Elvissey (19 page)

"My hair's not yours to touch," I told him as I hauled
myself up. "Nothing of mine is."

"Keep 'm like he is," E said. "I'm not gonna be watchin'
both of you-"

"I'm going to talk to my husband and take him out of the
car. I'll leave him tied. Agreed?"

"Don't gab too long." E lowered his weapon and strolled
far enough away from us that he couldn't hear our whispers,
though he eyed us all the while.

"He shot two at the restaurant," I said to John. "Completely unreasoned. It'll alert authorities area-round, certain."

"Three bullets left, likely," my husband said. "One for
each."

"He's murderous, John. He triggers at slights. He'll ex us
both if we're with him much longer-"

"You'll have to disarm, then."

"Impossibled," I said.

"He'll act if I attempt, and I'll not see you bloodied-"

"And what if he bloodies me as I'm disarming-"

"He won't," John said. "He's fingerwrapped by you."

"I'm not trained as you are-"

"You're mine. I'm yours. Like attracted like." His features
beatificked; I'd not seen such a look on his face since our
wedding, though I'd always known it was there if he chose to
show it. "You've proved timeover with me, Iz. You can act
where I can't."

"You finished jawin' yet?" E shouted over to us.

"No!" I replied, at equal volume; returned my attentions
to my husband. "Can't you break loose? Por fav-"

"The Achilles slipped my heel," John said. "Long as I'm
bound I can't unshoe to readjust, and he wishes me tied. Do
as you're doing, he'll distract soon enough. When he stresses
over you can disarm with ease."

"John-"

"It's doable by you," he said. "Once he's weaponless I'll
loose myself and we'll fly-"

"Time's up," E said, sauntering back to the car. "You want
'm to eat, you can feed 'm now-"

"Feed him what?" I asked. "The food's back at the restaurant, along with your leftovers-"

E reddened, and booted the side of our car, scuffing its
paint; by his grimace it evidenced that he'd pained himself
with his kick. "I gave 'em to you to hold and you dropped
em-

"Idiot," I said, uncaring to expend energy enough on him
to shout; then blabbed other terms as I'd been taught them,
wishing to degrade and insult as I could. "Peckerwood whitetrash redneck-"

He fired, shooting the ground at my feet. I muted in the
shot's echo and remembered John's estimation; if there were
two bullets remaining, at least one of us would remain if
worse was to worsen. "Don't you call me that," he said,
tantruming. "My people worked hard, they're not trash-"

"So claimed," I said, turning from him, gambling that he
wouldn't shoot again. The sun was setting; enough light lingered that when I eyed our surroundings I realized that
we rested in the midst of something utterly alien to my
experience; possessing an unexplainable familiarity, all the
same. "Where are we?" I asked, looking around. "What is
this?"

"Nigger graveyard," E said, slinging that word at me
again. "Thought they'd all been plowed up by now. They
musta missed this'n."

Hollowed gourds were attached to treelimbs overhanging
the field, twirling idly, spun by the breeze. As our car came
to rest it slashed through these grounds so recklessly as the
interstates carved the cities, shredding forty-odd patches of
the cemetery's quilt. Favored leavings and fetishes of those
who lay at rest delineated each mound's edges. Some plots
were marked with colored glass bottles and pottery shards;
tarnished spoons, white pebbles or shattered light-bulbs;
dulled knives, broken bowls, conch shells, armless dolls and
sets of choppers. Coins frosted several beds, comforting the
sleeper with a cold blanket. A mirror topped one mound,
framed with red mud, appearing as memory-pool and reminder, reflecting the stare of those who came to mourn.
Headstoning another grave was a faced clock, its hands frozen at twelve, as if to mark judgment's hour. Some few
concrete lumps sufficed as markers; only one bore a message, and that with letters finger-inscribed in the cement as
it dried. These were the words thereon:

Cecie
Eighteen years a slave
One year a wife
One year a mother
Then I lost my life.

"Burma Shave," I whispered to myself, in lieu of eulogy.
"What'd you mean you were surprised they hadn't plowed it
up? Why would anyone deliberately desecrate?"

