Elvis Takes a Back Seat (7 page)

She sticks her toes into her flip-flops. “Not likely.”

We're not taking him to dinner with us, are we?” Ivy asks, standing outside the Cadillac.

Elvis lies in the back seat hidden beneath a beige hotel towel. We brought several out to the car as the towels are small. I covered him so no passersby would decide to make off with him.

“No, of course not.” I remember the ruckus he caused in Arkansas. “But we shouldn't leave him in the car either.”

Rae nods. “We'll take him into the hotel for safekeeping.”

“I don't think I can carry him that far alone.” I glance
across the parking lot at the five-story hotel and think of the

walk to the elevator, then to the suite. “It's a long way.”

“Not to worry.” Rae touches my elbow. “I'll help.”

Ivy laughs. Both Rae and I stare at her, surprised since she's been somber all the way to Tennessee. “I can't wait to see you two carrying this thing through the lobby.”

I smile, but it feels strained. I was hoping Ivy would help carry him, not Rae. “I don't want to advertise that we have him. Most people who stay at the Heartbreak Hotel are Elvis fans. Someone might get the idea to steal him.”

“Can't imagine that happening,” Rae says with a grin.

“We'll have to sneak him in through a side door.”

The clerk at check-in didn't encourage us to use any door but the front one. But a side one is available.

“Is there one of those carts for luggage?” Ivy asks.

“Not that I've seen.” I want to ask someone to turn off the Elvis music that carries through the parking lot like the odor from a fast-food restaurant. “I didn't even see a bellboy.”

“We'll have to carry Elvis,” Rae says. “Ivy, you run ahead of us to the side door. We'll go in there.”

“Maybe you should hold the door, Rae,” I suggest.

“Are you saying I'm too old?”

“Of course not, but—”

“Ivy doesn't look strong enough to pick up a toothpick. I'll help carry the King. Besides, I knew him personally.”

“Okay.” Not wanting to hurt her feelings or risk an argument, I open the car door and lug the Elvis bust out of the back. The towel slips to the concrete, and Ivy picks it up and holds it until Rae and I balance Elvis horizontally between us. Then Ivy lays the towel over his face, shrouding
him like a corpse. I start to laugh, then Rae joins in, followed by Ivy. We look as if we're pallbearers for one of the munchkins from the land of Oz.

The bust starts to tip over, and I almost lose my grip on Elvis's ear. We sober immediately.

“No more laughing,” Rae says, taking on a stern expression, “or I won't be able to hold onto him.”

I nod, fighting a sudden need to giggle. Together we begin the slow, shuffling walk across the parking lot. I walk backward and Rae cautions me, “Slowly, slowly. One more. Careful of the speed bump.”

Ivy walks far ahead of us, turning to look back occasionally to see if we need help, but I can tell she doesn't want to be seen with us. Not sure I blame her.

“Wait!” I yell as the towel starts to slip off, revealing half of Elvis' face. I edge closer to Rae, pushing his pompadour into my stomach, propping it with one hand beneath, and pull the towel over his face again with my other hand. Rae grimaces under the weight.

When we reach the corner of the building, we wait for a car to pass, then another. I'm thankful for the cloak of semidarkness. Then we toddle along again and begin the slow trek toward the side door. A motorcycle zips behind me, roaring as it goes. I gasp. Rae yells, “Hey, buddy! Slow down.”

“Careful,” I say. “Don't drop him.”

Ivy jogs ahead of us to the side door. By the time we inch our way up onto the sidewalk, she comes back. “It's locked. We need our room key to get in.”

We stop. Elvis nudges my hip. My arms start aching. I know Rae has to be tired too. “Should we set it down here?”

“No, no.” Her breath comes in little huffs.

“Ivy, grab the car keys out of my pocket. The room key is in my purse in the Cadillac.” My words come out gruff. My fingers have gone numb. Standing still takes effort as Ivy fishes in my pocket and removes the keys.

“I'll be right back.”

We wait at the side entrance, losing patience and strength with each passing minute.

“Could she be lost?” Rae asks.

I shrug, then regret it as the towel slips off the bust and falls in a heap on the concrete. “She might have needed to pee again.”

Rae chuckles.

“Let's set it down for a minute. Give our arms a rest.”

