Elvis and Ginger: Elvis Presley's Fiancée and Last Love Finally Tells Her Story (4 page)

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Elvis’s relatives were still playing cards in the dining room as we passed by them again, this time headed for the foyer. When George started up the staircase, my heart began to beat even faster. At the top, we followed him down a hall and into Lisa’s bedroom.

This room was decorated mainly in yellow and white. A black leather sofa was against the wall to the right, and the center of the room was dominated by a large round bed blanketed in white faux fur with matching canopy. My sisters and I sat on the couch and George turned on a nearby television set.

George leaned back against Lisa’s bed and continued visiting with us. Ricky and Billy Smith both entered, leaning against the bed and joining the conversation.

I hadn’t paid any attention to the time and glanced at my watch. It was now approaching 1
A.M.

Two hours had passed since our arrival. Although it hadn’t really felt like that much time had gone by, the more Ricky, George, and Billy continued to talk, the more I began to wonder whether they were covering for Elvis. Had he changed his mind about meeting us? Now that we’d been entertained with a tour, would we be asked to leave without meeting him?

Another man’s figure appeared in the doorway of Lisa’s room. I turned to look, prepared to greet another relative or friend, but it was Elvis entering the room. I was caught off guard. I had halfway been expecting to hear trumpets sound at his entrance.

Elvis’s jet-black hair was casually styled. There was no pompadour or glitzy outfit, just Elvis, dressed in a dark blue karate top, black pants, and black boots. I was immediately attracted to him. His hair looked soft and shiny; his skin was clean-shaven and smooth. Thinking he was gorgeous, my shyness flew right out the window.

“Hi, Elvis!” I blurted, as if I’d known him for years.

“Hi,” Elvis said and shook our hands, correctly acknowledging my sisters and me by name, one by one. Someone had obviously informed him who was who.

Then, crossing the room in front of us, Elvis sat in a large dark chair to our right and put a cigar to his lips. Billy quickly leaned over and lit it for him. Elvis settled farther back in the chair and apologized for keeping us waiting.

Billy then left the room while Elvis proceeded to ask Terry about herself. She talked about her music and the various titles she had won.

“How about you?” Elvis asked me. “Have you won any titles?”

I told him a little about myself. When Elvis got to Rosemary, she mentioned she had never entered any pageants outside of high school. He smiled and said, “Well, you should have, but for now you’ll just have to be Miss . . . Miss . . . Miss . . . Understood.”

We all laughed. The more Elvis joked around with us, the more I noticed how similar his humor was to ours. I’d had this feeling of a powerful presence and energy the minute Elvis entered the room, and he continued to hold my focus completely throughout the night. At the same time, I was taken by how down-to-earth he was, and by his sexy smile and laugh.

We continued to talk, with Ricky and George chiming in periodically. Elvis told us what an honor it was to have the street name changed to Elvis Presley Boulevard and mentioned he sometimes joked, “Get off my street!” to other motorists while driving down it. He talked about karate, too, letting us know he was a ninth-degree black belt.

“It’s a beautiful art form,” I told him, adding that I’d wanted to take lessons when I was sixteen, but my parents thought I was too young.

Elvis disagreed, saying it was never too young to start. Terry talked about the classical piano music she enjoyed. I brought up my love for art, but didn’t dare mention my singing. Rosemary, the most comical of the three of us, often had him laughing.

Elvis was polite and easy to talk with, which was putting me at ease until he tilted his head to one side, looked toward the floor and said, “Ginger, you’re burning a hole right through me.” His intense blue eyes slowly drifted back up to my face.

“Who, me?” I asked.

“Yes, you,” he replied.

I didn’t know what he meant, as I didn’t feel I’d been staring at him. We were just talking. I was embarrassed and felt a flash of heat warm my face.

We talked a little more, then Elvis asked, “Would you like to see the rest of the upstairs?”

Thrilled, we said, “Sure!”

Along with Ricky and George, we followed Elvis out into the hall. I was still holding my unfinished glass of soda. Elvis reached for it, took a sip, and handed it back to me. This distracted me so much that I made a wrong turn and headed toward the front stairs. I then felt Elvis’s hands on my shoulders, gently turning me and guiding me back through a set of double doors.

