and ask him to help steal the bust?”

“Even ghosts have their reasons,” Rae says quietly.

I toss my napkin beside my plate. “You know what I think? I think some people are desperate enough to believe Elvis is alive, well … around in some form or fashion, only because they need it somehow to validate their own existence. After all, Elvis had it all—looks, talent galore, money, fame. Yet he died. You can't accept that. But I can. I know how someone can be struck down in the prime of life for no reason other than life sucks sometimes. People die. We all die. Even Elvis!”

“Is that why it's so easy for you not to believe?” Rae asks.

“This obsession with Elvis has to stop. Stu wanted to be cool like Elvis. He must have wanted to believe Elvis was alive—”

“That's not true,” Ben says.

“What?”

“Stu didn't want to be cool like Elvis.”

“How do you know?”

“Because we talked about Elvis. Many times.”

I'm struck dumb for a moment. Something else my husband didn't talk to me about. I feel a dull ache in my heart. Did he not trust me? I swallow back the bitter tears. “Then why?”

“Stu identified with Elvis.”

“What?” We weren't rich. Stu couldn't even sing a note. “How?”

“Elvis personified all of our struggles with right and wrong. Elvis had a love for gospel music and all his beliefs about God. Yet he had this wild, rock 'n' roll side that he couldn't tame.”

Rae nods. “You're right. He did. Except that Elvis's struggle was always splashed across tabloids and newspaper headlines.”

“Exactly,” Ben says. “Our struggles, Stu's struggles, are usually on a smaller scale and more internal.”

“Some hidden.” Rae straightens the charms on her bracelet.

“Like my mother's,” Ivy says.

“Yes,” Ben agrees.

“Others not so hidden.” Rae lays what looks like a diploma charm flat against the underside of her wrist. Then she looks at me. “It's your struggle between belief and disbelief.”

Unable to answer, I shove back from the table, my chair legs screeching, and stand on suddenly shaky legs. My heart pounds. With as much dignity as I can muster, fighting tears all the way, I walk out of the restaurant and wait for the rest of the group in the car.

* * *

WITH EVERYONE'S STOMACH full, we ride silently back to the hotel. The car idles at the curb, a rough-andtumble shaking, making everything in the car jiggle. When I pull up to the front entrance of the hotel, Rae gets out with me. Ben slides behind the wheel and drives off with Ivy. They've been requested to appear at the police station to unfile their missing person's report. I imagine Ivy has a few explanations to make.

Together we waddle to the suite. I need space, some time to process Ben's revelations and Rae's accusation. But
I stop in the doorway, suddenly thirsty. I pour myself a glass of water, sip it, then
thunk
it on top of the television. I can't seem to settle into one place, so I pace the floor in front of Elvis.

“Sit down, Claudia. There's nothing to do but wait.” Rae flips open a magazine,
Nightlight in Memphis
.

“You think she'll be all right?” I move to the window and look out over the parking lot at the footbridge that leads to Elvis's planes and an assortment of museums and souvenir shops.

“Of course. Ivy's strong. Resilient.”

I nod, embarrassed to say I wasn't even thinking about Ivy. Why can't I believe like Stu, like Ben? Is my disbelief what kept others from talking to me, confiding in me? Questions surround me, and no ready answers surface.

It's actually easier to focus on Ivy. What will she decide to do about her baby? Will Ben pressure Ivy to give the baby up for adoption? I think about Rae and the decisions she had to make as a young woman. “You're strong, too.”

Rae shrugs. “Maybe now. But not always.”

“How so?”

“You face what you have to. Do the best you can. Just as you've done.”

“I suppose.”

“As you did with Stu's death.”

I scoff. “I didn't handle it gracefully.”

“Grace has little to do with death. I don't believe there is a right or wrong way to handle such things.” Rae crosses her legs, making her skirt ripple outward. She kicks her leg forward and back, a slow, rhythmic motion. “I haven't always handled situations with aplomb.”

“We all make mistakes.”