The base clunks against the concrete.

“Whoa!” Rae loses her balance on the wheelchair access ramp and tips over backwards, landing on her rump.

The bust teeters on a corner of its base. I reach for it, but it flops forward. The King nosedives into my aunt's lap. With my arms outstretched, I freeze, unable to move, to believe my eyes. “Oh, Rae! Are you okay?”

She tilts her head back, fluffs her long hair Mae West style. “I could use a cigarette.”

Chuckling, I lean forward and pull the King off my aunt.

“He always was a bad boy,” she says.

I feel my face reddening and am grateful for the darkness. I give him a playful slap on the hard cheek. “Behave yourself.”

“He never could keep his hands off me.” Rae demurely rearranges her skirt to cover her long legs.

Shaking my head, I say, “Need a hand up?”

“I think I'll rest here for a minute. But I'm okay.”

I push Elvis out of the way of the door and cover him with two towels, just in case anyone walks by. But if someone does, they'll think it's E.T. in his Halloween costume. Then I plop down on the sidewalk beside Rae. “You don't really smoke, do you?”

“Not anymore.”

“Well, I'm glad you quit. It isn't good for you.”

“I have so much to live for.”

Her statement surprises me. I give her a sharp glance. What I thought was sarcasm seems genuine and somehow pricks my soul. I remember what she told me about my mother drinking, and I wonder if she smoked, too. Never before this weekend would I have considered that a possibility. “Did my mother smoke?”

“Beverly? She gave me my first cigarette. Then she quit cold turkey and turned into a Goody Two-shoes.”

“But you weren't?”

“Not at all. I wasn't a bad kid, but I wasn't a follower. My mother used to say I marched to the beat of my own drummer. I guess she was right.”

Knowing what little I know about Rae, I can see that. She exudes confidence, as if she doesn't care what anyone else thinks or says. I lean more toward the opposite, having always been concerned with what Stu thought or, before that, my mother. Ivy, however, acts more like Rae. But I wonder if it's all a pretense to cover up a deeper pain.

“How did you get to be that way? I mean, it's so hard for me not to think about others. What they think or would say. I still worry about what Stu would say. Ridiculous, huh?”

Rae shrugs. “I'm not sure. Maybe I was always that way. Maybe I was rebellious.” She winks. “Or maybe I just saw how it never really mattered. You can't please everyone all the time. It's impossible. Your mother tried to please our parents. But in the end she still disappointed them. They
expected
me to disappoint them, so when I did, it wasn't a major catastrophe.”

“Were their standards so high?” I ask.

“I don't know about that. Maybe just different. They were worried about what neighbors would say, about what people at church would say.” Rae laughs. “I always said if they were talking behind our backs, then that wasn't right. My folks frowned at that, but they didn't have an answer for it either.”

“I think I tried to please Mother. Being an only child, I was a pleaser. But I wasn't always sure I did.”

“Oh, you did. Beverly was very proud of you, Claudia.”

I shrug, feeling uncomfortable. “She never said that. She wasn't very demonstrative with her feelings.”

“That was just her way. She was a lot like our mother, your grandmother. Maybe it was a sign of the times.”

“I wish I knew more about Mother. She never liked to talk about herself. Or her past.”

“Oh?” Rae looks away from me, stares off as if she's looking into a mirror reflecting days gone by.

“After Stu and I became engaged, I asked Mother how Daddy had proposed to her. Know what she said?”

Rae gives a tiny, almost indiscernible shake of her head.

“She couldn't remember.” Incredulous still, I laugh. “How can someone not remember how their husband proposed?”

Rae lifts one narrow shoulder in a shrug.

Worried I've upset her, I lean forward. “Are you okay? Does it upset you to talk about my mother?”

She gives me a reassuring smile, but there's something in her eyes that I can't quite read. Is it pain? Regret? “I never knew what your relationship was like with Beverly. I wasn't around you two much. Except when you were little.”

I look at my aunt, sitting cross-legged on the ground in a filmy skirt. My mother would have been mortified if Elvis had fallen face first into her lap, but Rae thought it was funny. “Maybe you're right. Maybe you were different from others. Ahead of your time.” I try to peer across the parking lot but can't see the Cadillac or Ivy. “What's taking Ivy so long?”

