Dream Angel : Heaven Waits (13 page)

We parted the sea easily. People would see us coming and politely move aside. Maybe it was a respect your elders thing, but all I cared about was finding unused air before I passed out. And when my view was finally not the back of someone’s head, I could see a group moving down a side hall. The sign read “Ball Room” so we jumped in.

The current flowed steadily. The shuffle-step-stop repetition allowed my attention to wonder. In fact I was so busy examining the glass roof — it didn’t look half as silly from the inside as it did out — that I was unaware we'd stepped through two absurdly tall solid oak doors. When I returned to the present, I felt transported back to the Peabody hotel.

The room was breathtakingly beautiful. And deeper than it was wide, with three crystal chandeliers over head, and round tables decorated in fine linen spaced evenly throughout the room.

“Over there.” Elvis pointed to the farthest corner, and with a burst of vigor, gave me a yank.

To my shock and dismay, we were headed for a table occupied by three young women.

“Mind if we join you young’uns?” Elvis asked in the voice of a 90-year-old man that had even me doing a double take.

Three heads, a statuette blonde, a brassy brunette and a mix of both, turned. All three women looked first from me and then to Elvis before nodding their approval with weak but respectful smiles.

Had I not been busy feeling so conspicuous I would have appreciated Elvis’ thought-out seating arrangements. Having us sit with women barely out of high school was genius. A younger flock of women would likely ignore a man as old as their grandfather. It was a perfect plan, really, but as we settled in for the show, I still felt ill at ease.

“Where y’all from?” Elvis’ accent twanged as he yelled at the girls, who were talking amongst themselves.

“Macon,” the blonde, wearing a size too-small tee-shirt, said.

“What’s that?” He cupped his ear with his hand.

People around us began to gawk.

“He doesn’t hear too well.” I mouthed, pointing to my own ear. I held back my laughter as all three of their faces took on the look of dread.

“Y’all like this Presley feller?” Elvis asked, and the ladies eyes brightened at the mere mention of his name.

“Oh, he’s wonderful,” The brunette gushed with an accent that sounded more East coast than of a Southern decent.

“He’s dead. Ya’ll know that, right?” He blurted out.

All eyes, including mine, now glared his way. None of the young women spoke. They were seemingly unsure of how to respond to such a statement.

“Ah, just the same, I never cared for all that wigglin’ anyhow.” Elvis licked his lips as if the mere thought of it had left a bad taste in his mouth.

This was apparently the last straw, as all three women stood, grabbed their bags, and marched away from our table. Elvis watched them leave, his lips twitching with humor.

“Was it something I said?” He joked, sounding very much like his old self.

He crossed a boot over his left knee, and gave me a wink.

“If they only knew,” I muttered as I watched the ladies walk away.

Elvis glanced back over his shoulder, and the mischievous twinkle in his eyes softened. “No, it’s better this way,” he said, and then the room lights dimmed.

As if someone had flipped the volume switch, a room full of chatter dipped to a low buzz. The room shuffled, glasses clanged and people hushed each other around me. The air was thick, pulsating with excitement. The audience was ready.

An orchestra rumbled from the stage. And even with my vision partially impaired by the sudden darkness, I saw all heads turn forward. All eyes but mine, that is, as I was busy watching the restless stirring at the tables around me. The excitement was especially visible in the women. Some were hugging the friend next to them or holding hands. All waited impatiently for the man of the evening.

And when a short burst of excitement sounded from the opposite side of the room, Elvis slipped off his glasses. With an unobstructed view, I considered how, even in this low light, his silhouette announced his presence. How right before me, beneath the canvas of a 75 year old man, sat a living legend whose knee bouncing excitement told me he wanted nothing more than to take that stage. In fact, he was fidgeting so badly, I half expected him to leap out of his chair at any moment. And my attention was so focused, that when the horns sounded with the opening of 2001 Space Odyssey, my heart jack hammered inside my chest.

