The Heart Goes Last (28 page)

Back at the Elvisorium, he takes frequent showers and dozes a lot. At first he has trouble sleeping in the daytime because the singing Elvises like to practise their acts, accompanied by backup tracks turned up way too high. But he’s soon acclimatized.

Nobody comes to collect his belt buckle, with its precious, scandalous data. He sleeps with it under his pillow.

He’s chewing on a a hot dog at a street café, sheltering from the sun as best he can, when a Marilyn slides onto the seat beside him. “It’s Veronica,” she whispers. “Everything okay? Guys treating you right? Still got that buckle?”

“Yeah, but I need to know –”

“Holy shit, look, both of them together! That is so fabulous! Can we get a picture?” Red-faced dude in an
I Heart Vegas
T, his grinning wife, two bored-looking teens.

“Okay, just one,” says Venonica. She throws back her head, does the Marilyn smile, links her arm with Stan’s; they pose. But several other camera-wielding couples closing in on them. This could be a mob scene.

“Catch you later,” she smiles. “Gotta dash!” She kisses Stan on the forehead, leaving – he supposes – a big red mouth. She doesn’t forget the almost-limping Marilyn ass wiggle as she moves away. She’s got a new red carry bag; he can only suppose her gigolo of a teddy bear is inside it.

His first official postings are to the terminal care wing of Ruby Slippers; it’s the same chain that Charmaine used to work for before they both lost their jobs, so it has a familiar feel to it. He doesn’t allow himself to think too much about what went wrong with them, or where Charmaine is now. He can’t afford to brood. Day by day is how he has to play it.

The job isn’t hard. Once he’s been ordered up by a friend or a relative, all he has to do is get himself into costume and then into the role. Then he delivers bouquets of flowers to elderly patients – elderly female patients, since the Marilyns do the men. The palliative care nurses welcome him: he’s a spot of brightness, they claim: he keeps the patients interested in life. “We don’t think of the clients here as dying,” one of them said to him on his first visit. “After all, everyone’s dying, just some of us more slowly.” Some days he believes this; other days he feels like the Grim Reaper. The Angel of Death as Elvis. It kind of fits.

For each delivery he shows his identity card with the UR-ELF logo at Reception, passes through Security, and is escorted as far as the patient’s room door. There he makes a dramatic entrance, though not too dramatic: a noisy surprise might be fatal. Then he presents the flowers with a bow and a swirl of his cape, and just a suggestion of pelvic action.

After that he sits beside the hospital beds and holds the frail, trembling hands, and tells the patients that he loves them. They like to have this message delivered in the form of Elvis’s hit song titles – “I Want You, I Need You, I Love You,” or “I’m All Shook Up,” or “Let Me Be Your Teddy Bear” – but he doesn’t have to sing these songs, just whisper the titles. Some of the patients hardly know he’s there, but others, less feeble, get a kick out of him and think he’s a fine joke.

Yet others believe he’s real. “Oh Elvis, you’re here at last! I knew you would come,” one old woman exclaims, throwing her matchstick arms around his neck. “I love you! I always loved you! Kiss me!”

“I love you too, honey,” he growls in return, placing his rubbery lips on her wrinkled cheek. “I love you tender.”

“Oh, Elvis!”

When he first began he felt like a shit-for-brains fool, capering around like this in a phony get-up, pretending to be someone he isn’t; but the more he does it, the easier it becomes. After the fifth or sixth time he really does love these old biddies, at least for a moment. He brings such joy. When was the last time anyone was so truly happy to see him?

Stan’s at the Elvisorium, drinking beer and playing Texas hold’em with three of the other Elvises. They don’t play for money, they know better than that; they’ve seen too many despairing punters lose their last dollar at the tables. They play for pancakes – the Baby Stacks Cafe ones, though you can trade your chits for bacon or peanut butter sandwiches – and there isn’t any rule that you have to eat the stuff: too many pancakes and those belts with the silver buckles will fail to make it around the ballooning waists. The core concept is Elvis in his slim-hipped glory days, not Elvis in his blimpy decrepitude. No one wants to remember the tragic decline.

