Elvis Takes a Back Seat (4 page)

“Is it?” Ivy looks to me. Something in her eyes looks desperate, like she needs this trip, maybe more than I do. Maybe she needs time away from her overwhelmed father. Most definitely he needs a break from her.

“Sure.” What else can I say?

“Then there will be three of us,” Rae says, looping an arm through mine.

An odd feeling swells inside me. I nod my appreciation. But I'm not sure if I'm relieved or more apprehensive. I pat Elvis on his pompadour.

“Make that four.”

He won't fit,” I say one week later.

Having caught up with work and Ivy's school letting out for summer, we're ready to take Elvis home. Wherever that may be.

Stu's hunk-of-burnin'-love red vintage Cadillac sits in front of the house, the trunk gaping like an open mouth, the bust sitting in it like a bug that can't be choked down. Exasperated, I push the trunk lid down. It knocks against the base of the bust.

“I don't remember Elvis being so big.” Rae stands beside the rear bumper. She's wearing a sparkly top that matches a pair of black capri pants and the same clunky, comfortable-looking sandals that she wore to the garage sale.

“Maybe he swelled up in the heat.”

Rae laughs. “Maybe our heads did, thinking we could do this.”

Okay, I don't need an excuse to back out. I have a bad
case of what Stu would have called the moody blues, after Elvis's album.

“Tell me about Elvis,” I say.

Rae remains silent for a moment, looks up at the sky. It's been light for an hour, the gray of dawn cracking apart into a pale blue. “He was larger than life.”

And so is the bust. With a grunt I shift its position again. “Heavy, too.”

“He did have a weight problem.”

Laughter sticks in my bad attitude. I try laying Elvis on his side, but the base is too wide and knocks against the trunk lid when I attempt to close it again.

“But,” she says, “that was after I knew him.”

I glance at my aunt, still not quite able to believe she knew the King. “What was it like to know Elvis?”

“Oh, he was like anybody else.” She rolls her wrist and the charms on her bracelet make little chiming sounds. “And yet …”

I roll the King onto his back, but still the base proves too broad. I feel a sudden kinship with Elvis, sympathizing with how he was pushed around by the Colonel, yanked around by his own desires. I've been pushed into a corner by my own grief and Stu's letter. Rae even pushed me into the garage sale.

“Mother never mentioned you knew Elvis.”

“Beverly thought my life—my ‘antics' as she called it— was unimportant.” A slight breeze ruffles the bright yellow scarf encircling her head, the tail ends trailing out into her long, peppery hair. “But she liked Elvis once upon a time.”

“Mother?” She preferred Frank Sinatra and Bing Crosby. Didn't she? I lean against the side of the car, but knowing
Stu would have objected, I straighten. The trunk stands wide open, and Elvis stares up at the brightening sky.

“Didn't she ever tell you when we saw him?”

“Elvis? My mother saw Elvis?”

“We were young. Foolish. Elvis came through Dallas on a train. Father—your grandfather, that is—didn't care for Elvis. Didn't like his moves.” She performs a quick pelvis thrust for emphasis, making me laugh. “If Father had ever met Elvis, I believe he would have changed his mind. Elvis was really a nice young man. Very courteous. Very mannerly. But back then Beverly and I probably liked him because Father did not.”

“A rebel,” I say, intrigued. An only child myself, I always did as I was told.

She winks. “I was just thirteen and your mother was eighteen, I think. But what trouble we could get into! We snuck out of the house to run along the train tracks and wave to Elvis.” She sighs as if she were once again a young girl. “He was very handsome.”

I smile, having had my share of crushes. Davy Jones was probably first, then David Cassidy came along and stole my heart. I almost laugh out loud remembering John Travolta from his
Welcome Back, Kotter
days. But I never met one of my objects of infatuation. I'm not the type to scream or faint or go into hysterics. I'm more the type to stand back, stare or gawk, but not say a word. I remember David Cassidy giving a concert in Dallas, but Mother wouldn't let me go. I sulked for a whole week. I wasn't as brave as Rae.

“Elvis was on the train tracks?” I ask.

“On a train. Traveling through Dallas on his way to the army or Germany.” She shrugs. “What did it matter where
he was going? He was here! There was a crowd. Screaming girls. Such fun. Such foolishness.”

“But why didn't Mother ever tell me that story?”

A shadow of an emotion crosses her face, but not one I fully recognize. “Maybe Elvis never came up in conversation.”