“Elvis!” A woman shouted somewhere in the darkness.

“I’m here, baby, I’m here,” he whispered, and shifted to the edge of his seat.

He was holding my hand while that famous crescendo swelled. The percussions blasted, and his grip tightened. I winced while the drummer crashed his symbols and the band ignited. Elvis was so transfixed, he didn’t even notice when I slipped my numb and tingling hand out from his death grip.

A spot light hit the stage, and the crowd went into a frenzy of applause. Elvis clapped too, but when four women stepped out from stage left, followed by four males, he all but elevated right out of his seat. Thankfully, I had my hand out, ready to grab him at any moment.

“Well, alright,” he said with a brilliant smile.

When all the performers were in their rightful place, the intro came around again, and the man of the evening took the stage. A round of applause filled the room. I sat up tall, but my view was partially obscured by a few hundred bobbing heads. And it was only when the artist moved to center stage that a beautiful replica of the famed 1973 American eagle jumpsuit came into view. I squinted as the stage lights reflected off the red, white, and blue rhinestones in an almost blinding ray of light.

The artist strolled across the stage, twice, and then stepped up to the microphone. The theater lights hit his face, and the crowd gasped. I could tell by the wide-eyed look on Elvis’ face that he was as surprised as I was at the likeness. Though not as strikingly handsome as my angel, I had to admit this man was close. In fact, the resemblance was eerie.

“Well, I said, see, see, see rider.” The song began.

The screams grew louder. The crowd was caught up in the moment. And when a woman directly behind us screeched, Elvis and I both turned. It was dark, but I could clearly see him watching her as she waved her arms, unaware the man she “really” wanted was right in front of her. And when he turned back to me, perplexed and slightly amused, I could only shrug. I’d never been to a show quiet like this, and her reaction stunned even me.

Worried, I considered mentioning that the man on stage was doing him a great honor, but then a woman stood up from her seat and rushed the stage, and that’s when everything changed.

“Come on.” He grabbed my hand.

Focused on his virtual double, Elvis headed for the stage. He followed the outer edge of the crowd, pulling me in his wake. Determined to get a closer look, he stepped around tables, and dodged couples dancing in the aisle. I was struggling to keep up, while also looking for a safe place to hide.

A storm was coming; I could see it brewing in his eyes. His heated gaze was locked onto the stage, and to my horror, I realized he was marching in full Elvis fashion no longer caring about the illusion of his age. As though on a mission, he took rushed elongated steps that were agile even for a twenty year old. I frantically scanned the room, relieved that nobody was paying us any mind. And when he stopped a few feet from the stage, and I accomplished a virtual face-plant against his back without acknowledgment, I knew I was in trouble.

“Everyone’s having a good time, don’t you think.” I said loud enough to be heard over the music.

He said nothing. He simply stood there, with his arms crossed at his chest, and his gaze shifting from the man on the stage to the women waving their hands in the air while their husbands rolled their eyes. It was no secret that Elvis the man never understood his fans devotion, but he did count on it and even needed it. And while this love he counted on was being showered onto another, the look of worry on his face told me, he feared losing it.

We had to leave.

I opened my mouth, an excuse already prepared, but I never got a chance to speak it. I was silenced by the first few bars of “Love Me Tender”, or as I liked to call it, the kissing song. Cringing, I prayed God would come to our rescue, and when he answered, I was never happier.

“He’s good, but he’s
sure
not Elvis.” A woman said to another as they walked by without seeing the man she spoke of so ardently.

“Oh how I wish he were!” The other said, and not a moment too late

Even standing in the thick darkness, I could see Elvis' fiery eyes cool, and the hint of a smile softening his features. In a heartbeat, he went from looking like the loneliness man in the world to the most beloved. Grinning, he stepped back into the shadows. He leaned against the wall in a relaxed stance, with his left knee drawn up and a boot propped up behind him. His gaze was focused on the women as they continued up the aisle, and I internally exhaled.