By now Stan knows the civvie names of UR-ELF Elvis team members. Rob, the tallest, is the founder and CEO; he handles the bookings and the PR, including the website, and keeps an eye on overall performance. Pete, the second-in-command, does the financials. Ted – a little on the plump side for an Elvis – is in charge of running the Elvisorium on a daily basis: the dry-cleaning of the Elvis outfits, the sheets and towels, the basic groceries. UR-ELF is making a profit, says Pete, but only because they keep the overheads low. It’s a close-to-the-bone operation: the champagne does not flow, the caviar is not spread. They’re always looking at schemes for making a little extra, though not all of these work out. Juggling Elvis was tried but wasn’t a success. The same went for Tightrope-Walking Elvis: the fans don’t want the Elvises to do things that the historical Elvis would never have done: it would be too much like making fun of the King, and they don’t appreciate that.

It’s a slow day, so the poker players aren’t “in character,” as Rob calls dressing up. They’re wearing shorts, Ts, and flipflops: the A/C isn’t working well, and outside the door it’s 104°F. Luckily Vegas is in a desert, so at least it’s not humid.

Stan now knows that not all the Elvises aren’t gay. Some are, and there are a couple of bis and one asexual, though who can tell any more where to draw the line?

“Let’s say it’s a continuum,” said Rob while explaining this to Stan the first day. “Nobody’s either/or, when it comes right down to it. Me, I’m between wives. Boring old vanilla.”

Stan doesn’t buy the continuum thing himself. But why should he worry about what other guys do in their spare time? “The way you were all talking when I got here, you could’ve fooled me,” he said.

“And we did,” said Pete. “But it’s acting. UR-ELF was founded by actors for when we aren’t working.

“Most of us are just here looking for a part in one of the shows,” said Rob.

“By the way, we give coaching in how to act gay,” said Ted. “For our new Elvises. Ten tips, that sort of thing. Stan, we might have to give you some help.”

“A straight guy playing a gay guy playing a straight guy, but in a way so that everyone assumes he’s gay – that takes skill. Think about the complexity. Though some of the guys overact. It’s a fine line,” said Rob.

Stan flashed back to his days with Jocelyn, when he was expected to play out whatever fantasy she’d ordered up that night. “Okay,” he said. “I get that about the acting, but why the gay thing? I may be dumb, but Elvis was definitely not gay, so …”

“It’s the clients,” said Rob. “And the relatives, the ones who book us for a treat. They prefer the Elvises to be gay.”

“I don’t get it.”

“They don’t want any uninvited hanky-panky,” said Rob. “Especially not at the hospitals. With the female patients, the ones in the private rooms. Historically, there have been incidents.”

Stan laughed. “Not really! Crap! Who’d want to …” Who’d want to fuck a hundred-year-old woman with tubes all over her and her insides leaking out? is what he’s thinking.

“This is Vegas,” said Rob. “You’d be surprised.”

“Beer?” says Pete, folding his hand and getting up.

Stan nods, broods over his cards. He’s within view of another stack of pancakes. He’s on a winning streak.

“I hear there’s a couple new productions scheduled,” says Ted. “It’s booming in showtime here, so much better than Broadway.”

“Dan just hit it out of the park,” says Rob. “They’re casting for an all-guy
Midsummer Night’s Scream
, and he got Tits Tania. That’s why he hasn’t been around.”

“Let’s hope his voice holds up. It’s not what you’d call singing,” says Pete with a touch of rancour. “I wouldn’t want to be in that pile of crap myself.”

Stan is way out of his depth – what is Tits Tania? – but once they get into the actor talk, better not to ask.

“At least it wasn’t fucking Cobweb,” says Ted. “With the fairy wings.”

“Or fucking Puck. You can imagine the puns. I hear they’re doing an all-guy
Annie
next year,” says Pete. “Only I’m going for what’s her name, the bitch who runs the evil orphanage. I did it once, in Philly. I could ace it.”

“Five pancakes,” says Rob, laying down his cards. “You can pay up on Sunday.”

“Go again?” says Ted. “Win ‘em back off you. I’m owed six anyway, from last time.”