I can't remember. If Elvis ever did come up, as in “Turn down that music!” or “
Blue Hawaii'
s on TV,” the conversation didn't progress to anything else. That is, nothing personal and exciting. It was probably as dull as watching an Elvis impersonator instead of the real deal. So why did Mother keep it a secret? Wouldn't it have been a fun story? So many conversations I feel as if I've missed out on with my mother. Maybe I simply failed to ask enough questions.

“Maybe she didn't want you sneaking out the way she did.” Rae crosses her arms over her chest. “Beverly took her job as mom very seriously.”

A frown pinches my brows together. “She always wanted to set a good example.”

“So,” I give up trying to make Elvis fit inside the trunk, “what was it like when you met Elvis?”

“Like you'd imagine.”

I can imagine a lot. But before I can ask more specific questions, a heavy bass booms out a familiar beat. Ben pulls up in his Jeep and parks along the curb. Spilling out of the speakers are the rocking sounds of “Bossa Nova Baby.” My own smile catches me off guard as I remember how Stu's friends ribbed him about always playing Elvis music.

When he cuts the engine and the beat dies, I call out, “Feeling retro?”

“He won't stop playing that music!” Ivy slaps down the visor and looks in the mirror as she brushes her windblown hair.

Grinning, Ben hauls Ivy's suitcase out of the back of the Jeep along with a cooler full of iced soda cans. “Seeing Elvis the other day brought back memories. Where is he?”

I point at the open trunk.

He carries the suitcase around to the back of the Cadillac then drops it on the pavement with a
thunk
. “That's not going to work.”

“You're quicker than us.” I prop a hand on my hip. “Any suggestions?”

We all stare at Elvis lying in the trunk as if he were a dead body we've suddenly discovered.

“Did you get the belts checked?” Sunlight picks up strands of gray sneaking into Ben's brown hair. “Oil changed?”

“As ordered, Captain.” During the last week, I decided Stu's vintage 1959 Cadillac would be better to take than my car, only because my Z-4 won't hold three women, luggage, plus an Elvis-sized bust. “Are you ready, Ivy?”

She saunters up to us in that slow teen way of showing she isn't a slave to anyone else's time frame. Wearing a T-shirt, shorts, and flip-flops, she slings a purple backpack over her shoulder. “Not really.”

Neither am I. “What's wrong?”

“Don't ask.” Ben mimic's his daughter's rolling of the eyes.

I wonder if he had time to talk to Ivy about her mother.

“I like your flip-flops, Ivy.” Around the edges of her toes are sparkly silver stars.

“I've gotta pee.”

“The front door is unlocked.” I gesture toward my house.

Carrying her backpack over her shoulder, she goes inside.

“Sorry,” Ben says.

“For what?”

“She's a teenager.”

“She's fine. Don't worry.”

“This trip will be good for her,” Rae predicts. She puts a hand on my shoulder. “Claudia will be good for her.”

I don't know why she thinks that. But if this weekend gives Ben a break, then it'll be worth it.

“I think she had a fight with her boyfriend.” He props a foot on the back bumper. “But I'm not sure. She won't talk about it.”

“Oh, the joys of love,” Rae says.

“Yeah,” Ben huffs.

“Don't worry. Really, she'll be fine.” I'm not sure my words are comforting. They're not to me. Simply because I don't believe them myself. “So, thoughts on what to do with Elvis? Ship him FedEx?”

Ben looks down at the bust and laughs. “We could tie down the trunk with a rope. It would only be open a few inches.”

The front door shuts and we look up as Ivy joins us again.

I wonder if I have rope in the garage. “Let me check—”

“Elvis could sit in the back seat,” Rae interrupts.

“That'll look stupid.” Ivy cuts her eyes toward the bust as if it's a nerd at school who's been annoying her.

“Might prevent anyone breaking into the trunk when we make stops along the way,” I add. I'd hate to lose my change of clothes.

“You think someone would steal Elvis?” Ben asks.

“No.” I laugh. Who would want this ugly bust? I should have taken the hundred dollars I'd been offered. I wouldn't complain if someone did steal it. Maybe I should advertise with a sign in the back window:
Elvis. Please take.

Ben clears his throat. “Claudia, you will be careful.”

“Dad,” Ivy says, “don't worry so much.”

“It's my job.”

I remember the way my father worried about me, asked what time I'd be home, insisted on meeting boys I went out with, and generally aggravating me with too many questions. Then he was gone, victim of a massive heart attack. His overprotectiveness suddenly became endearing.

