Elvis and the Grateful Dead. Peggy Webb

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СКАЧАТЬ Callie.” He winks at Lovie.

      I try to act like I don’t want to take him to Reed’s Department Store and pick out Egyptian cotton sheets and new dishes, but with my cheeks on fire that’s hard to do.

      “If you’ll care to remember, Elvis has a particular love of this festival. Why don’t you do us both a favor and get lost in a Brazilian jungle?”

      “Then who would keep your cute buns out of trouble?”

      “I would. That’s who.”

      He walks out, laughing. I want to bop him with my blow-dryer.

      “Of all the nerve. I ought to…to date.”

      “Why don’t you?” Lovie’s not asking a question; she’s issuing a challenge.

      “Because…” Jack still makes me want to cook gingerbread, wear his favorite perfume, and wash his socks. And that’s the least of it. If I don’t get him out of my head soon, I might as well sign up to announce my cracked-to-pieces love life on the Dr. Phil show. “Maybe I will date.”

      “Good.” Lovie stands up and hugs me. “Let’s get this tour over with so I can go home and get a chocolate fix. Beulah Jane Ball is driving me crazy.”

      “Shush, Lovie. Here she comes.”

      In her daisy print dress and sturdy support stockings, Beulah Jane looks like a little grandmother who’s too timid to share her cookie recipe. Her appearance is misleading to say the least. She could run China. As president of the local Elvis Presley fan club, she’s not only lording over the refreshment booth—which everybody knows is managed by Lovie—but also trying to run the whole show.

      “Callie, Lovie, hurry along now. The tour bus is waiting.” Beulah Jane shoos us out of the tent with a cardboard fan on a stick featuring the King as a shy, skinny boy on the cusp of fame. When she sees Elvis, she gives a little mock horror screech. “That dog’s not coming, 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.” СКАЧАТЬ