“Someone else be dealer,” says Rob.

“Flip for it.”

“With Dan out, we’re short an Escort,” says Rob. “There’s a big convention coming up, it’s NAB. We’re going to have demand.”

“NAB?” says Stan. They’re always throwing around these short forms, stuff he’s never heard of.

“National Association of Broadcasters. TV, radio, all that. The see exhibits and listen to talks in the day, drink horrible coffee, the usual; then they hit the shows at night. Lot of single women, not always young. Stan, up for that?”

“Up for what?” says Stan cautiously.

“Escort Elvis. You’ve been doing great at the hospitals, nothing but stars and thumbs-up on the website Comments, so you should be fine. See a show, eat some food, drink some booze. They might hit on you, offer you extra to go up to their rooms. That’s where being gay can come in handy.”

“I can see that,” says Stan. “Maybe I need some of those gayness lessons.”

“But we need the client to have an overall positive experience. We’re all for gender equality. If the ladies want sex-for-cash, we provide it.”

“Wait a minute,” says Stan.

“Not you,” says Rob. “You’ll just give us a call on the cell, over at the UR-ELF Nightline, and we send one of the Elvis bots. Big markup on those! Like a super-dildo, only with a body attached. Vibrator built in, optional.”

“Wish I felt like that,” says Pete.

“Then you chat with them, pour them a drink, tell them you wish you were straight. When the Elvis arrives, you switch him on and he hums a little tune while you run over the instructions with the client: he responds to simple voice commands like
love me tonight
and
all shook up
. Then you wait in the lobby. You’ll have an earpiece, so you can hear it’s unfolding as per plan.”

Oh great, thinks Stan. Parked in a hotel lobby and eavesdropping while some mildewed hen has an orgasm. He’s had enough of insatiable women. He remembers Charmaine, the way she was when they were first married: her quasi-virginal restraint. He didn’t appreciate it enough. “Why wait in the lobby?” he says.

“So you can supervise the re-delivery. Plus, in case there’s a malfunction,” says Rob.

“Right,” says Stan. “How will I know?”

“If you hear too much screaming, time to act. Get up there fast and flip the Off switch.”

“It’ll sound different,” says Rob. “The screaming. More terrified.”

“No one wants to be fucked to death,” says Pete.

Ed has still not returned to the office. All that’s happened is that three men with Positron logos on their jacket pockets arrive with a large crate. It’s a stand-up desk, they say, and they have orders to install it in the office of the big boss. Once the desk is in they go away, and Charmaine is left to her own devices, which consist of slipping off her shoes and stockings and painting her toenails, behind the desk in case anyone comes in.

Blush Pink is the colour she’s allowed. Nothing flaming, nothing flagrant, nothing fuchsia. Aurora bought the Blush Pink for her and presented it in that smug way she has. “Here you are, this shade is very popular among the twelve-year-olds, I’m told, so I’m sure it will convey the right message.” Aurora gives a lot of thought to those details, which is helpful, but she can feel herself reaching the moment when she’s going to yell.
Darn it, leave me alone! Stop bugging me!
Something like that.

Painting her toenails gives her a lift. That’s what most men never understand, how it’s a real pick-me-up to be able to change the colour of your toes. Stan got mad at her once when they were living in the car, because she spent some of her PixelDust tip money – he didn’t say
spend
, he said
fucking blew
– on a little bottle of polish in a lovely silvery coral shade. They had a tiff about that, because she said it was her money, she’d earned it herself, and it wasn’t as if the polish cost a lot, and then he accused her of throwing it up to him that he didn’t have a job, and then she said she was not throwing it up, she only wanted her toes to look nice for him, and he said he didn’t give a fucking fuck about her fucking toe colour, and then she cried.

She has a little cry now, remembering it. How bad are things when you can get nostalgic about living in your car? But it isn’t the car that makes her sad, it’s the absence of Stan. And not knowing if he’s mad at her. Really mad, not just fucking fuck toe colour mad. They’re not the same thing at all.

She tries not to think about Stan not being here any more, because what is is, as Grandma Win used to say, and what can’t be cured must be endured, and laugh and the world laughs with you but cry and you cry alone. Maybe it served her right for talking back to Stan, that time in the car.