"To get rid of 'em," E said. "Like they did with Beale
Street. Like they did everwhere." He ceased his annotations,
as if there was no reason why I shouldn't comprehend.
"Haven't seen one a these since I was a kid-"

"You're befuddling me," I said. "Who got rid of them?"

"They didn't Randolph 'em all up in New York?"

"No," I said. "What's meant?"

"After the strike," he said. "Riots and war crimes. I was
little but I remember 'em all talkin' about it."

I keened to know more; between his lines I inferred the
situation of my countryfolk, staying mindful at all times of
what we had been told, predeparture, concerning this society's opinion of them, fifteen years before. Deliberately, I
stilled my questions, unwilling for illusion's sake to illustrate
my ignorance and cause him to doubt all the more that we
were truly of his world. I enfolded my arms around myself,
feeling chilled in the air's oven, grateful, now, to have had
my color removed for our trip.

"I don't think much of it," said E, toying with his gun; I
hoped he had it safetied. "What the hell. Can't stop progress, can you?"

Standing ringed by the final homes of those departed, I
wished only to home it so soon as we could, and be rid of this
place unto endtime. "Put that gun away," I said.

E nodded; eyed my husband lying in the car, not ten
meters distant. "Something I need to do first."

Before I estimated his intent E walked to our car; I
watched wordless as he bent down to slug my husband on
the head with his gun. "No!" I shouted, running to the car,
shoving E out of my way; sliding into the car, I rested John's
bleeding head in my lap, fingercombing his hair until I
found the flow's source. Pressing my hand against his scalp,
I staunched his leak in minutes. "Why?" I screamed at E;
petted my husband's face, attempting to wake him. His
breathing steadied; he groaned as if surfacing before sinking down again. I flipped on the ceiling's overhead, suffusing
our car with light.

"I didn't trust him not to try somethin'," E said. "He'll
come around, don't worry. I didn't hit 'im that hard."

"You'll regret if he doesn't," I said, shoving down my rage
until it pierced through my stomach. "You'll regret overmuch."

"I usually do," he said, backing away. E walked over to the
field's edge, looking away from the graves into the woods. As
the moon rose it showed as an overripened orange against
the violet sky, looking as it so usually looked over New York;
had we not spent so much time breathing in the interstate's
poison I would have thought its color here merely an atmospheric quirk. Transferring to the front seat, I withdrew the
lightrod from its housing. As I alongsided my husband again
I twisted the rod's end; its tip glowed as it heated, warming
enough to burn. I pushed up his eyelids, and brought the
rod close to his eyes; his pupils pinpointed against the light,
and I was relieved that there appeared to be no lasting
damage. Switching off the rod, I slid it through my hair once
it had cooled. Removing John's shoes, I massaged his heel
until I felt the tendon-cord snap back into place. He remained unconscious, in seeming sleep; seeing no other escape, desirous of living up to his faith in me, I redarkened
the interior, and went to settle E.

"You're always this way?" I asked, once I'd reached him.
"So violent, and stupid?"

"Don't call me stupid. I'm not stupid," he said, proffering
nothing more than verbal threats; his gun was in his waistband, out of my grasp. "My mamma called me stupid."

"Another reason you shot her?" I asked.

"I asked her not to."

"She'd called you that before?"

"Lot more lately," he said. "I don't know, it's all messed
up„

"Always?"

"No," he said. "We useta get along real good. When we
moved to Memphis looked like we were gonna be all right
for a change. Then daddy went and got sent away. Screwed
everthing up." He paused; looked away from me as he continued to speak, so that I couldn't read his face. Whether
deliberately or inadvertently, he angled himself in such a
way as to keep me far from his gun. "Excuse my french,
ma'am."

"Isabel," I said.

"Yeah," he said. "Maybe it didn't change a lotta things,
just sped 'em up. When she'd get sad Mamma useta always
tell me we'd never get ahead, we had a black cloud over us.
She kept tellin' me that till finally I believed she was right."
He looked at me, but his eyes were unseeable in the dark. As
he started walking forward, toward the woods, I paced him,
keeping a few steps behind. "It's something, isn't it? However hard you try, there's no way out."

"How's your hand?" I asked as I followed him from grass
onto breaking twigs. "You should be hospitalled, likely."

"You a nurse?" he asked. "Thought you told me you were
in the music business."

