Dream Angel : Heaven Waits (2 page)

A sharp cold wind blew even for winter. Standing outside my motel, I pulled my jacket to my face and marveled at the steely sky churning over head. Gauzy thin clouds sped by, tearing apart, bumping into other clouds, and forming new shapes in a poorly choreographed dance. I imagined them to be as restless as my spirit.

I tried to warm up by pacing as I waited for the cab. The rhythmic pattern of five steps up, five steps back made it easy for me to fall into deep thought. Once colorful leaves blew dead and broken around my feet, but I did not see them. I was again becoming entrenched in this all-absorbing dilemma and allowing it to take me over. The remembering was always the same.

My trip to Boston last spring had been beyond life-changing and still consumed me. Though it had been months since the devastating car accident marred the trip, and brought my angel to me, it continued to mystify me. By nothing short of a divine plan, Heather had been driving when we had our misfortune on the freeway, and only I had been terribly injured. As was always the human condition, one could not help but wonder why.

“Miss! Miss!” A voice cut through the wind.

I turned to see a friendly bellhop peeking out from the doors of the warm hotel lobby.

“No need to stand outside, ma’am. The taxi will be a few minutes late.”

Looking down to my watch, I grumbled under my breath as I realized I had just five minutes before I was expected.

“Thank you, but I don’t mind waiting.” Turning, I shoved my hands further into my pockets.

Must everyone tell me what to do
, I fumed, my defiance surging while the cold helped to clear my head. My teeth had just begun to chatter when my phone vibrated violently in my pocket. Despite the fact I had my hand curled around it, the idiotic thing still made me jump. I did not have to look to know who was calling.

“Yes.” I grimaced.

“So, tell me about this Steve.” Heather’s tone sounded tense, and for a moment I imagined I was having this conversation with my father.

“He’s a gentleman I met last night while visiting Elvis’ grave.” My breath expelled like steam out in to a cold Memphis morning.

The line went silent. I wondered if I had lost her in some infuriating cell phone vortex, but her measured breathing gave her away.

“This doesn’t sound too safe to be, you know, meeting with strangers.” Heather finally said sounding with what I noted was an extra measure of unease.

“He’s a fellow fan, not a stranger.”

“I’m coming to Memphis.” She blurted out.

“What? Why?”

“Because you’re acting irrationally!”

“I’m a grown woman.”

“I’m still coming.”

“Fine.” I closed my phone with a snap.

By my figuring, I had roughly three hours before the next plane landed. I knew she’d be onboard. Heather and I were more familiar than most with the flight schedules in and out of Memphis. We had both worked them many times in our years as in-flight service clerks — flight attendants to the rest of the world.

I understood Heather’s need to find me. Our camaraderie was full of expectant, and often dreaded escapades. Like fire and ice, we were very different. I was Audrey Hepburn to Heather’s May West. Such extremes should have prevented us from ever becoming such fast friends, but somehow we made it work. We have co-existing down to a science, telling each other everything and never judging what the other is sharing. It is a friendship based on love and as irritated as I was by her reaction, I also knew if the tables were turned, I would do no different.

My reverie was cut short by the sharp squeal of tires nearby as my yellow-checkered ride all but bounced into the hotel parking lot, a steamy white trail of exhaust behind him. I waived eagerly.

“To Graceland, please.” I said before the door was even closed behind me.

As we peeled away, I could see the bellhop, still shaking his head from inside his warm sanctuary.

“I don’t understand me, either.” I huffed, and blushed when I noticed my driver’s quizzical look peering at me from the rear-view mirror.

I smiled, silently praying the driver’s drop-offs were less flashy than his curb-jumping pick-ups.

***

The cabbie skillfully worked his way through the congestion on Elvis Presley Boulevard and pulled into the tourist viewing lane next to the mansion. My eyes never left the majestic white house above us as I handed the driver his fare. An ageless beauty, the mansion’s presence commanded attention. With flanking grand Corinthian pillars, and Tennessee limestone brickwork, it symbolizes today the affluence it reflected when it was created. The large gated windows, framed by emerald-green shutters, looked down knowingly from the home’s perch on the hill. I threw one final thanks over my shoulder to the cabbie and reluctantly turned my back to Graceland. Across the street sat the cozy café where Steve was waiting for me. I steadied myself with a deep breath and tried to pretend I didn’t feel the eyes on the hill behind me, still watching as I walked away.

