Graceland Read online

  Contents

  Graceland, 20 December 1957

  1: TUPELO SLEEPWALKING: 1937–1942 1937

  1939

  1942

  Graceland, 23 December 1957

  SAVED: 1945–1946 1945

  1946

  Graceland, 24 December 1957

  TROMBONE: 1947–1948 1947

  1948

  Graceland, January 1958

  2: MEMPHIS THE COURTS: 1949–1953 1949

  1950

  1952

  1953

  Graceland, January 1958

  DIXIE: 1953–1954 1953

  1954

  Graceland, 24 March 1958

  3: MANSION THE ROAD: 1955 1955

  Graceland, July 1958

  RIOT: 1956 1956

  Oak Hill Drive, Killeen, Texas, July 1958

  GRACELAND: 1957 1957

  Memphis, August 1958

  MY BEST GIRL: 1958 1958

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Bethan Roberts’ prizewinning novels include My Policeman, a piercing portrait of a love triangle, set in 1950s Brighton. She grew up in a house where Elvis’s music was always playing, and first became captivated by the story of Elvis and Gladys as a girl, poring over her mother’s scrapbooks and annuals.

  Bethan lives in Brighton with her family.

  www.bethanrobertswriter.com

  BY THE SAME AUTHOR

  The Pools

  The Good Plain Cook

  My Policeman

  Mother Island

  For Mum and Ted, with love

  Graceland, 20 December 1957

  Elvis has made his wishes clear: every decoration on the white plastic Christmas tree should be red. Reaching almost to the ceiling, the tree’s stiff branches burst forward into the dining room like stars. Gladys sits beside it, surrounded by boxes of baubles and tinsel, searching for old things to match the new.

  Her son is still in bed, and the house is quiet. She’s determined to wait for him to rise before dressing the tree, so they can do it together, but has decided it won’t hurt to select a few items before he appears. She’s been sitting for almost an hour now, letting the late-morning sun warm the side of her face as she picks through the ornaments. She’s put aside a pile of red things Elvis bought last year for the Audubon Drive house – glass stars, glittering snowflakes, miniature Santas, striped stockings and candy canes – and has given herself over to the examination of the angel he made from a clothespin and shiny paper in elementary school. The wings are a little ripped and the face he’d painted has faded to a couple of vague splotches. That angel moved with their family from Tupelo to Memphis, and has been displayed in more homes than she can count, from two-roomed duplexes to rooming houses to public housing to private apartments. Last year Elvis wouldn’t let her put it at the top of the tree because, he said, it would ruin the photographs taken of the Presley family Christmas for the newspapers. Gladys straightens the wings with a flattened hand, tidies the four strands of yellow wool that make the angel’s hair, and struggles to her aching feet. Then she buries it deep inside the needles at the back of the tree. This year she will refuse to leave it in the box.

  The telephone rings. Gladys ignores it, taking her time to rearrange the tree’s branches around the angel, thinking perhaps one of the maids will answer. But the phone continues to trill, forcing her to cross the white carpet and pick up the receiver.

  ‘Presley residence.’

  ‘That you, Glad?’

  It’s Vester, her brother-in-law, calling from the front gate.

  ‘Course it’s me.’

  ‘I got a Mr Milton Bowers here. Wants to see Elvis.’

  A shot of fear goes through her, weakening her legs, and she has to place a hand on the door frame to steady herself.

  ‘Looks kinda official,’ says Vester.

  Stretching the phone cord to its full length, Gladys goes to the window and pushes back the brocade drapes, peering down the long drive. The windshield of her visitor’s car glints in the distance. It looks to be a black Cadillac, though not as new as her son’s.

  ‘Glad? You still there?’

  She could send him on his way. Vester could keep those iron gates firmly shut. But she’d just be delaying the inevitable.

  ‘Send him on up,’ she says.

