The New Elvis (5 page)

“Not since Leith Black performed on our stage ten years ago has our school witnessed talent to match his. That was then. This is now. You may already know him. He may sit next to you in biology or choir or math. His name is Ryan Wyatt, and he not only sings, he writes songs, too. I haven’t found out yet whether or not he can dance.”

The audience laughed as a courtesy. Humor was not Steve’s forte. Ryan peeked out of a break in the curtains to scan the audience. His parents were in the third row. His mom had the video camera up and running, and his dad was staring at something in his lap. Bea was nowhere in sight.

“So, without further ado, here’s Ryan Wyatt.”

Ryan dropped the curtain, picked up his guitar, shook his legs one at a time, and walked to the center of the stage, where the microphone had been placed. Steve disappeared stage left. Ryan was alone. He stepped up to the mic and cleared his throat.

“Hopefully, you all left the tacos in the dining hall so there’s nothing to throw.”

A wave of laughter echoed back at him.

“I’m going to sing a song for you tonight that honors all the great singers and how they had their time to shine. Some of them are still with us, and others, not so much. But in their time, they made music, they made memories, and they touched us with their art.”

Ryan sang the verse from Aretha to Little Richard, and the audience spontaneously began to clap along right as he launched into the chorus. They were a half-beat behind, but he slowed his guitar playing to match them, and collectively, the rhythmic thunderclaps filled the auditorium and carried the song forward. They quieted for the verse that took them from Orbison to Morrison and then erupted into rhythmic claps for the chorus again. Finishing it off with a repeat of the chorus, Ryan took a bow and looked out at the sea of smiling faces. Applause swelled like a tidal wave, threatening to crash the stage and wash him away. Someone called out for more. Then he saw Bea’s silhouette, lit from the hallway behind, as she peered into the auditorium from the entrance in back, below the balcony. He stared down at his mother, the red light on her video recorder a steady beacon, her smile irrepressible. Beside her, his dad looked non-plussed, unimpressed, perhaps even a bit restless and eager for the show to be over.

“I’d like to sing something special I wrote for a friend not long ago in commemoration of the holiday season. I know some of you are Christian. I know some of you are Jewish. I think we might even have a Buddhist or two out there. And we definitely have some atheists.” Laughter swept toward him, and the realization he was accepted filled him with warmth. “But whatever you are or aren’t, I think the holiday season is a time of celebration, regardless of one’s faith. It’s a time to appreciate those you love and connect with and a time to believe in miracles. I hope you enjoy it.”

The audience settled back into their seats, expectant.

When we walked the other day, There was so much I could say, But I didn’t say a thing, Because my heart had taken wing, You’re my Christmas miracle, Right here by my side, You’re my Christmas miracle, It can’t be denied, Simple are the things we share, Bus rides, bike rides, here to there, Talking, texting, all day long, While I try to write this song, You’re my Christmas miracle, All wrapped up with a bow, But I will love you all year long, Just thought that you should know…Just thought that you should know
.

The simple tune was the perfect complement to his first, weightier number, and the audience was on their feet.

He wanted to relish the standing ovation, but he could not. After he finished “Christmas Miracle”, he watched as Kincaid joined Bea at the auditorium door and then led her away, allowing the door to swing shut behind them.

Logan was lying atop a pile of dirty clothes, reading a Batman comic book while his parents fought in the other room about how Jarrod must have thrown out something Ramona wanted saved, when someone knocked loudly on the Lockharts’s front door.

“It’s the police,” Logan muttered under his breath, unaware of his prescience. He tried to roll over, but the pile of socks, underwear, and jeans was too uneven. He got up, snapped on a light, and flopped down onto his stomach again.

The arguing stopped. His father or mother must have answered the door.

Then he heard his mother shriek. “What?”

Curious, Logan threw down the comic book and wandered out into the hallway. He peered around the corner.

Two officers from the Santa Monica Code Enforcement Division stood outside, staring at Logan’s parents through the latched screen door.

“I’m sorry we were loud,” Ramona said, worried that a neighbor had complained.

The officer who spoke wore a nametag that read “Dwight Napier”.

“That’s not why we’re here. We’re here about the mess in your yard.”

Ramona was offended. “Mess?”