“Love Me Tender” swelled. As was the tradition, the passing out of kisses began near the stage. But unlike Elvis’ show, the party soon moved to the floor, and scarves flew around the tables with zeal. Playful fans snatched them up. The man of the hour move quickly, and all appeared to be business as usual until his eyes met mine.

Caught off guard, I quickly averted my gaze, and my attention fell to a tall but average framed man, standing on the other side of the room. He was statute and motionless, a contrast to the commotion around him. And though he was cloaked in the shadows, his attention appeared fixed. It was as if he looked right at me.

My stomach instantly coiled into a knot, and my body went cold. I had to look away. But the moment I did, I wished I hadn’t. What if he moves, and comes this way? I wouldn’t see him. Quickly, I looked back. He was gone.

The song moved along, while behind me Elvis pushed away from the wall. He stood erect and stiff, and I pondered his alert posture. Had he seen the man too? Was he thinking what I was thinking? That the note and this man were somehow linked? That likely all pointed back to Steve, and the mess that “I” started back in Memphis?

Trying to calm myself, I took in a slow and even breath. Elvis didn’t know about the note, I reminded myself while I looked back over my shoulder at him. Or did he?

The kissing drew closer. Small beads of sweat rose on my upper lip as the handsome man headed my way. The theme from “Jaws” echoed in my ears. I took a step back, but stopped when a blinding spotlight hit my face. The artist was suddenly before me, and I found myself squinting into a pair of deeply set eyes as green as the Caribbean Sea.

Without missing a note, the performer extended me his hand. In it he held one silk blue scarf. Having never been given such a gift before, I hesitated, unsure if the offer was really meant for me. At first, I nervously looked around, and when nobody stepped up to claim it, I reached out.

The silky treasure merely fluttered across my finger tips before it was snatched away.

“Easy, now,” The artist said with a chuckle to someone behind me.

It funny how vital an object can become when you think someone has “taken” it from you. Scowling, I spun around to… the real Elvis, standing there with my scarf in his hand and a sneer on his face. Leisurely, he wadded the gift up and promptly shoved it into his pocket. His glare was steady, and it didn’t ease until the entertainer wisely moved on.

When Elvis' eyes finally meet mine, his frown lifted into smile.

“I’ll give this to you later.” He winked.

***

When the first few bars of “Can’t Help Falling in Love” began, I grabbed my coat, took Elvis by the hand and all but drug him out of there. All I could think about was getting outside in time to spot any sign of “the man” or Steve… who ever. Not to speak to him, but to prove to myself that he actually existed. That up to this point, I hadn’t imagined it all. After all, in my life, coma’s and day dreams seemed to be common place. And though I didn’t give him much choice, I was surprised Elvis went so willingly. Course he trudged along, refusing to give up the charade. And I wanted to scream at him to hurry, but instead, I just kept pulling and he kept resisting. Every few steps, I’d look back, and that little swaggering grin of his would spark my temper all over again.

It was not easy, but with Elvis on my hip, I blasted out the lobby door and into a frigid night. Once outside, the cold air rushed over me and I sucked in an icy breath of surprise. I looked left and then right. No Steve. For as far as the eye could see, there was nothing but a sea of red tail lights, a convoy headed for the exit. If Steve had been here, I’d missed him.

The drive home was dreary, void of inspiration. The light humming of the car’s engine filled the space between us, as the city lights flickered through the cab highlighting Elvis’ stone-like features. Struggling with the silence, my eyes drifted off the road and settled to my passenger. He was so silent, and I wanted to explain, but he just kept sitting there, gazing out the window with his thumb lightly resting against his mouth and a distant look in his eyes.

A mix of regret and guilt swelled. For months now, I had felt estranged uncomfortable in my own skin. Since the accident, my emotions my moods, everything had changed. I’d spent months ignoring it, making excuses. But it wasn’t until this night, an evening spent evading my own self made demons — with an angel no less — that I began to question my own reality. Up till now, I had accepted many truths that most would find unbelievable, but now, even I was starting to have doubts. Had someone told me I was simply going insane, that none of this was real, I would have been relieved. At least insanity made sense!