"There's a way out for you, Elvis," I said.

"I don't know if I'm cut out for singin' in public," he said.

"What are you cut out for?" He shrugged; said nothing.
"Our company wishes us to bring you back to them. Back to
New York."

"Little late for that now, I'd think. I'd say there's not much
chance a either one of us goin' to New York-"

"I say there is."

As we moved deeper into the woods the branches overhead shadowed the moonlight, darkening our steps. I
slipped the lightrod out of my hair, readying it for use.

"Careful where you walk, I bet there's snakes in here," he
said. "Don't see how you can say we can still go to New York.
Even if they don't get you for bein' an accessory after the fact
at the restaurant, they'll still put me away-"

"You want them to?"

"I did shoot 'em," he said. "Somebody's gotta be in trouble for it."

"We can get you out of this, if you do as we ask."

He nodded. "I thought so. You all are hooked up with
gangsters then, aren't you?"

"Indirectly," I said. "We've other ways to remove ourselves
from this. I'll demonstrate. Untie John, give me your gun,
trust us and follow our lead."

He laughed. His mention of snakes upset me; twisting the
rod's end as I held it up, I adjusted its shine to that of
candlelight, enabling sight while retaining useful shadows
with which I might cloak my actions.

"What the hell's that thing?" E asked, his eyes widening as
he stared into its glow.

"I like to see where I'm going," I said. "What's your
response?"

"Have to think about it," he said. "What'll I do if we get
to New York, then?"

"Our company will prepare you. Periodically you'll sing
and make public appearances. You'll be housed and paid."

"How much?"

"Whatever you needed," I said, "you'd have." My light
illuminated a small circle around us; I listened to insects'
white noise, and a recurrent croaking that I guessed was
frog-spawned, though I'd heard their voices only as recorded, and never live. E said nothing; I became aware of a
light above our heads, brighter than stars or moon. Peering
through a strangle of branches I saw three plasmas skittering
through the air, their edges blurry against the dark; they
descended, revealing their circular forms at closer focus.
"Godness," I said. "Those are flying saucers-?"

"I told you they were testing 'em round here," E said.
"There they are." As we watched they banked leftward, turning sharp and silently, disappearing from view. "Couldn't
see anything on 'em. Could you?"

"No-"

"German," he said. "I'm positive. It'll all come out, one

day." E stopped, and sat down on a windfallen tree after
scraping a seat clean of bark and moss with his shoe. "So
you're sayin' that even under the circumstances you'd be
willin' to take me to New York?"

"More than willing," I said. "You'd try singing again,
wouldn't you? Singing in public?"

"I'd haveta?"

"At times," I said. "You told me you sang blues?"

"When I could get away with it," he said. "Mamma said I
sounded just like a nigger when I sing. I haveta be careful
about that-"

"Another condition of employment," I said. "Don't use
that word."

"What d'you call 'em up north?"

"People."

"That's not what I've heard," he said. "Hell, it's just a
word. They usedta call each other that all the time, I remember hearin' 'em."

"It's a word like whitetrash, " I said, "or stupid. "

I watched as his face hardened, hearing those terms, as
mine must have done each time he spewed his epithet.
"Don't call me stupid," he said, pulling out his gun. Conversing with E was not unlike attempting to sculpt fire without suffering burns.

"I didn't call you stupid," I said. "If you shoot me I think
anyone else would have every right to, though. Give me the
gun.

"No," he said, lowering it. "It's mine."

"Don't shove it at me every time you're upset," I said.
"Why'd you pasttense, moments ago?"

"What're y'talkin' about now?" he said. "I'm sorry, Isabel,
but don't call me stupid."

My light tanned him, and smoothed his face's bumps, and for an instant E appeared nearly as his counterpart had
shown. He replaced his gun beneath his billowing shirt.

"You used to hear the blues sung as well?"

"Back in Tupelo there usedta be some old boys around
when I was a kid I'd go listen to. First year we come to
Memphis they hadn't torn out Beale Street yet and I'd sneak
out and go down to their clubs. Crawl up in the attics to get
in, or sneak in backstage. Listen to 'em singin' and playin'
all night. Mamma never liked me goin' down there. Said
they'd come for me too one a these days."