“Yes, ma’am,” the second officer, Paul Wedder, said. “We enforce code violations, and your yard needs to be cleaned up.”

Jarrod came to the door.

“They say our yard is a mess,” Ramona whined.

“Well, it is.”

“And we need to clean it up.”

“I’ve been telling you that for years.”

“What’s wrong with the yard?” Ramona demanded.

“We can show you if you’d like,” Napier said.

Jarrod unlatched the screen door. “Come through the house.”

The men came inside and picked their way through the debris in the living room and the wall-to-wall garbage in the kitchen to the door. As they tromped through, Wedder nudged Napier. Both were visibly alarmed at the hoarding, and Wedder stopped to make a note on the pad he carried. “So, you guys have a lot of kids?” he asked.

“Just the one,” Jarrod said.

Logan waited ‘til they were outside before he stumbled to the kitchen, clearing a space on the counter beneath the window where he could sit and watch.

His mom’s face was red as Napier pointed to the thirty-two-gallon tubs stuffed with items Ramona had picked up from thrift stores. Some of the merchandise was in garbage bags, and a teddy bear arm was sticking out of the top of a canvas sack, making it look as though the loveworn toy was waving for help. Jarrod had a pile of car parts and tools stacked near the garage, where a motorcycle was in a state of reassembly. Palm branches that had fallen during windstorms lay scattered across the backyard like dried octopus tentacles. Even newspapers and magazines, stacked and bundled, stood near the fence by the outdoor grill that had tipped over and spilled used charcoal.

Officer Wedder ripped a ticket off his pad and handed it to Jarrod.

As Jarrod and Ramona walked back to the house with the officers, Logan started to get off the counter, but he slipped and landed on the floor. Pots and pans that had been stacked precariously by the sink crashed down. He sat up quickly, hoping he still had time to escape, but, hearing the clatter, the adults stepped up their pace and were back in the kitchen before Logan had time to get away.

“Is that your son?” Napier asked.

Jarrod grunted and slipped through a narrow space to help him up.

“When’s the last time you were able to cook anything in here?” Wedder wanted to know.

Ramona stared blankly at the stove, which was piled with boxes and dirty dishes.
How dare he?
She cooked whenever she felt motivated to clear the mess away, but the mounds of trash always crept back.

Jarrod examined his son. “Are you OK?”

Embarrassed, Logan nodded and ran out of the room.

After the show, Ryan and Bea’s parents stood in the hallway, waiting to congratulate him. Bea’s father, Jay Edwin, was a successful talent agent who represented Keisha Theron, Julia Burstyn, and Diane Annisten in film, the kid who liked Poofy Pops in the cereal commercial everyone parroted, and Victoria’s Secret model, Hilary Winslet. He was also a consummate collector of art and eclectic items from the past hundred years, and he often attended public auctions to win treasures. Bea’s mom, Heather Edwin, ran a dance studio in the San Fernando Valley, co-owned by a gal pal who taught strippers how to work the pole every night from midnight until six in the morning.

Ryan liked both of them, and they, in turn, treated him like the son they never had. He only wished his own dad was as enthusiastic about supporting him emotionally.

Jay ruffled Ryan’s hair. “Great job, kiddo.”

Heather grabbed his arm. “You’re ruining his Elvis ‘do!”

Tonight, dressed in a dark wool suit brightened by a scarlet ascot, Jay resembled a young Ted Knight from
The Mary Tyler Moore Show
. “You think this kid looks like Elvis?”

“Yes, he looks like Elvis.” Heather wore a rose-colored silk blouse, burgundy slacks, and low-heeled shoes. The coat tucked under her arm was white faux fur, and it looked like she was holding a fluffy rabbit. Her right eye was lazy, so it was hard for Ryan to look directly at her whenever they had a conversation.

Zella was beaming. “I recorded the whole show.”

“Thanks, Mom.” Ryan waited for his dad to say something. He doubted Gene even knew Zella had been teaching him magic tricks after school, using props she’d acquired in Vegas when she dreamt of doing her own show.

Jay spoke up. “Where’s Bea?”

Heather looked around. “Yeah, where is she?”

Jay rested his hand on Ryan’s shoulder. “Dinner this Thursday?”

Ryan had been eating dinner with Bea and her parents every Thursday night for the past three years. “I don’t know. I think Bea may be busy.”