“He thinks he loves you, you know.” Elvis suddenly spoke. It was the first words he’d uttered since we’d gotten into the car, and the first time his voice didn’t elevate me to great heights.

Stopped at a traffic light, I strained to see his most telling feature — his eyes.

“No I don’t know that.” I choose my words carefully. “What I know, or rather what I believe, is that Steve and I just met and suddenly he’s infatuated.”

I left out that Steve’s attention were provoked and instigated by me. That it was my fault, but I was sure he knew.

“You do make a lasting first impression.” He said softly, and a smile flickered.

I just stared at him. “I’ve done nothing but cause chaos at every turn and you’re making jokes. Unbelievable.” I turned back to the wheel with a heavy sigh.

“You would feel better if I was mad?”

“Yes!” I spun back to him. “At least I’d understand that,”

And I was just about to explain why I deserved his wrath when a car honked behind us. Looking up to a green light, I grumbled something unmemorable and hit the gas.

“Women,” he chuckled.

I merged onto the freeway, and drove five miles under the speed limit. Cars were passing me, sneering and gesturing. Elvis would smile big and wave, only to then drop back to a serious expression once they’d passed.

“I need to find him, and try to explain. If he’s here because of what happened in Memphis then—”

“No.”

I pulled my eyes from the road, analyzing him. That’s it, just no? I was supposed to just settle for that? Fuming, I moved over to the fast lane and gunned it.

“So, I wasn’t imagining it? He is here?”

“Samantha, do you trust me?”

It was a simple question, and yet it stunned me. Why can nobody give me a simple yes or no answer?

“Immensely.” I drew in a steadying breath.

“Then we’ll take care of this tomorrow, together. Until then no running off half cocked.” He was nodding at me, pointedly, insisting on my compliance.

I’m sure the analogy fit, but I didn’t like how it sounded, so unthinking so reckless — so me. I agreed.

And just like that, the subject was dropped. By that I mean we stopped talking about it. Again, the quiet came. It felt like torture. If music was good for the soul, then silence was the Devil’s only friend. I needed to settle my mind, and I knew only one way to do it. I reached over and flipped on the stereo. Preset to my favorite channel, “Burning Love” bounced from the speakers.

Every since I was a little girl music had always been my escape. Right away the guitar strumming intro lifted a weight from my soul, and put a flicker of a smile on to my face. Desiring more, I headed for the volume but Elvis beat me to it. With the push of a button he changed the channel, and a gospel standard suddenly echoed. Granted this was not the singer of my choice but I didn’t complain.

Inside these beautiful words of praise, I felt my spirit stir. My heart simultaneously pounded with delight and pain. I was a bundle of mixed up feelings. On one hand, it was not lost to me that I was spending my days with one of God’s angels, and yet I hadn’t given God himself a moment of my time. Sure we’d read the bible together, I’d even prayed out of desperation. But as I once vowed, I had not sat quietly in God’s presence. Yet, the Almighty comforted me. The uplifting music enveloped me. It was as if God himself had wrapped his arms around me, lifting me to new heights. His unconditional love felt good on my troubled soul. And I was sure I couldn’t get much higher, until Elvis began to sing. My heart leapt over the sound.

His voice was variable, unpredictable, and often brilliant. The very sight of him enveloping himself in song was a spiritual experience in of itself. And as I watched him drift deeper into song, eyes closed and his facial expressions so soft, I just knew he had reached heaven, if only in his heart and mind.

When I realized we were but a mile from the house, I picked up the pace. I zipped around the last corner, and coasted into my drive just in time to catch one last glimpse of that lip curling upward as his baritone lifted into a soft tenor. Expertly, he controlled his voice as he smoothly rose into an eyebrow rising falsetto. He held the arrangement without strain, and I was entranced by a voice that had sung with the angels long before he was one.