The way Stu would walk me to the dorm at night was one of the first things I liked about him. “I'll be fine,” I always said. “Yeah, I know,” he'd answer, then keep me company in the dark. His presence made me feel secure,
loved,
before he ever used the word.

Dragging myself back to the present, I ask, “What if Elvis shifts and slides in the back seat?”

“What's to stop him from doing the same in the trunk?” Rae asks.

“Good point. Might rub his nose off,” I say, not really caring and yet not wanting him damaged.

“The luggage would wedge him in somewhat.” Ben lifts
his baseball cap and swipes his forearm over his brow. “But a seat belt would keep him safe in the back seat.”

I start to laugh, then Rae and Ben join in. Only Ivy stands solemn and funereal, as if she's a weary adult tired of our childish antics.

I stare at Elvis. “If Stu wanted to play one last trick on me …”

“This would be a doozy,” Rae agreed.

With Ben's help I move Elvis to the back seat. It's possible to lift him by myself, but he's bulky and awkward to maneuver. I grab the retrofit seat belt and lean into the car to strap Elvis into place. Kissing distance from the King, I feel a connection with him. He's trapped and so am I. And I'm not sure where either of us is going.

This is a mistake.

Five miles outside of Dallas, I regret the trip already. The wind whips at my hair, which lashes my cheeks. The Cadillac drives like an unwieldy ship. I clutch the thin, slick wheel, which seems too wide and moves too easily. When I push sixty miles an hour, the car starts to shake. It also shakes while idling at a light. Before we pulled onto the highway, Rae felt the jiggling at the last red light and said, “Shaken, please, not stirred.” One of my flaws is that once on a path I keep going, chugging along until I see it through. No matter what the shaking or stirring.

“Bullheaded,” my mother used to say, shaking her head.

“Tenacious,” Stu once told me.

“A fool,” I mumble to myself.

“What's that?” Rae asks, sitting beside me in the Cadillac.

“Want some music?”

“Sure.” Her sunglasses are dark and impenetrable, her hair a shimmery wave of gray. She stuffed most of it down the back of her shirt, but strands float out like long, luxurious strings.

I punch the 10-disc CD player that Stu had specially installed after he'd restored the vintage Cadillac. He said it only played Elvis music. Although Ivy might protest, she probably wouldn't like any contemporary music I'd choose. Besides, she's got an iPod plugged into her ear. I've caught snippets of electric guitar and drums leaking from the earphones. My father would have said, “You're gonna ruin your ears.” But I am not her parent and will offer no alienating advice of that sort.

Elvis's voice finally bursts out of the speakers with confidence and assurance as he sings about partying in the county jail. The tension in the Cadillac is anything but jovial; it feels more like a prison to me.

Ivy was the one who requested the top to the car be left down. Since she was irritable, I had hoped it would cheer her, maybe even make me look cool in her eyes so we could bond on this trip. But that doesn't seem to have worked. And now the wind is chapping my lips.

I glance in the rearview mirror at the large Elvis bust strapped into its own seat. I imagine it getting splattered with bugs. Sunlight glints off Elvis's painted pompadour. His lip curls at passing cars. I notice other drivers rubbernecking as they pass on either side of our slow-moving parade float.

“Turn it up,” Rae directs, reaching for the volume herself. Her hand taps out the rhythm on the seat between us.

Her face splits into a wide grin, revealing a lifetime of finely etched lines in her skin.

“Hey!” Ivy yells from the back seat. Up until that moment she'd been silent. “That's getting on my nerves.”

Frowning, I readjust the speakers, turning off the ones in the rear of the car. I remember an icy blast of February frost the last time Stu rode in the Cadillac. He wanted the top down, to feel the wind against his face. While he napped, I struggled for an hour to get the top fastened in place. Sweating, disheveled, I'd tapped on the horn and he'd poured himself into the passenger seat, content for once to let me drive. “Burning Love” blared from the speakers. The bitter wind whipped at my hair and clothes, reflected my thoughts. But Stu's grin warmed me inside and out and temporarily brightened the gray hue that had started to seep into his skin.

Sudden tears threaten like the storm clouds popping up on the horizon. The love we shared still burns inside me. It's why I couldn't say no to Stu about a drive in February or, now, this bizarre trip to Memphis.

We drive over the long bridge that stretches across Lake Ray Hubbard. Bass boats, speeders, and sailboats glide over the smooth water. It's a beautiful day for being out in the sunshine. Once again I resent having to take this trip. Not that I'd be out on the water today. I'd probably be working or piddling around the house.