“I didn't say they were mistakes necessarily.” Rae jerks her chin. “But I ran from tough situations.”

“I can't see you running from anything. You seem so strong, so confident, like you've always believed.”

“Belief isn't natural or a guarantee. It's a choice.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean you have to choose to believe. Even when nothing makes sense. It's easy to turn away. It's easy to give up. It's not always easy to make the choice to believe.”

“But maybe it's belief in a fantasy. Or something false. What if it's folly to believe?”

“It depends on what that belief is then.”

I sigh. “What about God?”

“Do you believe God is folly?”

“Don't make fun of me.”

“I'm not.” Rae closes the magazine and lays it on the coffee table. “I'm asking what you think, what you feel in your heart.”

“I thought I did. I went to church as a kid. Mom made me. I did all the things our church said to do, you know? I prayed the prayer. I was baptized. But I don't know anymore.”

“That's honest, and that's a start. Just remember, Claudia, running isn't necessarily a sign of weakness. That's Hollywood's take on it. Intelligence and wisdom—that's what I used. It was probably misinterpreted as fear though.”

“What did you run from?”

“Motherhood.”

“I imagine giving up your baby was very difficult.”

“It was the right thing to do. That has brought me comfort over the years. But it was the hardest thing I've ever
done. And if Ivy must … or does, then it will change her forever. You'll be there for her and help her through it.”

Skepticism makes me doubt I'm capable. “Motherhood,” I say, “whether she keeps the baby or not, will change her, too.”

Rae nods.

“Have you ever tried to contact your child?” I ask. “She must be grown now.”

“Yes, she's all grown up.” A wistful smile softens her features.

“And you've never looked her up?” I lean forward, resting my elbows on my knees.

“I didn't say that.”

“You have then? Or has she found you?” I sit back suddenly, as if preparing myself for the unveiling of another family secret. “I'm sorry. It's none of my business.” I stare at Rae's charm bracelet, notice little ballerina slippers and a Girl Scout charm. So many activities we shared, and yet I'll probably never know my cousin. “I was just curious about my cousin. I don't have any, not on Mother's side. And Dad's family lived far away. We've had very little contact over the years.”

“Of course.” Rae reaches over and touches my hand. The charms brush my arm. They hold Rae's body heat. “She's well. That's all I needed to know. I don't want to intrude too much in her life. She's not looking for a mother. I'm content. But Ivy—”

“Do you have grandchildren then?”

Rae waves her hand as if shooing away an irritating fly. “I hope,” she straightens the lines of her skirt, “that Ben will let Ivy make her own decision about her pregnancy.”

“She's just a kid though. You were nineteen.”

“She was old enough to conceive, right? She's old enough to decide if she wants to be a mother … or not.”

“I don't know. It's a big decision. Can a fifteen-yearold girl make a good decision, see the big picture, the far-reaching effects?”

“Wisdom knows no age. You'll help guide her.”

I shift in my chair, uncomfortable with this new role as guidance counselor. “Her decision will impact the baby's whole life. Along with her own.”

“Ivy will have to grow up in ways she never imagined. Her father must give her that room. But I sense that in Ben. He's a good man, kindhearted.”

“Yes, he is,” I agree.

“And Ivy,” Rae says, “she loves her father. You can see that. Their bond is solid. Not easily severed.

“But can a father understand a girl's heart? How can he understand how a pregnancy, or termination of one, will change his daughter, body and soul? Or how giving up her baby might fracture her heart permanently?”

“I wish I could help them. I love them both, Ivy and Ben. I've known them a long time. And this, well, it's going to be rough on them.”

“Your love will buoy them when they believe they're sinking.”

“Was there someone like that for you? When you were pregnant. Helping you? Loving you through it all?”

“Your mother.” She smiles, but tears gather at the corners of her eyes. “Why do you look surprised?”

“I always thought you two didn't get along, that you'd had a fight or something a long time ago.”

Rae shakes her head, denying my assumption. “I told
you there wasn't a fight. We loved each other. Respected each other.”

