Elvis and the Grateful Dead. Peggy Webb

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СКАЧАТЬ 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 sweet-talk me every time? What can I say? There’s comfort in the familiar.

      In order to preserve my sanity (almost) and calm my nerves (barely), I watch Uncle Charlie and Mama. She’s a really good dancer, which doesn’t surprise me. Whatever Mama sets her mind to, she does with gusto and excellence. The surprise here is Uncle Charlie. I had no idea he could dance, much less that he’s so smooth. With that talent and his handsome, silvery fox looks, he could have senior women drooling all over him.

      Suddenly somebody yells, “What’s happening?”

      Lovie and Dick are gyrating so wildly that Mama and Uncle Charlie quit the dance floor. If I couldn’t see the panic on Lovie’s face, I’d think she was doing this on purpose.

      “Uncle Charlie,” I yell, but he has already sprung into action. When Dick Gerard topples, he lands right in Charlie Valentine’s arms.

      While Tewanda Hardy and Beulah Jane fan Dick with their cardboard Elvis fans, I race inside to get some ice water and a cold cloth. Considering the heat, no wonder he’s overcome. Not to mention the potency of Lovie’s charms and her Prohibition Punch.

      By the time I get back, my bassett hound is on the scene and Dick is laid out on the concrete.

      Uncle Charlie looks up from the body. “It’s no use, dear heart. He’s dead.”

      Elvis’ Opinion #2 on Icons, Hospitality, and Murder

      I could have told them that before Dick Gerard hit the floor. But then, I’m smarter than the average dog. What I saw was not a man in the throes of dance; it was a man in the throes of a fit.

      With sirens wailing toward Callie’s, everybody’s standing around the body saying, “I told you so.”

      Tewanda Hardy is saying, СКАЧАТЬ