Elvis Takes a Back Seat (6 page)

Pushing out into the muggy heat of the day, I race down the porch, past wooden rocking chairs with price tags, and stumble to a halt in front of the Cadillac. Rae's screaming at the two women. Through the windshield, Elvis stares at me unblinking as if he can't figure out what all the fuss is about. The two women Rae's cornered shift nervously, cut their eyes toward each other as if they've awakened a lunatic. I gulp air and try to figure out a way to interrupt Rae.

“What is going on?” I finally yell.

Rae keeps yammering away, her words running fast and furious, bumping into each other.

One woman stands beside the Cadillac, backing toward the parking lot, her face as red as a summer tomato. “Nothing! Everything's okay.” She points at Rae. “Except she's a nutcase.”

The other woman—her accomplice, I surmise—can't stop making a high-pitched yodeling sound, some kind of a bizarre laugh.

I put my arm on Rae's arm. “Okay, Rae. It's okay now.”

“It's not okay.” Her eyes are wild.

“Take it easy, Rae. It's o—” I stop myself from saying “okay.” I don't want to agitate her any more. “It's going to be all right.” Then I remember how she reacted to the woman who tried to steal a baby rattle from my garage sale. “Are you all right?”

She blinks at me, her lips pressing tightly together. “They stole Elvis.”

But there he is still sitting in the back seat of the Cadillac.

“We weren't going to steal it,” the woman who looks as if she swallowed a can of V-8 juice says.

The laughing hyena sputters and coughs. “We wanted to see it. Up close and personal, you might say. We wouldn't do nothin' illegal.”

I narrow my gaze, squinting at her, noticing the bent-out-of-shape hanger in her hand. “You can't see Elvis through the window?”

“Not clearly, no.”

A man who looks like he eats down-home cookin' every day of the week walks up, spits tobacco out the side of his mouth into the bushes. “There a problem, ladies?”

Rae launches into another tirade.

He stares at her as if her head had suddenly become dislodged, rubs his thumb against the edge of his cowboy hat. “Say that again, ma'am? Slower maybe.”

“Rae,” I interrupt, “it's okay.”

The door to the restaurant opens behind me, and Ivy steps outside. “What's going on?” She holds her cell phone. “Need me to call 911?”

I stare at the two women, not quite believing them, yet not believing anyone would want to steal Elvis either. “No,” I finally say. “It's okay. They were just going to have a look at the King. Who can blame them for that, right?”

The cackling woman says, “He isn't your regular tourist hereabouts.”

The red-faced woman readjusts a bra strap and backs away. “Y'all have a nice day.”

“Where you takin' him?” her accomplice asks.

“Mem—”

I cough, stopping Ivy from revealing our destination. “Back to Texas.”

Rae shifts her gaze toward me, concern deepening her green eyes.

The woman looks through the window at Elvis, then says, “Guess that's as good a place as any. You know, Elvis spent a good amount of time in Texas.”

“Uh-huh.” She'll never know how much time this Elvis has spent there.

After the two women disappear, I meet Rae's gaze. “Don't worry, I'm not taking him home. I was just throwing them off the scent.” When she nods her understanding, I add, “Thanks for noticing that they were—”

“They were trying to steal Elvis!”

“They won't be back,” the man says.

“Yes, well, it's over,” I say. “Maybe Elvis is considered haute decor here in Arkansas.”

“You'd be surprised.” The man grins, revealing tobacco-stained teeth.

“No harm done anyway.” I run my finger along the car door, check to make sure the door is locked still.

The small crowd that gathered when the commotion started begins to disperse. Folks entering or leaving the restaurant give us long, curious glances.

“Uh,” Ivy grunts, jerking her head toward the restaurant, “lunch is served.”

Through the window, I can see our waitress setting plates and platters on our table.

“You ladies staying or heading out?” the man asks, opening the restaurant door wide.

“Staying.” But I can't leave Elvis. What if someone else decides to take a closer look at the King?

Rae touches my shoulder. “You go on in and eat. I'll guard Elvis.”

“No, no. You should eat. It's okay. I'll stay out here. My car, my Elvis, my problem.”