“But you didn't talk. For my whole life. I don't mean
you
so much as both of you. No phone calls. No letters. Nothing. Just silence.”

Rae wraps one hand around her other wrist, capturing all the charms of her bracelet under her fingers. “Silence isn't always the result of anger. It
can
be the deepest form of respect. Even love.”

Ben and Ivy arrive back at the hotel suite. Ivy collapses onto the sofa next to Rae and lies with her knees curved over the arm of the sofa and her bare feet dangling off the side. Rae hands her a pillow. Ben looks as flushed, restless, and agitated as I was earlier.

“How'd it go?”

He gives me a dark look that makes me wish I hadn't asked.

“Anybody hungry?” he asks.

We all groan. Then silence stretches between us, fragile as a glass bridge.

“We need to make a decision,” I finally say. “I need to tell the hotel what our plans are. I suppose we could still start back to Dallas this afternoon. Or we could wait till morning.” I'm hopeful they'll see the trip to Memphis has been pointless. A mistake of gigantic proportions on all our parts.

“It's too late today,” Ben says. “Let's wait until tomorrow at least.”

“I'm bored,” Ivy says. At that moment her cell phone spews a succession of beeps—some tune that seems familiar yet I can't place it. She rolls off the couch and runs to her room.

“Everything go okay?” Rae asks Ben.

“Sure. Since she's a minor, they had to make sure she wasn't being abused or coerced or anything. But apparently Myrtle spoke with the police. They've worked with her before and value her opinion. They also gave Ivy a strong warning about what can happen to a young woman who runs off like that.”

A shudder passes through me.

“No young person thinks anything bad can happen to them,” Rae says. “It's the strength and weakness of youth.”

He collapses into a chair near Elvis, who seems to be observing us with a bemused smirk. I wonder if Stu is somewhere … watching … hovering nearby, laughing at us. The thought makes me want to knock the bust off the table.

The slump of Ben's shoulders outlines his fatigue and melancholy. “I never thought driving too fast would end in a car wreck. Or drinking too much in college …” His voice trails off. “But I never ran away either. I was never that—”

“You were never a young girl,” I say. “Even if you had …” My voice trails off as Ivy comes back into the room and flops back onto the sofa.

“Was that him?” Ben asks, unable to disguise the vehemence in his voice.

“Dad.” She turns the one syllable word into two.

“I need to know what's going on with him. And you.”

“It's none of your business.” She crosses her arms over her chest.

“None of my—” His hands clench, as if he's ready to do battle for his daughter's virtue. Which would be a little late at this point. “He gets my daughter preg—”

“Shut up! I'm not listening to this!”

The room seems to freeze for a slow second, as if time stops then bolts forward. Ben blocks her retreat from the room. “Yes, you will, young lady. If he's not going to be a part of this, fine. Better, even. But he's going to have to sign some papers saying he gives up his rights. Then you can make your own decision. But I need to know—”

“I've already made my decision.” Her voice is calm but high-pitched. “I'm keeping my baby!”

“A sixteen-year-old does not need a baby. What are you going to do?”

“I'm not running away like my mother!”

Ben looks as if he's been slapped. He takes a shaky breath and releases it. “You have to think like an adult, Ivy. How are you going to take care of a baby? How will you afford all the things a baby needs? Do you even know how much a baby costs? How can you go to school, take care of a baby, work—”

“I don't know!” She turns one way, then another, looking for an escape route. “I haven't figured out all that stuff—”

“You better think about it,” he grabs her arm, “because—”

Ivy jerks away from him. “I don't have to listen to you! This is my life! My baby!”

She slams the door to her room. The wake of silence
remains. I glance at Rae. She's experienced this all before and lived to tell about it. I sense she's sided with Ivy, thinking the girl should keep her baby if she wants. But it seems a selfish decision, a childish one. I realize in that moment that I want Ivy to decide for herself, but in the end I, too, hope she'll give her baby up for adoption.