The song ended and sadly so did the moment. At first, nobody moved. And I could barely even breathe from all the excitement. Even Elvis seemed moved as he sat there with a look of satisfaction on his face, and an all-over glow. There was no doubt; he had been created to touch people with that voice. And when he turned to me with a humble grin fixed on his face, I returned with a smile of my own, only double.

“Thank you.” My voice felt small when in comparison to his. “If I could hear that every day, I’d go to heaven right now.”

He studied me for what felt like an eternity. “That’s sweet honey, but you have your whole life ahead of you, don’t get in a rush,” he said humbly, and then opened the car door.

Elvis reached the house first, and I passed him the keys. He held the door for me to enter, and I kissed his lips tenderly as I passed, enjoying the sight of his eyes narrowing over my forwardness.

“Would you like a snack?” Dropping my bag near the phone station, I unraveled out of my jacket, and headed for the kitchen. He followed close behind.

“I could eat.”

I smiled to myself. I knew he didn’t really need to eat. He didn’t need to sleep either. He simply enjoyed participating in the tiny pleasures of life. But we’d missed dinner, and I was famished. I craved a devilish treat, something I had been considering long before the evening started. It was a small request really, I thought, a perfect end to the evening.

Checking to see that Elvis was close by, I opened the refrigerator and pretended to look for something truly desirable. I shuffled items from one shelf to another, stalling for effect. And when I felt I had his full attention, I grabbed two sticks of butter and turned back his way.

How do I get what I want
, I paused for a brief moment, enjoying a twinkle of curiosity in his eyes. Maybe I should just ask? No.
That would be too easy and not nearly as much fun
.

Composed, I walked across the kitchen, and headed for the pantry. He watched me closely, and I almost laughed out loud at how quickly he jumped into step. I brought out a jar of peanut butter and slapped it onto the counter. Then I grabbed a single ripe banana, and turning, I swung it in his direction. He looked quizzically from the peanut butter jar, to the fruit, and then back to me.

“U-huh, no!” He waved his hands in the air.

“Ah, come on, just this once?”

“No-o-o…,” he said, shaking his head.

And as if to make his point, he turned and sat down at the table. He crossed one leg over the other, ankle to knee, and that foot of his went to jigging with nervous energy. I pouted, but it was no good. He wasn’t about to budge.

“You won’t even make me one little bitty peanut butter and nanna sandwich, just for fun?” I asked, already collecting the other ingredients I remembered from heart.

“No, it’s been way too long, Sam.”

“Ok, then, I’ll make one for you.” I willfully banged two pans together, drowning out his protest, but he only chuckled.

“I read how to do this, once.” I said rather feebly. Elvis’ lips twitched with a smile as I fumbled with the skillet.

If there’s one thing all women know, it’s how to get a man to take over a task. First I began, vigorously and completely in error, spreading the peanut butter on an untoasted slice of bread. Second I worked extra slow, dragging it out. I peeked periodically, happy to see that my angel was paying attention. He sat, forehead to index finger, and studied me in silence as I “sliced” the bananas and placed them on top of the nutty mixture. Then purposely, I dropped two bread slices into the skillet, unbuttered.

“Ah man!” Elvis said, jumping up from his seat too quickly for a man of his age. “I don’t know what you’ve been reading darling, but you can’t skip the butter.”

“Oh?” I stepped aside.

“You toast the bread first, honey, then you
mash,
not
cut
, the bananas,” Elvis grabbed the fork from my hand and began to create the treat that was almost as famous as he was.

Smiling triumphantly, I took a seat. The sight of a domesticated Elvis cooking with his sleeves rolled up, and a towel tossed over his shoulder was a stunning sight. He forearms flexed as he worked the mixture. He moved with such ease it was obvious the passing of time had not tampered his memory. I couldn’t help but admire those long tapered fingers as he worked. He had big hands, smooth yet strong. At just a glance, a woman knew those hands were talented. And I especially loved that one pinky finger, bent from an old football injury. It was such a manly injury, one he would have no doubt suffered famous or not.