  With trembling fingers, she attempts to arrange her hair, then positions herself behind the drapes to watch the car’s progress. The gates swing open. Elvis had been careful about their design: they had to be tall enough to deter climbers, but see-through enough for the fans to feel close to his home. The car follows the roadway up the slope and through the tall trees. The blue lights lining the drive are turned off now, but on the lawn is a giant illuminated Santa on his sleigh, bearing the message, MERRY CHRISTMAS ALL — ELVIS.

  Mr Milton Bowers is sometimes mentioned in the Memphis Press Scimitar, and Gladys knows what his arrival means. Almost a year ago, her son completed his pre-induction physical, was classified 1-A, and the press went crazy over the idea of Elvis joining the army. She’s been dreading this moment ever since.

  The Cadillac stops just short of the steps, and Gladys inches away from the glass. A large man emerges, tucking an envelope into his breast pocket. Then he buttons up his overcoat, replaces his hat, and slams the car door.

  Gladys braces herself, expecting one of the family, or a maid, to come running, but nobody appears. Her mother-in-law, Minnie Mae, rarely leaves her basement room, joining the family only for meals. Gladys imagines that her husband, Vernon, is in the small building he calls his office, out by the car porch, counting Elvis’s money. If she lets the maid answer the door, as her son has instructed she always should, there’s a chance the envelope will go directly to Vernon, or even to Elvis. She must intercept Mr Bowers on the porch.

  First wiping her palms on her dress, she steps into the hallway and pulls back the bolts on the heavy door. Opening it, she squints against the glare of the sun on the white columns. Her visitor has yet to make it up here, having paused to admire one of the marble lions to the side of the entrance. He pats the squat creature’s curling hair before taking the steps at a sprightly pace.

  ‘Well, good morning to you, sir,’ Gladys manages to sing.

  ‘Good morning, ma’am. You must be Mrs Presley.’

  ‘The same.’

  He removes his hat and smiles. He has a wide neck that pushes at the boundaries of his collar. His narrow eyes fix her with the kind of confidence she’s often seen in the faces of people who work in offices, whose questions are always a test.

  ‘I’m Milton Bowers,’ he says. ‘Chairman of the draft board.’

  Because she strongly suspects he will refuse, Gladys says, ‘Well, do please come in, Mr Bowers.’

  Even if he agrees, she can put him in the music room and there’s a chance nobody will be any the wiser.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Presley, I can’t do that. I did want, though, to deliver this note to Mr Presley personally …’

  He fishes the envelope from his pocket.

  Gladys smiles and stretches out her hand to receive the letter, but he drops it into the upturned bowl of his hat and asks, ‘Is Mr Presley home?’

  ‘My husband is busy in his office—’

  ‘I meant your son. This is an important document. I’m sure you understand.’

  Mr Bowers cranes his neck to see past her. She spots a little perspiration on his forehead, a gleam in his eye. These high-class Old Memphis folk are all the same. Too proud to admit that they want to catch a glimpse of her son. Gladys steps forward, blocking his view, and lowers her voice.

  ‘Truth is, Elvis is sleeping right now. He’s just gotten back from Hollywood and they work him so hard!’

  Mr Bowers snif
fs and looks around, taking in the height of the portico and the size of the glass lamp suspended above his head. ‘Quite the mansion you have here,’ he says.

  ‘We’ve been blessed,’ says Gladys.

  ‘What your son has achieved is certainly impressive, particularly coming from his background.’ Mr Bowers shows his teeth, which are small and straight. ‘I’d like to commend Elvis myself, if you’ll let me, ma’am.’

  The clouds are gathering now, and the branches of the leafless trees knock together in the wind.

  ‘That’s right kind of you, sir,’ says Gladys, ‘but I won’t wake my boy.’

  Mr Bowers stares at her for a moment, clearly surprised. Then he shakes his head and chuckles. ‘He’ll have to rise earlier than this when he’s in the US Army! The officers at Fort Hood won’t make exceptions.’

  ‘Elvis won’t expect no special treatment.’ Gladys holds out her hand. ‘Don’t let me keep you from your business, now.’