Ben stares out the window, tilts his head, and cracks his neck. “I'm glad I handled that well.”

His self-derision makes my heart ache. “Ben …” I don't know what to say to make the situation more tenable. “It's—”

“I know. Sorry about this. Life can be pretty messy and ugly sometimes. Especially mine, it seems.”

I shake my head. “It's no different from anyone else's.”

“Sure seems different.” He shoves his fingers through his hair and jams them in his back jean pockets. “I don't know how to handle this. Is there a book that gives incompetent dads like me the right dialogue?”

“You're not incompetent. You're a great dad. And you'll muddle through this. It'll take some time for all the raw emotions, on your side and hers, to settle down.”

“Although,” Rae says, “her hormones will not allow those emotions to settle for some time.”

Ben makes a half attempt at a chuckle that turns into a grimace. “I know she doesn't want to be like her own mother.”

“Of course,” Rae says. “And she won't be.”

“How do you know?” Ben asks. “She could have the baby, keep it for a while, then change her mind.”

“And that would not be so horrible,” Rae said. “The baby wouldn't know much different. It's hard to know what
it'll be like to have a baby and juggle life at the same time.

She will learn.”

“I want to spare her that. And the baby.”

“Of course you do, Ben. You never wanted her to get pregnant at fifteen. But you can't protect her from this. Sometimes life hands us a raw deal. We just have to deal with it the best we can.”

“We,” he scoffs. I know what he means. He wasn't being condescending or ridiculing my remark. He simply knows he has to deal with this alone, just as I ultimately had to deal with Stu's death alone. Just as Ivy has to deal with the pregnancy herself. No platitudes of “God is with you” can make it easier. “You just gotta believe” doesn't work either. Sometimes, I've learned, no amount of believing is enough.

I remember sitting in the doctor's office with Stu, listening to the doctor rattle off big words I'd grown accustomed to because I'd learned to look them up on the Internet. Then Stu asked, “So what does all this mean, doc? Boil it down for me.”

“There's really nothing else … nothing the medical community can do. I wish there were.”

Stu swallowed hard. He gave the doctor a terse nod, squeezed my hand, then shook the doctor's. After we left the office and were in the quiet of our car, I said, “We'll manage. Together.”

We
. But Stu had the heavy burden to carry. He had the end of his life to face. I only had to pick up the pieces and try to carry on.

At the funeral, four months later, I stayed after everyone had left, stayed so I could watch Stu's casket lowered
into the ground. The funeral director wanted me to leave.

But I couldn't. “Do it now,” I said. “I'm okay.”

But I wasn't.

Ben stayed with me. “You're not alone in this, Claudia. We'll get through this.”

We
. That's when I understood how little my words had meant to Stu yet how much they meant at the same time. Ben had to face the loss of his best friend. But his loss was far different from my own.

“What if Ivy gets depressed … like her mother?” Ben voices his deepest concern, drawing me back to this crisis, this dilemma, this heartache.

“Then we'll watch for the signs and get her help. So much more is known today about postpartum depression … if that's what Gwen had. You can tell her doctor, so we can all be watchful.” There's that
we
again.

And maybe there's comfort in that. I'm not sure I would have made it through the last year without Ben or Rae. Even though I tried not to turn to them, I felt their strength. Some days knowing they'd be calling if I didn't show up at work or didn't answer my door, their presence got me out of bed, kept me moving forward. Maybe their belief kept me going.

* * *

AFTER I CALL the front desk to inform them we'll need the suite another night, I turn back to Rae and Ben. I feel antsy, like we need to do something. I'd prefer driving back to Dallas, rather than sitting here, waiting and doing nothing, even if it means carrying Elvis all the way home again.

I'm not exactly in the mood to visit the Elvis car museum. Our options seem limited, especially considering the circumstances and the tempers involved. “Now what?”

“Lunch?” Ben asks.

“No thanks,” Rae declines.

I put a hand on my unsettled stomach, which could use some Pepto-Bismol after our full, greasy breakfast.

“Graceland?” Ben says.