Movement in the rearview mirror shifts my attention from the road. Ivy leans against the door and props her bare feet on Elvis's shoulder. Irritation twists inside me like a cap on a prescription bottle. I put my arm over the seat and wave my hand toward her feet. “Do you mind?”

Her eyes are closed, and she's absorbed in her own music, her own life, her own problems. I wonder why she wanted to come on this trip. To get away from her dad? To escape her own life? To irritate me?

“Hey!” I arch my back, straining over the seat to get her attention while still trying to maneuver the car, which drives more like a barge through a cramped harbor. I flap my hand until my fingertips brush Ivy's long brown leg.

“What?”

“Do you mind?” I meet her startled gaze in the rearview mirror.

She lifts an earphone. “What?”

“Your feet! Do you mind not putting them on the King?” Stu would have been horrified.

She looks at her feet, pops her big toe, then slowly pulls them away from Elvis's shoulder. “Whatever.”

“Thanks.” But I know she's already tuned me out.

A blast of a car horn jerks my attention back to the road where I drifted out of my lane and into the next. I wrench the steering wheel to the right and try to breathe. I remember how my mother rode with me as I practiced driving before I turned sixteen. Most of the time she clutched the side door and shrieked whenever she thought I was slow on braking. But her sister doesn't seem to have a care in the world right now. Rae leans back, her head tilted to absorb the sun's rays, caught up in the moment. I wish I could be so carefree.

* * *

BY THE TIME we reach Greenville, we've stopped once and are behind schedule. Ivy needs bathroom breaks more often
than a toddler. Other drivers keep checking out Elvis in the back seat, doing double takes, then honking. Some wave and point like they're trying to make sure I know Elvis is hiding in my back seat. Like I don't know this. More truckers have blasted their horns at us until my nerves are frayed.

“Do you think you're going to be able to do this?” Rae asks.

“Do what?”

“Say good-bye to Stuart.”

“You mean to Elvis.” I shrug. “I've already …” My throat tightens. I've already done the impossible. Haven't I?

“You had a happy marriage. For a long while.”

“Yes.” Feeling the sticky barbs of truth, I turn the questions back on Rae. “Were you ever married?”

“No, no.”

“Why not?”

“It's not as if I never had offers. Handsome men. Wealthy, affluent. Oh, the men I've known.” She sighs. “But I never loved one enough to sacrifice my freedom. I like adventure.”

“Mother always said I should meet a man at church.”

“Is that where you met Stu?” she asks.

“No. We met while I was on a date.”

“With another man?”

“Ben.” I glance back at Ivy, not sure I want her to know this about her father. “It was a setup. A mutual friend at the church we both attended hooked us up. And while we were at dinner, we ran into Stu. He was on a date with someone else.”

“Fruit basket turnover,” Rae laughs. “I always thought men at church were boring.”

“Ben wasn't boring. I don't really remember what
happened. But we never went out again. And soon Stu started calling. I guess I figured Ben wasn't interested.”

I think back on the twenty years I was married to Stu. It took me along paths I would never have ventured on my own. “Don't you think marriage can be an adventure?”

“Maybe.” Rae readjusts her sunglasses. “With the right someone. But I know how painful loving can be.”

I nod, knowing the pain, the sacrifices mingled with the joy.

“After …” Her voice drifts, her gaze seems to be looking more in the distance than the smattering of car dealerships we are passing. “Well, I never allowed myself to love deeply again. The pain,” she waves her hand, “was too much.”

“I know. I don't think I'll ever marry again either. It's too hard to let go.” I think back to my mother, who never spoke of lost loves or the pain of losing my father. “Who was it that broke your heart?”

“I did.” She taps her chest. “And my heart never recovered.”

“How is that possible?” I ask.

“Hey!” Ivy interrupts. “It's raining.”

At that moment a raindrop plops against my scalp, then another fat one hits my arm. Up ahead, dark clouds bump together. We seem to be reaching the edge of a storm. “We need to pull over and put the top up.”

“Don't worry, I won't melt,” Rae says.

“Yeah, but Elvis might.” I'm not sure what he's made of, or what I'm made of either, but I can imagine Elvis's pompadour dripping down his face, like the tonic Michael Jackson used to put on his hair, and a puddle of plaster forming in the back seat.

* * *

“GRAB THAT AND pull,” I shout. The wind has picked up. Eighteen-wheelers rumble past and shake the car.