  He sighs and offers her the letter, but then hesitates, holding it in mid-air as he takes a good look at the diamond cluster of her cocktail ring. ‘You’ll see he gets it right away?’

  ‘The very moment he wakes.’

  Only then does Mr Bowers surrender the envelope. As he descends the steps, Gladys calls, ‘Elvis will be real disappointed he missed you.’

  Sitting on her pink silk bedspread, she tears open the envelope.

  Selective Service System

  Order to Report for Induction

  President of the United States to,

  Elvis Aron Presley

  Mailing address: Graceland, Highway 51 South, Memphis, Tennessee

  Greeting: You are hereby ordered for induction into the Armed Forces of the United States, and to report at Room 215, 198 South Main Street, Memphis, at 7.45 am on the 20th of January 1958, for forwarding to an armed forces induction station.

  It is entirely as she expected, but still a shock. The signature is not Milton Bowers’s, but its large black loops speak of the same smooth confidence. She tosses the thin paper onto the pillow, away from her body. For a long time she has feared for her son’s life at the grasping hands not just of his fans, but also his enemies, who lurk on church boards and youth committees up and down the country. Now she sees that her worry was over nothing when compared with this. Before they know it, Elvis could be at war. Vernon often speaks of the crazy Russians and their stockpile of bombs big enough to blow them all to kingdom come. And their nephew, Junior, hasn’t been right in the head since he returned from Korea.

  Her instinct is to run to her son and break the news. It will be better coming from her. But first Gladys must steady herself. She finds the small bottle of vodka hidden in her velvet purse and takes a swig, letting the alcohol sink warmly to her stomach. Talking with Mr Bowers, she could forget the pain always pulsing through her legs these days, and the way her body seems to have become a burden she must carry around. But now the weariness floods back. She takes another drink, knowing she must guard against letting herself drain the entire bottle. Perhaps it would be better, after all, to slip the letter beneath her pillow and lay her head on it. She could swallow one of the pills Elvis gives her to help her sleep.

  Then it hits her: if she can get Tom Parker on the phone, she can beg him to stop all this. Ever since speculation about his draft began, Elvis has said his manager will set things straight. Perhaps if she can convince Mr Parker that Elvis will not survive the ordeal – that he’s already a nervous wreck, prone to mood swings and insomnia, exhausted by the whirlwind of his rise to stardom – Parker will take action, if only to save his own behind.

  Heart rushing, she lifts the receiver next to her bed. A flat drilling sound fills her ear. Gladys has her finger on the dial before she remembers the truth: she doesn’t have the number. Only Vernon and Elvis know Parker’s direct line, and if she were to ask her husband he would tell her straight that Colonel Tom Parker would not take kindly to being bothered by a fretful mother, especially when his only concern is making a success of their boy. And if she were to point out that Elvis is already a success beyond any of their wildest imaginings, Vernon would merely counter that there’s always more to be had, especially when it comes to Elvis.

  She snatches up the letter, takes another slug of vodka, and heads for the door.

  It’s quiet in the hall, and her house shoes hardly make a sound on the dense carpet of the stairs. Outside Elvis’s bedroom she hesitates, but decides against knocking. She knows that his girl, Anita, sometimes stays the night, although Elvis would never admit it. But Gladys hasn’t time to consider Anita’s embarrassment. She must break the news. The girl can blush and scat if she has to.

  She opens the door and steps into the darkness. There’s the low whirr of the refrigerator and what sounds like the breath of two bodies. The heating is turned off, and the room is chilly. She feels for the switch on the wall and, finding it, floods the place with light.

  Elvis is asleep in the massive bed, black covers pulled up to his chin and a silk sleep mask covering his eyes; his body is curled into a tight ball, just as it used to be when they shared a bed. On the floor beside him is his friend Cliff, who is now awake.

  ‘Miss Gladys,’ he says, squinting at the light. ‘What time is it?’

  She has always liked Cliff. He’s handsome in a homely way, with soft brown eyes and a gentle voice. Elvis says he’s crazy, but unlike the rest of Elvis’s male friends, Cliff takes the time to sit with her some afternoons and share a few beers.