“Been there, done that,” I smile, which feels more like a contortion.

“I can't believe I'm going to say this to three women, but … shopping? I'm sick of this room and need to get out.”

“It's okay with me, I guess.” It would be something to do. “Would Ivy be interested?”

“I'll ask her.” But Ben stares at her closed door, foreboding as Mt. Everest.

“I have an idea,” Rae offers. “We still have a mystery to solve.”

“The mystery of the missing Elvis bust.” Ben claps Elvis on the shoulder. “Could be the title of a new novel.”

No one laughs.

Rae's eyes dip downward at the corners as if weighted by disappointment. “Don't you want to know what Stu meant?”

“No.” Suddenly I'm trembling all over. “Yes. I don't know. There doesn't seem to be a likely solution.”

Ben sighs heavily. “It's not a joke. But it bothered Stu … up until the end. We owe him.”

I feel a wire snap loose in my brain, and the electric current zaps my heart. Anger shoots through every fiber.

I don't owe Stu
anything
. I gave him everything I had. Why does he want more now when I have nothing left? “It's too much.” Tears burn my eyelids. I tilt my head into my hands, push my fingers hard against my forehead. “Too much.”

Ben kneels beside me, clasps my hand with his. A hand touches my shoulder, and I look up at Rae.

“You don't have to do this alone, Claudia.”

“We'll help.”

We.

“Elvis weighs more than I thought,” I try for a joke, but it lands flat.

Rae nods her understanding. “I've been thinking about this. Elvis isn't alive. I'm certain of that. Whatever Stuart saw—”

“You're saying Stu saw a ghost? Frankly, it doesn't matter to me if Elvis is a ghost, alive, or operating as an undercover CIA agent. The point is Stu stole the bust, obviously his wild side at work. And that clashed with his belief system at the end, leaving him with guilt. No wonder he identified with Elvis!”

“It wasn't stealing,” Ivy protests, suddenly standing in the doorway to her room.

Ben looks toward his daughter, a smile curving his lips.

“Did it belong to Elvis?” I challenge. “Did it belong to Stu?”

No one answers my questions. Silence hums between us.

“Then,” I say, flinging my arms out wide, “there you are! Stealing. Burglary. Breaking and entering.”

“The chapel is always open,” Ben reminds me.

Exhausted by this discussion, I roll my eyes in exasperation. Ivy laughs at my teenage impression.

“Okay,” I say, “let's pretend it happened the way you're implying. Some ghost appeared to Stu, got him to drive to the chapel,” the absurdity almost makes me laugh, “to steal the bust. He's still an accessory to a crime. A crime!”

“Myrtle and Guy didn't even file a police report,” Ivy says. “It really creeped Myrtle out. Scared her. She believes she saw a ghost.”

“I'm beginning to think
you're
‘all shook up.'”

Rae chuckles. Ben rubs a hand over his face, hiding a smile.

Ivy simply blinks. “I don't get it.”

“It's a song of his, Elvis,” Ben tries to explain my remark. “It was a joke.” His gaze slants toward me. “A poor one.”

“Did you tell Myrtle and Guy we have the bust?”

“No.” She crosses her arms over her chest with a look that says she's not stupid. “They were just telling me about the legend. It's pretty famous around here.”

“So who did Stu want me to return it to? The chapel?” I pause for effect and alter my voice to sound spooky. “Or the ghost?”

“We should find out,” Rae says, surprising me.

“We could call Myrtle and Guy and simply ask them,” Ben suggests, reaching for his cell phone.

“Not yet,” Rae says.

“Please don't tell me you want to hold a séance.”

She starts to smile, then simply shakes her head. “We should go see my friend Matt Franklin. He's more than likely awaiting my arrival.”

“Who?” I ask.

“Baldy,” she gives me a wink. Oh yes, Howie's “honest” friend who deals in hot-ticket Elvis souvenirs.

“But …” I want to go home.

“Baldy will know.”

“Know what?”

But Rae never answers my question.