The wait at the crosswalk seemed interminable. Not only were my teeth beginning to chatter in rhythm with the blinking red hand, but my resolve to keep this date with a man I barely knew was starting to waiver. My conscious tugged at me and made my indecision worse. Was I genuinely interested in getting to know Steve, or was meeting him across from Graceland a sophomoric attempt to make my angel jealous? I flashed back to the night we met, remembering the oozing of Southern belle charm, and had my answer.

Elvis’ powerful tenor softly echoed in the breeze as I crossed the street and shuffled along in a plaza that surprisingly held few visitors. I strolled around unoccupied tables and chairs without really seeing them. I was focused on every rich, breathlessly sung note. And even under stress, his singing could still make me smile.

When I reached the windowed door of the café, my hand hovered over the worn brass handle. My hazy likeness gazed back at me and I laughed, embarrassed. I was not normally a woman who acted first and thought about it later. Where had the level headed girl my mama raised gone? I wondered, and inhaled deeply before giving the door a quick jerk.

A bell jingled merrily as I entered the diner. The 1950’s décor, complete with teal vinyl booths and a fire-red jukebox in the corner had the feel of a gentler time in history. As I stood there wishing I could beam myself back, a few lone visitors peered up at me briefly from their steaming morning brew. Scanning the room, I paused at every photo with Elvis’ piercing baby blues and that same smile. The mere sight of him stirred up a quivering in the pit of my stomach.

Who knows how long I stood in that one spot studying each photo before I realized the last one was directly over Steve’s blonde head. A morning paper opened before him to the sports section, he was looking at me, eyebrows raised.

“Good morning. Sorry I’m late.” I slid into the booth, across from him.

“Hello, luv. I was beginning to wonder if you were coming.” His emerald-green eyes sparkled brighter than his smile as he folded his morning read.

Steve’s accent charmed me. I didn’t know enough about England to guess which region he came from, but it didn’t matter. He was like a breath of fresh air. I believe I could have listened to him run on about nothing at all, and been quite happily entertained.

“I had trouble sleeping," I said, taking off my jacket, "and then I woke up late.”

“Can I fetch you some coffee, then?” He stepped out of the booth.

My mouth was poised with my request but he was too fast for me, and gone before I could share it. Peculiar, I thought, but who was I to judge. I had oddities of my own. Like the fact that I was in Memphis chasing angels, for one. Besides, he was a gentile looking man, tall with wavy hair, and a lean but sturdy build. Harmless, I considered, watching him steadily before realizing I was staring. I peeled my eyes away only to meet Elvis’ baby blues gazing down at me. Until that moment, I had missed seeing the life-size portrait on the wall immediately beside me. Elvis’ eyes were as soft as the clouds and even bluer up close than any photo could ever convey. For a moment I became lost in his idle gaze. As always, he was my personal composer, playing the strings of my heart.

“Here you go… one coffee.” Steve announced.

“Thank you.” I drew back, pulling my eyes away from Elvis.

“You scurried off so quickly last night I was beginning to wonder if I’d see you this morning.” Steve chuckled, taking his seat in a slow motion.

“My manners are usually better than that. Can you forgive me?” I cradled the hot cup in my hands and squinted against the steam drifting up from the velvety beverage.

How did he know I took cream?

“I thought maybe you had another engagement.” He sipped his beverage, studying me over the rim of his mug.

“Yes… well, I was hoping to meet with a friend, but he never showed.” I smile lightly and took a cautious sip.

“He, you say?” He asked suspiciously as he scanned my face for the truth. “What foolish chap would leave your side allowing a bloke like myself to step in so easily?”

My cheeks burned. I loved a compliment as much as the next woman, but my shy nature always had me feeling like a teenager left in the company of men. A simple “thank you” never seemed good enough. And, as I was stammering about, momentarily knocked off balance, my attention shifted to a red jukebox against the wall behind Steve. The machine turned on with a click.

“You blush beautifully, by the way.” Steve was still strategizing while the red and orange lights of the music box flashed.

I ignored his intense stare, mystified as it shuffled 45’s like a deck of cards.

“Did you see anyone put money into that music box?” I touched Steve’s hand, politely interrupting, while eagerly reaching out to a passing waitress with my other. “Excuse me, miss, does this jukebox have a timer on it?”

“No ma’am, that machine is plum crazy, that’s what it is,” the grey-haired waitress said, as she hustled by, loaded precariously with full trays.