Jay was about to argue the point that Ryan was welcome in their home regardless of his daughter’s plans when a large woman in a poncho approached, grabbed Ryan, and kissed him on both cheeks. Baffled, he looked around.

“Darling,” she exclaimed. “Your performance was magnificent! Riveting.”

Ryan cleared his throat. “Thank you.”

The woman beamed at the Wyatts and Edwins. “Which of you are his parents?”

Zella spoke up. “We are.”

The woman’s eyes darted back and forth between Zella and Gene. “Do either of you sing?”

“I’m tone deaf,” Gene told her.

“I sing in the shower, but my voice isn’t very strong,” Zella admitted.

“My son is Steve Seton,” the large woman explained. “I’m Cynthia. Neither of you sing? You would think there would be a genetic predisposition for it.”

Gene shrugged. “Guess not.”

“Well, one of your parents must sing then. Or sang.”

Zella and Gene looked at each other but said nothing.

“Anyway,” Cynthia resumed. “I just wanted to compliment young Ryan on his lovely voice.”

“Thank you,” Zella replied.

Cynthia grabbed both of Ryan’s cheeks in her chubby fingers. “You watch out for this one. He’s gonna be something someday.” After this pronouncement, she kissed Ryan on the nose and backed up. With a wave of her hand, she swept down the hallway.

Ryan offered his parents and the Edwins a weak smile. “Excuse me.”

He slunk off in the opposite direction Mrs. Seton had gone, dragging his guitar case. The hallway linoleum had been recently buffed, and the black and white speckles of confetti embedded in the beige squares sparkled beneath the ceiling lights.

“Probably going to wash that bright red lipstick off his face,” Jay joked.

“He did sound good,” Heather said. “I never heard that first song before, the one about the rock and roll legends. I wonder who wrote it?”

“I think he did,” Zella said. Tonight, she wore a red pashmina over slacks and a gray sweater, and her dark hair was pinned up. The tiny, semi-precious red stones that sparkled in her earlobes matched the stones in the bracelet on her left wrist.

“He didn’t write that,” Gene said. “He couldn’t have.”

“Why couldn’t he have?”

“He’s in junior high, Zella.”

“I’m pretty sure I heard him working on it after school,” Zella disagreed.

“I’m sure you heard him working on it, but that doesn’t mean he wrote it.”

Zella started to pick at the edge of her pashmina.

Heather attempted to restore the peace. “Whatever, it was lovely. And the Christmas one was, too.”

The woman from Child Protective Services appeared on the Lockharts’s doorstep three days after officers from the Santa Monica Code Enforcement Division had paid a visit. After knocking on the screen door and ringing the bell without a response, she sat down on the stoop and pulled Stephen King’s
Misery
out of her oversized handbag so she could read while she waited. Jarrod’s beloved black Chevelle SS 396 was parked in the driveway, and behind that sat Ramona’s ride—a royal blue Oldsmobile Vista Cruiser packed front to back with plastic bags stuffed with clothing, bric-a-brac, and yard sale pickings. Both parents were home. The woman from CPS was being ignored.

The hinges on the front door creaked as she turned the page. A young boy stood behind the latched screen door, and the foul mixture of stale cigarettes, urine, and rotting food assaulted her so forcibly, she jerked her head back. Though it was a warm Saturday afternoon, the boy wore ripped thermal underwear and a tank undershirt that didn’t hide his emaciated torso and the bruises on his arms. His chestnut-colored hair was unwashed. Greasy hanks covered his ears and fell into his dark eyes, set deep in orbits discolored from trauma and lack of sleep.

The woman stood up, smoothed down the legs of her brown jersey slacks, and smiled. “You must be Logan.”

Solemn, Logan nodded.

“Are your parents home?”

Logan tried to figure out what the pretty lady wanted. Her hair was the color of honey, held back from her face with two tortoiseshell combs, and she smelled like vanilla cake. She didn’t have anything with her other than her purse and the thick book she was reading, so she wasn’t selling anything. And she wasn’t wearing a uniform, so she wasn’t law enforcement. Maybe she was from his school. He had been sick a lot lately and had missed some important lessons.

“They’re out back,” Logan said, “in the yard.”

“Behind the house?”

Logan nodded.

“Do you have a dog?”