“Who's gonna steal him now?” Ivy asks.

Everyone suddenly appears suspicious to me. I know Stu didn't ask me to bring Elvis to Memphis only to have him stolen. With a heavy sigh, I say, “Okay, there's only one thing to do. Hold the door, please.”

I unlock the car door, unbuckle Elvis, and lift him out of the car. I wobble, then gain my footing and waddle toward the trucker. Rae shuts the car door behind me and grabs hold of Elvis's shoulders.

“What are you doing?” Ivy asks.

Already huffing with the exertion of carrying the King,
who feels as if he's gained weight on the drive, I say, “Elvis is hungry.”

“He's talking to you?” Ivy asks.

I grin and thank the man, who tips his hat as we pass (whether it's to us or saluting Elvis, I'm not sure). A minute later we place the bust on the chair next to me. Ivy shifts to the other side of the table, sitting next to Rae.

The waitress does a double take as she passes, then comes back grinning. She plunks a ketchup bottle on the table. “Coffee, sugar?”

“He's cutting back on caffeine,” I say.

“'Bout time he started to eat healthy.” She props her fist on an ample hip. “Heard tell Elvis come through these parts years ago.”

Ivy blows out a puffy breath that lifts her bangs, then she slumps down in her seat across from the King.

“Really?” I unscrew the lid and pour ketchup on the side of my plate. “Did you meet him?”

“Oh, heavens, no. But I sure do wish somebody like Tim McGraw would come through now. I'd give his wife, Faith, a run for her money. Guess I shouldn't say that, being a good Christian woman. But he sure is somethin'.” She laughs. “You girls need anything else, just let me know.”

A husky man stops at our table, rolls a toothpick to the side of his mouth. “Where'd you get him?”

“A souvenir,” I say.

“My wife sure would like one of those.”

“Who wouldn't?” I swirl a fat French fry through the ketchup.

“You're not eating,” Rae says to Ivy.

The girl pushes her salad around in the bowl but hasn't eaten anything. “I think I lost my appetite.”

“You know what Elvis would say?” I ask, putting my arm around my stiff and unresponsive dinner companion.

“What's that?” Rae asks, her eyebrow lifting with amusement—or was it a challenge? Frankly, I had no idea what Elvis would say; I simply want to lighten the mood, add a little laughter. “Well, uh, he'd say …” I try a stumbling, bumbling impersonation of the King. After all, I'd heard Stu do it a thousand times. “Try the pie. Two helpings is better than one. Thank you. Thank you very much.”

Rae laughs first. Relief washes over me.

Then she orders a piece of pecan pie. When it arrives, she places it in front of Elvis. With a shrug, she says, “It was one of his favorites.”

* * *

“TENNESSEE,” I READ the highway sign before the bridge as our headlights pave the way. “Welcome to Memphis, ladies.”

“Over the river and through the woods to Elvis's house we go.” Rae sits straighter and peers through the windshield.

We can't see much but concrete and steel.

“Could you reach in the glove compartment and get the map?” I ask Rae. Before we left Dallas, I printed off a map and directions leading to the hotel.

She pushes the button, but the door doesn't budge. “It's now,” she sings out in her best imitation of Elvis, “or never.”

“You have to push really hard,” I say.

She does and the compartment door clunks open. Pulling out the map, she reads the directions.

“Stay south on 55,” Rae directs.

I avoid a big semi that doesn't seem to see me.

“Not much has changed,” she says, more to herself than me. “And yet I don't recognize any of it.”

I glance in my rearview. Ivy uses her backpack as a pillow propped against Elvis' side. Her eyes are closed. We've been driving since Little Rock, almost two hours of straight, flat highway and no restroom stops. I'm glad for the darkness that has fallen as I feel less conspicuous with Elvis riding in the back seat.

The electronic beeping of a rock beat interrupts Elvis's rockabilly rendition of “Little Sister” playing on the stereo. “I think that's yours, Ivy.”

She wakes quickly, which makes me wonder if she was only playing possum. “Yeah,” she says brusquely into her cell phone. “I don't know.” She leans her arm on the front seat. “Where are we?”

“Memphis. Is it your dad?”