Everyone followed Elvis and me as we cut through an office and then another set of double doors into his master bedroom. The first thing that struck me was that the matching couch and chairs looked identical to the furniture we had in our den at home. What were the odds of that?

Otherwise, the room décor here was very different from anything I’d ever seen before. A shiny, black, Naugahyde headboard crowned the massive bed, which Elvis proudly told us was nine feet by nine feet. Reading lamps were attached to the wall on either side of it. The same red shag carpet covered the floor, with black and gold wallpaper lining one wall and padding on the other. The bedroom doors and ceiling were also padded and, much to my surprise, there were two television sets embedded in the ceiling. Elvis explained the padding by saying he didn’t care for outside noise when he slept.

Ricky left as my sisters and I followed Elvis, along with George, into his office. It was decorated in masculine tans and browns. On my left was a glass case filled with rifles and handguns; in the center of the room, two couches faced each other, a coffee table between them. Near the back of the room was a large desk with a chair, and behind it, two bookcases stood against the wall.

Elvis walked over to an electric organ near a closed accordion-style door and sat down on the bench. I stood behind him with George and my sisters gathered around. Something about this felt comfortably familiar because I’d so often stood and sung behind my mom while she played piano.

Placing his fingers on the keyboard, Elvis began to sing “You’ll Never Walk Alone.” If I’d ever felt like I was dreaming, it was now!

At various times during the song, Elvis looked up from the organ, smiling at Rosemary and Terry or glancing over his shoulder to smile at me. At one point, I looked into the mirror above the organ and noticed George yawning. That made me wonder whether he’d seen Elvis do this sort of thing many times before or if he was just tired because it was so late.

Elvis finished and we applauded. Standing up, he said, “I’d like to show you my dressing area.”

I was surprised by this; I’d always thought of people’s closets as personal. On the other hand, seeing Elvis’s dressing room would be an added bonus because I was enjoying being with him and thrilled by the idea of seeing one of his inner sanctums.

We followed Elvis back through his bedroom and into his bathroom, which was carpeted in the same royal red shag carpet. On my left stood a black commode with a telephone attached to the wall nearby. A black vanity was covered with toiletries on the right. Above it, the mirrored wall was outlined with makeup lights.

Beyond an enormous, curved shower with multicolored tiles, we entered Elvis’s dressing area. It was filled with racks of clothing surrounding a bed covered in a faux fur similar to the one in Lisa’s room. A bust of the Greek god Apollo sat on a pedestal beside an open doorway leading out to the hall. (Later, Elvis would tell me he thought the bust resembled him. I thought it did, too.)

Pointing out a few stage jumpsuits, Elvis said he was proud of the workmanship that went into making them. He told us they were made of material that didn’t let any air in or out. Then he began showing us his boots and casual clothes.

“Casual” for Elvis appeared to be coats with fur collars; brightly colored, high-collared satin shirts; flared pants; and hats that looked like they could have been worn on the set of the movie
Shaft
.

I could understand Elvis wanting to show us his costumes, but again I was surprised that he’d be willing to show us his more personal clothes. Was this an extension of his persona? Was this something he felt he needed to do with us?

When Elvis was finished giving us a tour of his dressing area, he excused himself and, as he walked toward the front of the bathroom, called out for George to follow him.

My sisters and I now found ourselves in the extraordinary position of standing alone in Elvis Presley’s closet, trying to process what had started out as an innocent evening at home. Elvis had been captivating, entertaining, funny, and gracious. We talked quietly, assuming the show was over and we’d be asked to leave when George reappeared.

To my surprise, George came back and said, “Ginger, Elvis would like to see you for a minute.”

What did Elvis want with me? I glanced uncertainly at Terry and Rosemary.

“He’s waiting for you,” George urged, motioning me toward the front of the bathroom.

Taking a few steps forward, I turned back to see George guiding my sisters out through the door by the dressing area. My anxiety roared back. My sisters and I had acted as a safety net for each other, but now I was on my own.