Then I hear footsteps, the snapping of flip-flops against heels, and Ivy walks up. She slides the plastic key into the slot and pulls the door open.

“Okay. Here we go.” Rae pushes herself up to stand, brushes off her skirt, and flexes her fingers. “Hold the door now.” She bends, and we again perch Elvis horizontally between us. He stares up at the stars. “The towel?” She glances at Ivy, who looks suddenly pale.

Then Ivy lunges forward, pushes past me. I stumble, joggle Elvis. The door knocks against my shoulder and a sharp pain shoots through my arm, making my fingers tingle. I brace the door with my foot. Elvis's head tips toward the concrete. Rae and I bobble Elvis but manage to right him. We look at each other for a moment, breathing a sigh of relief, knowing how close we came to destroying this stupid, cheap bust. Once again I wonder if Stu is getting a good laugh out of all of this.

Caught in the doorway, I hang onto Elvis. From the
corner of my eye, I see Ivy bending over the bushes. I don't know what to do. I wish someone would stop and help us, but then pray no one sees us.

“Do you need help, Ivy?” Rae asks, looking over at the girl.

Ivy gags, but it seems to be a dry heave.

“Are you okay?” I start to put Elvis down, but how? I'm trapped. “Ivy?” She turns finally, her face pale, eyes wide. She presses a hand to her mouth.

“Do you need a towel?” I ask, seeing it on the concrete at the tip of my shoe.

Ivy picks it up, dabs her mouth, then lays it atop Elvis, carefully straightening the folds and edges.

“Now what?” Rae asks. “It's getting heavy.”

“I can't put it down.” The weight of the door pushes against me. Elvis's head presses into my stomach.

“I'm okay.” Ivy steps behind me and pulls the door open wide. “Go on.”

“I'm glad we aren't attracting any attention,” Rae says.

We shuffle through the stairwell, then into a narrow hallway. The walls are painted yellow, but there are no decorations. Nothing but door after door of rooms. At the end of the hallway, I notice a sign with the silhouette of a woman.

“There's a restroom.”

But Ivy heads straight for the elevator, which has a sign pasted over the buttons. “Out of order.”

“Great,” I mutter. “There's another elevator down the hall.”

This time we have to pass the Jungle Room bar and the entrance to the lobby. No one seems to notice us as we scurry along like mice carrying a block of cheese the size of
Wisconsin. When we reach the other elevator, I lean against the wall, my arms aching. “Ivy, are you sick? Do you think I should take you to a doctor?”

“I'm fine. Just carsick.”

I hesitate to mention the obvious, then say, “We're not in a car.”

“I'm not over the drive yet.”

“It could take a few more hours,” Rae says as if she's had experience with this sort of thing. “You'll feel better when you get something in your stomach.”

Ivy doesn't look too sure about the idea.

“Should we call your dad?” I ask.

“I'm fine. Really.” Her voice takes on that huffy quality of irritation, and I drop the subject.

I glance up at the lights above the elevator. How much longer? The hallway is deserted except for a framed poster of Elvis and a vending machine selling water and Cokes.

Ivy lifts the corner of the towel covering Elvis's face. “That's creepy.”

“Why do you think I banished Elvis to the attic?”

Finally the elevator arrives. It's empty. We board it, inching forward, careful not to scrape Elvis against the doors. A minute later we carry him down the hallway to our suite.

“Where?” Rae asks.

“Over there.” We shuffle our way to the sitting room and set him on a corner table.

Ivy flips the towel over his head, covering at least his face. “He was staring at us.”

“Laughing at us is more like it.” I feel laughter bubble up inside me.

* * *

“WHEN IN MEMPHIS, eat like the natives,” I say, pulling into Corky's, one of the best barbecue joints in town according to
Southern Living
. Weaving the unwieldy Cadillac through the narrow parking lot is an exercise in holding my breath. It's usually my personal rule not to eat at places with big pigs on the side of the building, but it's also my rule not to chase impossible dreams. This trip is an exception to all.

The air inside the restaurant smells tangy, mingled with the succulent scent of roasted pork. If I was looking for a quiet dining experience, this isn't it. But at least the music piped through the restaurant isn't Elvis. After a short wait we're seated in a booth.