I grinned, looking down to hide my smile, while also preoccupying myself with removing imaginary lint from the jacket in my lap.

“This cold must be affecting my brain.” I gave a quiet laugh as an oldie-but-a-goodie softly began to play.

“Sam, where is your gent now?” Steve gently asked as Elvis' voice floated into the room.

My attention flickered from the bright and shining machine, then back to the man at my table. What was this song? Distracted, I felt my head cock like the family dog, and a whole minute must have passed before Steve’s question even registered.

“I’m afraid my gentleman’s location is a mystery, even to me.” The truth was out of the question and a lie just felt wrong.

“Well, if he’s smart, he’ll get back to you before I steal you away.” Steve’s eyes flashed about my face in a scrutiny that flushed me, and not in a good way.

I pushed out a laugh.

“May I ask the man’s name?” He asked, a little too casually I thought. “It’s always good to know one’s competition.”

Having just met Steve, his hard pressed flirting had me fidgeting while warning bells of a turn in an uncomfortable direction rang inside my head.

“Well, it’s… complex.” I half-smiled only vaguely aware the chipper song, I couldn’t quite place, had stopped.

“I’m a good listener.”

My regret soared. He was misunderstanding and who could blame him. Out of desperation I had become, virtually overnight, someone even I disliked, an abuser of other people’s emotions. How did I get here? I couldn’t say, as it had all happened so fast. I considered my declining words carefully, but before I could open my mouth to speak the first few velvety bars of “He’ll have to go” filled the room like a handmade quilt.

“Put your sweet lips”, Elvis purred, and that voice instantly took me back to the late hours of our last night when his whispered words of romance were just for me. My pulse skipped.

“If I’m prying, I apologize.” Steve slid his hand across the counter and placed it over mine.

Words tumbled around in my head but nothing acceptable seemed to present itself. Suddenly, the song blared and we both jumped as Elvis’ voice bellowed through the diner. Two employees raced past our table headed to tend to the “noise” that nobody was complaining about. I watched as they jerked out the wall plug, and still the music continued. My eyes widened, and I was monitoring them, as they raced to the back, while also trying to read Steve’s mouth that still moved. I leaned in closer, but his words were drowned out by Elvis growling the last sung lyric. His demand all but screamed in to my ear, slamming against my heart.

My friend had to go, I contemplated, and as if answering the lights to the juke box flickered once and then twice before falling dark.

“I-I don’t know why I came it’s… it’s not right.” I began to collect my coat.

“Samantha.” He smiled at me but would not meet my eyes.

“I’m sorry, this isn’t me,” I said, now talking to both Steve and Elvis, as I believed he was listening.

“Please stay, Samantha. You haven’t finished your coffee.” He jumped up and caught me by the arm. His grip was tight and I winced from the sting.

“I can’t stay. Please forgive me.” Tears swelled, and I could barely hear what must have been my own voice over the pounding in my ears.

Steve’s unbelievable reaction to me leaving him, for what was the second time, was as mind-boggling as his insistent behavior was scary. He was either the loneliest man in the world, or the craziest. Either way, I felt lower than the silt at the bottom of the murky Mississippi.

I tried my best to give one last humble apology and followed it with a firm goodbye as I put my coat on. The house on the hill that taunted me was pulling me in, and I was powerless, even if it meant Steve got left behind.

The wind blew against me as though Mother Nature herself knew my destination. I pulled my coat tighter around me and raced across the plaza’s wet sidewalks. My resolve was stronger than the oncoming wind. Running to the store front, I pulled the door open too hard and practically jumped over the threshold into the still lobby. A warm waft washed over my face, and Elvis’ soothing voice floated melodically throughout the room. With little pause, I sped through the red velvet ropes like a mouse in a maze determined to receive my reward.

“Hello. I’d like a ticket for the next bus,” I practically demanded of the agent, exhibiting little to no eye contact as I gazed back in the direction I had left Steve.

“Would you like the platinum tour?” The woman behind glass asked by rote and without looking up.

“Just the house tour would be fine, thanks.”

As she processed the ticket, I looked quickly around the room. The crowd inside was similar to the one outside: sparse and quiet. The hectic crowds of summer had long ago gone. All was tranquil.