Rae tries to help but doesn't know what to do. I end up racing from one side of the car to the other. Rain begins to fall, first in random drops, then more steadily, as if the clouds have figured out what to do.

By the time I've wrestled the top into place, I'm sopping wet with sweat and rain. I brush damp strands of hair out of my face and fall into the driver's seat, slamming the door closed. Bubbling with laughter, Rae climbs in beside me on the front bench seat. Behind us, not a care in the world, Ivy sends a text message through her cell phone, probably to her friends that she is with two lunatic adults.

I stare out the windshield at the rain sluicing down it. Only a few feet away from the car is a purple ostrich. I blink, lean forward. That's when I see a whole row of statues—a giraffe, buffalo, lion, and a giant marlin. Maybe Elvis belongs with these guys. I could dump him on the side of the road and turn for home. But as soon as the thought enters my mind, I bat it down. I think of Stu's note and know I'm bound for Graceland.

“Does it hurt badly?” Rae asks.

I glance at my thumb, which I smashed while putting the top up. The side of it is red, and I feel it pulse with anger. “It's okay.”

We sit on the side of the road for a moment longer as I catch my breath. Rain splatters on the windshield and plunks on the canvas top. It reminds me of another rainy day, cold and bitter. Stu lay in his hospice bed, staring up at
the pockmarked ceiling, watching the slow spin of the fan. It was toward the end. Every breath had become precious. “How much will you miss me?”

His voice floats back to me across the space of time—that look, the electricity he elicited in my body crackled like the lightning flashes up ahead—and I clench the steering wheel.

“Are you okay?” Rae asks, and I realize she's watching me closely.

I shake loose the memories, pull my seat belt across my body. “I guess we better move on now. We won't get to Memphis sitting on the side of the road.”

Ivy makes no comment, not verbally anyway; she's focused on her cell phone. But Rae touches my arm, her warmth startling to the coolness of my skin, as if to say,
You're not alone
. But I feel alone. So very alone in all of this.

* * *

“HEY,” IVY CALLS over the roar of the engine, the buffeting of the wind against the canvas top, and Elvis singing “Love Me Tender.” “I gotta pee.”

“Again?” I glance over my shoulder, then back toward the highway. “Okay. There's a town coming up.”

“Is this Arkansas?” Rae asks, seeming to wake up. Her head has been nodding sleepily for the last twenty minutes.

The rain stops as we pull into a gas station that looks newly constructed. The pavement is wet, and everything seems to glitter with remnants of the rain. I see a sign for restrooms and a refrigerated compartment of Coca-Colas and Budweisers.

“I might fill up the gas tank while we're—”

Ivy slams the door and heads toward the building without a word or a glance back.

“—stopped,” I finish, then sigh. Teenagers. I'm beginning to be glad I never had children. I pity Ben, who has to deal with his daughter on a daily basis. No wonder he needs a break. I do, too.

After choosing the grade of gasoline—the top grade, Stu always advised me—I open the car door and lean in. “Rae, would you like something to drink or snack on?”

“Good idea. I'll come in with you.”

Together we walk into the gas station. Immediately the scent of incense tickles my senses and makes me sneeze.

“It is not what he said,” the woman sitting behind the counter says into the phone attached to her ear. She has a thick Middle Eastern accent. Sufi music weeps out of the speakers. Nothing in this place makes me think of Arkansas.

“Peanuts or crackers?” Rae asks, perusing the shelves for snack foods.

I'm not hungry, but my stomach feels empty. Or maybe it's just me. “I'm thinking an apple turnover.”

“Ooh, I haven't had one of those in years. Beverly used to love those.”

“Mother?” I ask, remembering how she wouldn't let me have those fat-laden empty calories.

“Oh, yes. She would walk me over to the Gulf station, only a couple of blocks from our house, and we'd buy two—a lemon one for me and an apple for her.”

“You'd pass on the pickled eggs and pigs' feet?” I joke,
passing a five-gallon jar of each, which is the first clear indication of the state we're in.

Rae laughs. “Maybe on the way home.”

We each select a turnover and grab an extra for Ivy. The paper crinkles beneath my fingers. After we pay and walk back toward the car, I ask, “Was my mother a good big sister?”

“Of course. Sometimes she would take me with her, include me in her trouble so we could share the blame. Then other times she'd shun me.”

“Wait a minute … Mother,
my
mother, in trouble?”

“Oh, the trouble she could find! When she started dating your daddy, she missed her curfew a few times.” Rae grins at my surprised expression. “Don't be so shocked. Where do you think I learned to rebel?”