When I stepped past the doorway of his bathroom, I saw Elvis seated on the side of his bed. He smiled and patted the red bedspread, motioning me to sit down next to him. Unsure of what he wanted, I nervously walked in and complied.

“Did you notice I was paying more attention to you than to your sisters?” he asked with a faint smile.

I briefly looked away.

My heart began to pound. Was Elvis actually
hitting
on me? It went far beyond my wildest imaginings that he would single me out. I felt he had treated the three of us fairly equally, but when I thought back, I remembered his comment about me “burning a hole” through him, how he’d taken a sip from my glass of soda, and the way he’d placed his hands on my shoulders in the hallway. Was that what he meant?

Not quite sure, I looked up at him and answered, “Yes.”

He nodded. “When I like someone, I really like them a lot,” he said. “It’s not just a fling. I don’t like one-night stands.”

“I don’t like one-night stands, either,” I replied, wanting him to be sure I wasn’t that kind of woman.

Elvis regarded me silently for a moment, then gestured toward the window. “I’m not that street out there,” he said. “If you cut me, I bleed.”

I couldn’t believe that Elvis, a charismatic, handsome superstar, was talking to me in this intimate way. The only thing I could think to say was, “I understand.”

“Good,” he replied. He leaned over then and picked up a book lying with some others on the floor beside his bed. It was the
Book of Numbers
by Cheiro, the world-famous seer.

“When’s your birthday?” Elvis asked, opening the book.

“November thirteenth,” I replied.

“You’re a number four,” he said, and began explaining that he reached the number by adding the one and three together. Picking up a pair of glasses from his night table, he put them on and began reading to me about the number four. He told me that fours are sensitive and had their feelings hurt easily. Fours were likely to feel lonely and isolated, with few real friends, but to the few friends they did have, they are very loyal.

Elvis had my attention. I didn’t feel lonely, but I was shy, sensitive, and loyal to my friends. Elvis obviously was passionate about the subject of numerology and I found myself being drawn into it. Telling me January 8 was his birthday, which made him a number eight, he read on regarding that number. He said these people were often misunderstood and for this reason felt lonely. They usually “play some important role on life’s stage, but usually one which is fatalistic, or as the instrument of Fate for others.” He also said that eight people are either very successful or complete failures. They feel different from others and “seldom reap the reward for the good they may do while they are living.” It is only after their death that they are praised and honored.

My first thought was,
Wow!
Some of the characteristics really seemed to fit him, but Elvis
lonely
? That was difficult for me to believe, given the number of people gathered downstairs on this night.

Elvis stayed on the topic of numerology for a while, then lifted another, larger book off the floor and began leafing through it. “This is supposed to be an illustration of God,” he said, stopping on a certain page and showing it to me.

It was a drawing of a man with a long white beard seated on a throne with symbols of fire, ice, rain, and wind at his sides. The book reminded me of a large illustrated Bible my mother had that she often read to my siblings and me when we were younger. Still holding the big book in his hands, Elvis settled farther back on the bed and motioned me up beside him.

By now, I was feeling more comfortable and decided it was a harmless enough request; Elvis seemed absorbed by the book. I scooted up to sit right next to him with my back against a pillow. He then surprised me again by handing me the book and asking me to read aloud. I did, feeling shy about it. I didn’t want to make a mistake because I could feel him watching me closely.

The subject matter in this book was different. I was again drawn into it while Elvis observed, periodically sipping ice water from a large glass jar sitting on his night table. Cool air was blowing from an air conditioner unit situated inside the bedroom’s front window. I was chilled, but Elvis seemed fine and I didn’t feel right asking him to turn it down.

We took turns reading and talking into the early morning. At one point, Elvis went into the bathroom, leaving me to think that it had been an unforgettable night. I was going to have quite a story to tell my friends.

Having been up almost twenty-four hours by now, however, I was starting to feel overwhelmed by fatigue. I hated it but could tell that I wasn’t going to be able to concentrate well anymore. Now that Elvis was out of the room, I also became aware that a lot of time had gone by and our parents still hadn’t heard from us. I was worried, too, about Terry and Rosemary having to wait for me.