  ‘Cliff, I need to speak with my son.’

  He throws back his coverlet – he seems to have slept right on the floor.

  ‘Cliff, why don’t you use one of the guest bedrooms, dear?’

  ‘Elvis likes to have me in the room, Miss Gladys.’

  She nods. He never did like being alone.

  As Cliff tugs a pair of pants over his undershorts, Gladys turns to face the door.

  ‘You sure you wanna wake him?’ asks Cliff. ‘We didn’t make it back till real late …’

  ‘This is important,’ says Gladys.

  ‘You know best, ma’am.’

  ‘You’re a good boy, Cliff,’ she says.

  He leaves the room, scratching his behind.

  Through all this, Elvis sleeps.

  Gladys sits on the bed and watches her son. His breathing is steady and deep. He used to sleep badly and dream so hard that he’d walk from his bed, into the night, but you’d never know that to look at him now. On the nightstand is a half-full glass of water, a Bible, and a bottle of pills.

  ‘Baby,’ she whispers.

  He doesn’t stir.

  It has been a while since she has had the power to make any changes in his life, but now she has the letter. And although she hates its every word, Gladys feels an undeniable thrill at being the one to deliver its message.

  She touches his shoulder, noticing how taut and smooth it is compared with her own hand, and raises her voice. ‘Elvis. It’s Mama.’

  Still nothing, so she removes his sleep mask, revealing his dark lashes and brows. These always come as something of a surprise to Gladys, who remembers Elvis as a fair-headed boy. She takes his wrist in her hand and squeezes, gradually increasing the pressure. A doctor at St Joseph’s once told her this was the best way to wake a patient gently.

  ‘Come on, son.’

  He groans.

  ‘Wake up.’

  He buries his face in the pillow.

  ‘Son. You gotta wake up.’

  Without moving, he slurs, ‘Is somebody dead?’

  ‘Elvis!’ Gladys takes hold of the bedclothes and whips them from his body, revealing his white undershorts.

  ‘Don’t!’ he cries, trying to pull the sheets back.

  But Gladys won’t let go. ‘This is important,’ she says.

  ‘Damn,’ he mutters.

  ‘Don’t you curse, now.’

  He hauls himself into a sitting position and rests his head on the white leather board, h
is hair awry, his face puffy, a light crust of saliva at the corners of his lips. The sight of his naked chest and muscled arms makes her pause, and she has to stop herself from telling him that he’s a man, now. The fact of it amazes her, every time.

  ‘What’s so important?’ he asks.

  ‘It’s just – a letter.’

  Handing it over, she holds his gaze, and knows he understands exactly what this means.

  As he reads, she glances around the room. Even before they moved here, Gladys referred to it as ‘the King’s Room’, making his friends laugh nervously. But she now realises that although it is luxurious, with its ice-machine, refrigerator, TV set, and wall-sized mirror at the foot of the bed, everything in this room is in fact fashioned with darkness in mind. The walls, drapes and furniture are the colour of the night sky. It is like a cave.

  Elvis crumples the letter in his fist, then hurls it at the wall.

  ‘We knew it was gonna happen some time,’ she says.

  ‘It’s all over, Mama.’

  ‘Come here.’ She opens her arms and lets him hide his face in her bosom. Stroking his hair, she whispers, ‘Nothing’s over. You’re still here. I’m still here.’

  ‘I’m finished,’ he says. ‘The fans will forget all about me.’

  Knowing he’s pouting, she has to will her fingers to finish their path through his hair. ‘Oh, baloney! This here’s nothing but a tempor-ary setback.’

  He looks up, his eyes dark with fear. ‘You think the other men are gonna ignore Elvis Presley? Treat me like one of the guys? They’re gonna make my life hell.’

  At this display of more self-pity, she feels herself shrink from him. ‘This ain’t school, Elvie. Nobody’s gonna hide in a ditch and chunk stuff at you, or call you names …’