“You wanna talk to him?” She shoves the phone toward me. Placing my left hand on the steering wheel, I hold the phone with my right. “Ben?”

“What happened to Ivy?” he asks, his voice sounding amazingly clear.

“She handed me the phone. How are you?”

“I'm fine. Where are you now?”

“Memphis. But we haven't reached the hotel yet. I can call you with our room number when we get settled. I reserved us a suite, so we'll be together.” A room together
seemed the safest solution with a minor. But a suite will give us more room and some privacy.

“Sounds good,” he says. “How's she doing?”

“Okay.” I shift my gaze to Rae, remembering her concerns. I wonder if she'd tell Ben. But now isn't the time. No need to worry Ivy's dad when I have no facts, no way of knowing anything delinquent about his daughter yet. “We're all kind of tired from being in the car all day.”

“What took you so long? You didn't have car trouble, did you?”

“Oh, no. We, uh …” I glance at Ivy in the rearview mirror as she digs through her backpack. “We just made more stops than we anticipated.”

“She's not being a pain, is she?”

Red brake lights flash in front of me, and I touch my foot to the brakes. After a moment the long line of cars moving along the highway slowly picks up its pace again.

“No, not at all.” Ivy is respectful. Just quiet. Yet I also know, or suspect, something is wrong. But I can't say so in front of Ivy, or even over the phone.

“You'd tell me, right?”

“Of course.” When I have something to tell. Until then …

“Take the next exit,” Rae says.

“We're almost there,” I tell Ben on the phone.

“Okay, call me later.”

“You should have come with us,” I say.

“Nah. Somebody has to hold down the fort.”

“Okay, Dad,” I tease with a wry smile, as I know he's going to worry about all of us until we arrive safely home. “I'll keep you posted.”

“Here,” Rae says, pointing to Elvis Presley Boulevard. “This is it.”

“Okay.” I fumble with the steering wheel and the phone, letting it drop into my lap and yell, “Bye!” as I signal and take the exit. “Imagine having your own street named after you.” In the rearview mirror, I catch Ivy's eyes rolling upward. I consider keeping a count of that particular expression. I bet we can break one hundred before the end of the trip. “I wonder what it must have been like for Elvis.”

“Confining,” Rae says, folding the map.

“Let's get checked in, then we'll find some dinner.” I turn right on Lonely Street and then veer left into the Heartbreak Hotel parking lot.

* * *

“SEE SEE RIDER” blares out of the hotel's sound system and can be heard throughout the parking lot as we unload our suitcases. Temporarily, we leave Elvis in the back seat.

In the lobby a small old-style television shows Elvis boxing in
Kid Galahad
. The hotel boasts Elvis movies twenty-four hours a day. Already I'm getting weary of the King.

The Heartbreak Hotel is as worn and weary looking as I am after a long day of travel. We pass the cherry-red couch and purple chairs to check in at the desk. Then we head up to our rooms and settle in.

The suite is large and roomy, and we each go to our separate rooms to unpack. I lay on the bed for a minute, stretch my back, and wish I were home. A rumbling in my stomach gets me back on my feet.

I knock on Ivy's door.

“Yeah?”

“It's me.” I open the door a crack. “Are you ready?”

She sits up on the bed, her suitcase open, her backpack slung over the chair in the corner.

“Are you hungry?” After checking into the hotel and unloading our luggage, we all took a few minutes to freshen up for dinner.

“Not really.”

“But we haven't eaten since our late lunch. Come on.”

“I'm tired.” She has dark circles under her eyes. Or is it remnants of mascara?

“We could order room service—”

“Go to dinner. I'll be fine here.”

“We might need your help.” I try to figure out a way to get Ivy to come with us without demanding it and alienating her in the process.

“With what?”

“Elvis.”

“Whaddya mean?”

“We've got to get Elvis into the room. And we don't exactly want to make a big deal of carrying him through the lobby.”

“Embarrassing, huh?”

“And heavy.” I lower my voice. “It might be too heavy for Rae. You know?”

She puffs out a hefty breath. “Okay.” She scoots to the edge of the bed. “I'll come.”

“Good. You never know. You might be an Elvis fan by the time this is all over.”