Elvis and the Grateful Dead. Peggy Webb
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is he?”
“Yes. He’s with me.” I grab Elvis and board the bus behind Lovie. Furthermore, we take a front seat. Uncle Charlie put us in charge of this tour, and I’m not about to let Beulah Jane take over.
She clambers in behind us, along with the club’s other top-ranking officers, Tewanda Hardy and Clytee Estes. Tewanda pauses beside us, pats her tight curls, glares at Elvis over the top of her wire-rim glasses, and sniffs. “Lord have mercy. Gladys Presley would roll over in her grave.”
I guess it’s her tacky hairdo that makes Tewanda so mean. Whoever put that blue rinse on her gray hair and then wound it on little bitty perm rods ought to be shot.
Instead of passing along some styling advice, I mind my own business (a point of pride with me considering I run the kind of shop that makes my clients feel free to talk). Sitting back, I watch the impersonators board. The first is Brian Watson, a waiter at the Longhorn Steak House in Huntsville, Alabama, who looks the part but lacks the pipes. Next is Dick Gerard, a postman and local celebrity who rose to impersonator fame at the Tupelo Luncheon Civitan Club when he ate too much fried chicken and split the seat right out of his tight pink jumpsuit.
The third contest hopeful to board is a woman. From Australia, of all places. Elisha Stevens, though she prefers to be called Eli. Her black slick-backed hair is real. I know because I styled it. Her imitation of the King is on target, too. Only her sideburns and her southern accent are fake.
Behind her are the tribute artists from Japan and Italy, who both wanted to take me out to dinner. If Jack Jones keeps acting like the guardian from you-know-where, I might just say yes. To both of them.
Right now, though, I have a civic duty to perform. After the last contestant boards, Beulah Jane, Tewanda, and Clytee pass around cookies and peach tea. I tap the driver on the shoulder, and we set off down Main Street on the first leg of our Elvis pilgrimage.
Picking up the bus’ microphone, I start my spiel. “On the left you’ll see Tupelo Hardware Store where Gladys took her son to buy a present for his tenth birthday. He wanted a bicycle, but she couldn’t afford that. His second choice was a BB gun, but Gladys didn’t believe in weapons, so Elvis Presley ended up with his first guitar.”
When Beulah Jane pops up and says, “Tell the price,” Lovie grabs the microphone and says, “She was getting to that.”
Holy cow. If I don’t get these two separated, we’re going to make festival history. I can see the headlines now. Fan Club President Beat to Death with Baseball Bat. Lovie’s weapon of choice.
Not that she could get it in her purse, but with Lovie, you never know. Her rainbow-colored peasant skirt is big enough to slipcover Texas. She might have the bat strapped to her leg.
To top it off, Elvis, who’s nosing around scavenging for cookie crumbs, is eyeing Beulah Jane’s Easy Spirits with wicked intent. I wouldn’t be caught dead in those shoes, but I don’t want my dog peeing on them. Whipping a Pup-Peroni stick out of my purse, I say, “Come here, boy.”
Food always brings him running. With my dog safely stowed, I point out City Hall with its dancing water fountain, built on the old Mississippi/Alabama fairgrounds, which was the site of Elvis’ famous 1956 homecoming concert.
“Elvis left Tupelo a thirteen-year-old kid from the wrong side of the tracks without much future and returned a recording star with a parade in his honor,” I tell the busload of impersonators, who swivel to look at the old fairgrounds. “Every high school marching band played Elvis songs; the local merchants had Elvis displays in the window, and the Rex Plaza served up Love Me Tender Steak, Hound Dogs with Sauerkraut, Rock ’N’ Roll Stew, and Oobie Doobie Cake with Tutti-Frutti Sauce.”
Everybody swivels to look at the dancing waters. Even Beulah Jane is mollified, though her satisfaction would be short-lived if she knew Elvis was still pointing her shoes.
The minute we get to the Birthplace, I’m putting him on a leash…and buying chocolate to calm Lovie.
With impersonators swarming all over the gift shop, the museum, the chapel, and the shotgun house where the King was born, Lovie and I are sitting beside the fountain taking a breather and eating Hershey’s bars.
“I know this is going straight to my hips.” Lovie pats her ample thighs. “Fortunately Rocky likes his women round.”
“I wish it would go to mine.” I look like a swizzle stick. Especially beside Lovie. And especially since Jack left and my appetite went down the drain. All arms and coltish-looking legs and big brown eyes. Chest flat as a flitter.
Mama has the classy movie star looks of a past-her-prime Katharine Hepburn while Lovie has the glamour and lush beauty of Rita Hayworth. Even Uncle Charlie can still turn heads. At sixty-three, no less. But the good looks fairy passed me by. My two best features are my clear olive skin and my thick brown hair. Which, thanks to my expertise, always looks like it ought to be featured on the pages of Glamour.
Everybody has to have something to brag about, and I guess with me, it’s my sleek, stylish hair.
Lovie’s cell phone rings and when she sees the number pop up, she tells me, “Rocky.”
I’ve never seen her like this—her blue eyes shining and her voice dreamy.
“Hey, baby.” She never calls anybody baby, not even Elvis, whom she adores. This is a Lovie I don’t even know.
I’m happy for her, really I am. But a little scared, too. As I leave the fountain and walk my dog toward the statue of a barefoot, teenaged Elvis wearing overalls and carrying his cherished guitar, I say a little prayer that my cousin, who has never, ever been in love, doesn’t lose herself in this new territory.
I also say a little prayer for myself. Jack and I used to call each other pet names. The sound of his voice used to make me misty-eyed. (Sometimes it still does, but I’m not going there.) If I thought I’d never have that kind of love again, I’d chop off my hair and join a nunnery.
Of course, that’s a little extreme, especially since I’d have to give up cute designer shoes. Maybe I’d just leave Mooreville and go somewhere exotic. Or at least, someplace where Jack is not.
Impersonators are lined up to get their pictures made with the bronze image of their icon, so I volunteer as cameraman. When they find out my dog is named Elvis, they invite him to be in the pictures.
Naturally he tries to steal the show. And I’ll have to say he’s succeeding. Next year maybe I’ll have him a little sequined doggie jumpsuit made.
Elvis puts on his best smile—tongue lolling out, lower lips pulled back—till Beulah Jane walks by clapping her hands.
“Listen up, Elvises! It’s time to load the bus! Chop, chop, everybody!”
As he makes a beeline for her bony ankle, I grab Elvis’ leash. “Don’t even think about it.”
The impersonators nab cameras and bulging bags from the gift shop, then rush after Beulah Jane.
Lovie strolls up wearing a big grin. “What’s the one-woman hostility committee up to now?”
“Herding the tribute artists to the bus.”
Lovie consults her watch. “We have fifteen minutes. What’s her hurry?”
“Never mind. Let her enjoy being in charge. Tell me about Rocky.”
“He’s coming to Tupelo.”
“When?”
“In a few days. He’s flying with a friend in a private plane.”
“That’s good news, Lovie.”
“Good, my foot. You can hear my vagina shouting hallelujah all the way to the state line.”
Now, that’s the Lovie I know and adore. I link my arm through hers and we head to the bus.
Beulah Jane is standing up front, her lips