(
I’ll teach you to talk back!
Now who said that? And how had she talked back? Did crying count as talking back? Yes, it did, because after that something bad happened.
Let that be a lesson to you.
But what was the lesson?)

She lets her mind go blank. Then, after a while of staring at the map with red and orange pins all over it like measles, she thinks, Ed will need a lamp for that stand-up desk, which gives her the excuse to go to the Consilience digital catalogue. She browses here and there to find the right section, pausing maybe too long at Ladies’ Fashions and Cosmetic Magic, and orders the appropriate lighting device.

Then it’s time to go home. So she does go home. Not that it’s really a home. More of a mere house, because as Grandma Win said, it’s love that makes a house a home.

Sometimes she wishes Grandma Win would bug off out of her head.

Aurora is ensconced on the living room sofa. She’s having a cup of tea and a date square. Would Charmaine care to join her she asks with her wide, tight smile? As if she’s the darned hostess, thinks Charmaine, and I’m simply a visitor. But she passes over this, because what the hey, she has to get along with this woman, so she’ll suck it up.

“No tea, thank you,” she says. “But I could really use a drink. I bet there’s some olives or something in the fridge too.” There were olives last time she looked, but food has been appearing and disappearing out of that fridge like it has a bad case of gnomes.

“Certainly,” says Aurora as Charmaine sinks into the easy chair, kicking off her shoes. There’s a pause while each of them waits to see if the other one’s going to get the drink. Darn it, thinks Charmaine, why should I be her maid? If she wants to be the hostess here, let her darn well do it.

After a moment Aurora sets down her cup, pushes up from the sofa, takes the olives out of the fridge and puts them in an olive dish, then rummages among the liquor bottles, because there aren’t very many of them. Though more than there used to be: Jocelyn has a special allowance, she’s not limited the way the rest of them are, so it’s her that’s bringing in the booze. Consilience takes a dim view of drunks because they aren’t productive and they develop medical problems, and why should everyone pay because one individual has no self-control? That’s been on the TV quite a lot recently. Charmaine wonders if there’s bootlegging going on, or maybe people making moonshine out of potato peelings or something. Or more drinking because they’re getting bored.

“Campari and soda?” says Aurora.

What’s that, thinks Charmaine, some snobby drink unknown to us hicks? “Whatever,” she says, “as long as it’s got a kick to it.”

The drink is reddish and a little bitter, but now she feels better.

Aurora waits until Charmaine’s drunk half. Then she announces, “I’m staying here this weekend. Jocelyn thought it would be best. I can keep an eye on you, just in case anything unexpected happens.”

Oh heck, Charmaine thinks. She’s been looking forward to having some Me Time. She’d enjoy a long soak in the tub, in behind the shower curtain where the camera can’t see her, and without having to worry about another person who might want to get in there to floss their teeth. “Oh, I don’t want to put you out,” she says. “I don’t think anything unexpected … I’m fine, really. I don’t need –”

“I’m sure that’s true,” says Aurora in her tone that means the opposite. “But think of it this way. What if he decides to pay you a visit?”

A big What If, thinks Charmaine. She doesn’t need to ask who
he
is, but she doubts very much that he’ll be visiting, since from what Jocelyn says his dick is in a cast. “I don’t think he will,” she says. “Not this weekend.”

“You never know,” says Aurora. “I understand he can be impetuous. Anyway, he’ll be happy to hear you’ve had a chaperone. I also understand he can be quite jealous. And we wouldn’t want any undue suspicions to arise, would we?”

It’s better than she thought it would be, the weekend with Aurora. You should never pass up the chance to learn something new, and Charmaine learns several things. First of all, she learns that Aurora can make good scrambled eggs. Second, she learns that Ed is planning some sort of a trip, and that Charmaine will be invited on it, but Aurora doesn’t know where or when, so right now it’s only a heads-up.

And third, she learns that Aurora’s face is not her original face. It’s always been obvious that she’s had work done, Charmaine has known that from the get-go, but what Aurora tells her goes way beyond mere work.