A three-cord tune played in the background. And as the attendant took my credit card, I fantasized about our reunion. I imagined urgent hungry kisses, and felt my cheeks flush hot as my longing to be whisked away in my angel’s arms swelled. I was so enthused, my knees were shaking. In order to steady myself, I refocused on an elegant woman browsing a souvenir rack. Her blonde hair hung softly across her face as she leaned over a display of merchandise. Sensing my gaze, she looked up and I smiled softly.

“Here you go, ma’am. The bus will be here shortly.” The attendant handed me a pass.

“Thank you very much.” I tucked my ticket securely away as if it were gold.

Turning on my heels, I headed for the souvenirs.

“Isn’t he beautiful?” The blonde woman exclaimed to nobody in particular as she admired a shirt.

I couldn’t help but look over her shoulder at the vibrant screen print of Elvis in full motion, commanding a stage the way only he could.

“Yes, yes, he is.” I choked back further words of acclaim for fear my high emotion may spark the tears.

The lovely woman was back to shopping when the ticket agent cued a grainy speaker and announced the next numbered tour to load – I was just in time.

A burly man who was well in to his sixties greeted me as I stepped onto the tour bus. He welcomed everyone aboard cheerfully, one by one. Once we all were seated, he cued the microphone on his headset and calmly waited for the buzz of conversation to die down before beginning his friendly banter.

“How many people are here today for their first time?”

Not a single hand went up as the bus eased across Elvis Presley Boulevard.

“How many have been here at least once before?”

A hand shot up from the front row. I craned my head around the plush headrest to see the passenger.

“Welcome back, ma’am,” said the driver happily. “Now, who has been here more than two times?”

We passed through the famous gates of Graceland, and I mindlessly raised my hand with a few other visitors.

“Folks are returnin’ today,” I heard him say as I spun in my seat and stared back at the musical iron gates we had just passed through.

Our driver skillfully drove the bus along the route he knew so well. Blue Christmas lights left from the holidays lined the driveway and gave the look of a landing strip in the early morning hours. I watched out the window, feeling a little sad, as Graceland’s grounds keepers carefully took down the Christmas decorations. This was Elvis’ favorite time of year, and the festivities continued in his household until well past the New Year’s Day, lasting until the day after his birthday. That the yearly tradition has continued to be maintained is just one of the many ways that his fans, not just visitors, who seek some nuance of Elvis find it.

“Here we are, folks!” The driver cheerily called out as we rolled to a stop.

While waiting to file off the bus, I peeked around shoulders and bobbed around heads to view the stately home. The commanding white stone lions sat vigilant on either side of perfectly placed stone steps. Their focus seemed to scrutinize each visitor as they dared to approach the castle they protected. I was riveted to my seat, imagining they had expected me.

“Watch your step, and y’all have a great tour.”

Taking my time, I stepped off last. The others continued to the front door, where a tour guide emerged to welcome them. Hanging back, I was oblivious to her speech. My mind was elsewhere. For a time, my attention was glued to the custom-made stained glass “P” above the entrance. And then, above me and closest to my right was the bedroom window that I knew was his. The curtains remained closed, and no shadows moved behind them, yet intuitively I knew he was here.

“Ma’am,” called the tour guide as she held open the front door.

“Oh, thank you,” I took a deep breath and stepped into Elvis’ world.

Though I knew this house better than even my own, I was captivated anew by the custom staircase just inside the foyer. It was just noticeably wider than standard and lavishly covered in plush white carpet. I felt like a special guest finally arriving for a long-awaited visit. Stopping, I closed my eyes, and I inhaled deeply feeling the love that had made this house a home.

The luxurious stairway, decorated in red poinsettias from the recent holiday season, drew me closer to Elvis’ private sanctuary. I moved without conscious thought. Like Eve drawn by her desire to have the forbidden fruit, I was mesmerized and more than half-way across the foyer before I again paused and closed my eyes. This time, I strained to listen – had I just heard my name whispered from the top of the stairs? Either I wanted it so badly that my mind was playing tricks, or it was really happening, and I was about to see my angel.

My eyes popped open and I quickly moved to take another step toward the staircase, but as I brought my gaze back down to eye level, I froze. In that nanosecond, some corner of my brain disengaged from my reverie long enough to register a figure in my peripheral vision. Although I hadn’t seen the specific form, I knew with absolute certainty that the figure in white was Elvis. Nobody else would be standing so still, teasingly waiting for me to discover him. He always made me work so hard!

