Elvis and the Grateful Dead. Peggy Webb
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the wound of loss.
“It looks like Rocky wants to move slowly, Lovie. And that might be a good idea.”
“I’m not interested in slow. I want a little sugar in my bowl.”
How like Lovie to use the language of the blues. Aunt Minrose was a professional musician and Lovie’s no slouch, herself.
“Focus on the bright side. I’ll bet he’s bringing not only the sugar but a big stirring spoon.”
Mama sticks her head around the door frame. “To stir what?”
“The Prohibition Punch,” Lovie says, referring to her special recipe that parades itself as punch but has enough alcohol to make a herd of elephants tipsy. Actually the recipe originated with a governor’s wife in Georgia during the Prohibition Era.
Lovie squeezes my arm, then swishes past me to the kitchen while I race to answer the front door.
Standing on my porch are Tupelo’s mayor and his wife, and behind them are Beulah Jane and twenty bespangled, pomaded impersonators.
By seven thirty the party is in full swing. The bigwigs are crowded around the refreshment table refilling their cups with Lovie’s recipe and loosening their ties. Fayrene is in my Angel Garden/courtyard matching Beulah Jane and the officers of the fan club with Elvis stories of her own. (Fayrene claims to be Gladys’ niece’s second cousin twice removed). And Mama’s at the piano pounding out Elvis songs while the impersonators try to outdo each other showing off their vocals and their hip moves. George Blakely, a skinny balloonist from Dallas who calls himself Texas Elvis, seems to have the corner on swivels.
The real King strolls in (my dog, who else?) carrying a black wig he dug from my closet when I wasn’t looking. Elvis is the most opinionated dog on earth. Obviously, he has a point to prove. I bend down, take it from his teeth, and arrange it on his head, then lavish pats on him.
“You look mighty handsome, Elvis.” My philosophy is that everybody needs affirmation, even a dog.
“Here, dear heart. You look like you need this.” Uncle Charlie hands me a fresh cup of Prohibition Punch.
“It’s not every day I see a dead Elvis in the Birthplace. Have you heard anything else about Brian?”
“John’s sticking by his on-site evaluation of natural causes. The body has already been released to his family in Huntsville.”
That ought to make me feel better, but I still have the uneasy feeling I’m on the Titanic while an iceberg lurks just beyond the next wave. I don’t know. Maybe it’s the turmoil of my love/hate relationship with Jack and our stalled divorce.
“Don’t worry about it, dear heart. Everything’s under control. Enjoy your party.”
In spite of his reassurances, Uncle Charlie stations himself in my blue velvet wing chair in the corner. He’s either found a perfect observation post because something is amiss, or he’s watching for trouble just to be on the safe side.
Going in search of comfort, I find Lovie in the kitchen refilling a serving tray with hot miniature ham and cheese quiches. I grab a spatula to help, but end up dropping quiche on the floor.
“Let me do that.” Lovie elbows me out of the way. “Are you going to tell me what’s up, or are you going to spend the rest of the evening with that face?”
“It’s the only face I have.”
“You know what I mean. What’s up?”
“Nothing if you don’t count Mama taking clandestine dance lessons and me letting Jack back in my bed.”
“Don’t worry about it, Callie. Divorced people do it all the time.”
“How do you know?”
“Trust me. I know these things. Besides, at least Jack finds you appealing.”
“Lovie, Rocky has been crazy about you ever since he saw you imitating a Las Vegas showgirl.”
“How do you know?”
“You told me. Besides, you’ve been seeing him…what? Two weeks?”
“Three. They build Jim Walter homes in less time. At the rate he’s going, I’ll be in dentures and Depends before he discovers the holy grail.”
This is Lovie at her irreverent best. Anybody who didn’t know her might think she’s taking everything in stride, but I see the heartache behind the laughter.
Elvis (the icon, not my dog) is crooning “It’s Now or Never” over my indoor/outdoor speakers, which is the last thing Lovie needs to hear. Apparently Mama has abandoned the piano and put on some Elvis CDs.
“What you need is some fresh air.”
Lovie’s a party animal. If I can get her surrounded by people, she’ll be okay. Linking arms, we head to the courtyard I call my Angel Garden.
This place always makes me feel better. Sometimes in the early morning if I come out here and sit very still, I can feel the brush of angel wings. Not that I’m New Age-y or anything. I just believe you have to adopt a Zen-like state of stillness in order to be in touch with the universe.
Tonight, though, angel wings take a powder because there’s Mama in dishabille, so to speak, with Texas Elvis. Actually, they’re dancing—if you can call being crammed so close you can’t get a straw between your bodies dancing. Plus, his hands are where they have no business being.
The worst part is, she doesn’t seem to mind, which leads me to believe this could have been her idea. If she’ll care to remember, she has a daughter older than this man. To top it off, this is my house, and I’m not fixing to let this gold-digging Elvis swivel his way into a beautiful farm in Mooreville. Not to mention Mama’s Everlasting Monument Company and a place at the Valentine family Thanksgiving dinner.
Besides that, he’s not even handsome. How could Mama go for a weasely man who looks like Pee-Wee Herman?
I march right into my house and remove the Burning Love album. I don’t care how many times it went platinum. I have no intention of providing the ambience for Lady Chatterly. Next I put on “Shake, Rattle and Roll.” Let Mama and George Blakely cozy up to that.
“What’s wrong, dear heart?”
I jump out of my skin. How did Uncle Charlie get across the room without me ever seeing him move?
“Nobody but Mama could turn dance lessons into something you have to worry over.”
He doesn’t say a word, just slips out the door with his blue eyes looking like they could burn a hole through metal. Now what?
I hurry after Uncle Charlie and find him leading Mama back onto the dance floor while George Blakely cools his ardor on the sidelines with a glass of peach tea.
The courtyard has been cleared to make way for a second dance couple. None other than Lovie with Dick Gerard.
Who is married, might I add. And whose wife, Bertha, is not here.
I can see my party being written up in the society pages as the biggest scandal Mooreville has seen since Leonora Moffett stole Roy Jessup’s daddy from the Mooreville Feed and Seed. Even worse, she didn’t want him. Sent him back to his wife in three weeks because he had the IQ of a snail. Leonora’s words, not mine.
All I can say is thank goodness the hip-hop music prevents Lovie from dancing cheek to cheek with Dick. Though the way she’s rocking (all over the courtyard) and the way he’s rolling (all over her), my party ought to be rated triple X.
What in the world is Lovie trying to do? As if I need to ask. Feeling uncertain about Rocky’s intentions and floundering around in unfamiliar territory, she’s falling back into her old habits—seeing how many men she can conquer with her charms (which are considerable, believe me).
But who am I to talk? Don’t I let Jack