But, my most memorable moment came when he began to tell me the story behind his favorite treat. I hung onto his every word as he explained how his mother had made the treat to pacify her little boy’s request for sweets. And like the other children in his neighborhood, they couldn’t afford extras such as jelly so the banana’s made an easy replacement. He thought it was poignant that what was essentially a poor man’s sandwich had become so famous.

“Now you take the butter… like so,” he said, and the bread sizzled when he released it into the skillet.

Steam from the hot butter floated lazily up from the pan. It drew my eyes to the clock for the first time that night. It was 11:00 pm, and I didn’t want the night to end.

When Elvis turned, sandwiches in hand, I was already holding my fork. His smile dropped, our eyes met, and we both began to laugh. Shaking his head, he dropped my plate in front of me and took a seat.

“That’s a dirty trick,” he waved a finger at me.

Smiling happily, I dug in.

“Baby girl, you don’t eat this with a knife and fork.” He grumbled.

I looked up, appalled that he actually suggested I eat something so greasy with my fingers. A clear violation of the distinctly Southern way my mother had raised me.

“Your mama’s not here.” He picked up his sandwich and took a bite.

“You’re sure about that?” I glanced around.

He could only nod his affirmation as he busily savored a gooey mouthful. I looked down at the hot treat, and with a hesitant smile, I picked it up to take a bite too big for any woman. Might as well go all the way! Elvis’ eyes widened and he began to chuckle. I covered my mouth.

“Goo,” was as close as I could come to a compliment as peanut butter mixed with the light taste of fruit stuck to every corner of my mouth.

Elvis’ laughter quickly turned to hysterics. Soon he was slapping the table top in his amusement, and as always, I found myself easily following suit. In fact, I laughed so hard, I was close to choking which only made it that much more hilarious to Mr. Presley.

***

Later, I washed and Elvis dried. The night was winding to a close, whether I liked it or not.

“I think it’s time for you to get some shut eye,” he said casually while drying the last pan.

I glanced over, considering what argument might work this time, though none had in the past. It was a shame too, I thought. I was just getting use to this new “advanced” look. With his caramel skin, a gift from his Indian ancestor, glowing handsomely against his white locks I felt oddly comforted with this display of aged wisdom.

“Thank you.” I murmured.

“Ah, it was nothing. Just don’t forget the butter next time.”

“No. I mean, thank you for tonight.”

He looked at me, grinned, and reached for my hand.

“You’re welcome, baby.”

Grasping for a sentiment worthy of the moment, I brought his cold damp fingers to my lips and kissed them, lingering longer than normal.

“I don’t know what I would have done without you with me tonight. You were,” I paused to clarify, “are… you are a true gift to this world and to me.”

His gaze lowered, “Oh, I-I don’t know about that, honey,” he said, illuminating a modesty that was undeniably his most endearing quality.

The evening — and our time together — was coming to an end. I could feel it. Even now it’s hard to explain “how” I knew, except to say the moments we shared were like a slow burning candle glimmering softly to its end.

“Do you realize how much you’re loved?” I asked softly.

He didn’t respond, but his intense look urged me to go on.

“You once said it’s hard to live up to an image? Well, what you saw tonight was a whole lot of people still loving the man, not the myth.”

His eyes quickly turned misty. It never failed to surprise me how easily he could be brought to tears. How under the shell of this sturdy man beat the heart of the most compassionate human being I’d even known, or ever will know.

And when he drew me into his arms, he inhaled a breath that seemed to have no end. “Thank you,” he said, holding me firm.

Tenderly he pushed me out from his arms, and looking deep into my eyes, he held my gaze for the longest time. When his attention drifted over my features, the air between us sparked, and that familiar pull tugged at me.