Now under the chandelier, and with an unobstructed view, I parted my lips to let out a fittingly smart remark, but as I looked up it died on my tongue. My smile faded. My heart sank deep into my chest, and it wouldn’t have taken much at that moment to make me cry. I had, indeed, wanted the fantasy to be true so badly that I had tricked myself. The figure was definitely there, but it was only a life-size headless replica, smartly dressed in Elvis’ signature style.

“
Phantom Illusion Startles Fan to Death
,” the morning headlines should read, I thought with a sad sigh.

Brought abruptly back to reality, I decided to not risk being singled out as straying from the herd. I turned back to the tour group, now in deep conversation near Graceland’s formal living room.

“Did you see that?” Murmured the genteel-looking woman I had met earlier in the plaza.

“He’s here, all right, Sue,” her friend confirmed with an excited nod.

The two women huddled together, whispering words of awe and wonder. Their faces brightened like giddy school girls with a secret. They were clearly good friends, and I couldn’t help but overlay an image of Heather and I twenty years into the future. I wondered if they, too, had entirely different backgrounds that were bridged by a common interest. For Heather and I, the love of flying had brought us together. For these two lovely ladies, it was obviously Elvis.

Clearly, from the time of his earliest concerts to all of these years later after his passing, one of the biggest marvels about Elvis has been how his fans accept one another unconditionally. A fan welcomes a fellow fan regardless of social or economic differences.

As I approached the two women’s excitement had escalated, and I noticed they were gesturing toward the room beside us. Having already been fooled once, I nonchalantly glanced into the living room, and my heart took a wild leap inside my chest.

“Oh, God!” I slapped my hand to my mouth.

A room full of startled eyes turned my way.

“Are you okay?” Sue rested her hand on my shoulder.

Still stifling a shriek, I glanced at Sue and then back to the image before us. She followed my gaze.

Like a sleek jungle cat, Elvis lounged on the sofa with his long legs stretched out before him. He gave a slow, knowing nod with an easy smile.

“Sure, I’m okay.” I squinted at Elvis while patting Sue’s hand as it rested on my shoulder.

My understanding grew by the minute, and like a raging river the urge to run to him rushed over me, but I did not move. Instead, I distracted myself by admiring his well-tailored white slacks. As tall as he was, Elvis still didn’t take up the entire wall-length couch. The effect of his slacks against the white fabric of the sofa gave him a definite Cheshire-cat effect.

He was knee-weakening gorgeous. His exotic features, flattered by a red shirt that only a supremely confident man could successfully wear, aroused every cell in my body. Motionless, I stared questioningly at his intense expression and felt my face flush with suffused heat.

“Do you need to sit down?” Sue asked.

“No, thank you. I… I was startled by… uh….” I scanned the room, looking for something to blame for my hesitancy. “…that!” I pointed to yet another headless statue near the fireplace. This time dressed in black, the lifeless Elvis seemed to be laughing at me through his absent lips.

“You see it too, don’t you?” Sue asked as she narrowed her eyes and leaned toward me.

In wide-eyed surprise, I considered the thought of someone else participating in this lunacy. Is she seeing what I am seeing? I glanced back at Elvis, who smirked devilishly at me, his blue-black hair glistening with as much shine as his boots. His feet were crossed at the ankles and kept time with his inner drumbeat. I turned back to Sue.

“I…” My mouth hung open from an undecided thought.

“Careful now, honey,” said Elvis.

Smirking, I sighed deeply.

“She’s a-waitin.” Elvis urged me on.

I cleared my throat, and tried to play it cool.

“You look as if you’ve seen a ghost!” Sue patted me on the back.

Elvis nodded in agreement and rose from the couch. He temptingly ran his hands down his trousers, aligning their sharp crease. Circling an enormous glass tabletop between the couch and where I stood, he sauntered my way like poetry in motion, pausing to acknowledge the headless Elvis loitering near the fireplace.

“Bad day, buddy?” Elvis asked with a light chuckle, and a nervous laugh escaped my lips as I avoided eye contact with Sue.

He continued toward me, and my gaze melted into his magnetic blue eyes. His movement displaced the air, propelling the smell of his cologne into my nostrils and I involuntarily inhaled.

“I’m sorry.” I looked back to Sue and forced a smile. “What were you saying?”

Elvis leaned casually against the arched doorway of the living room, his arms folded across his chest. Though he gave the appearance of listening attentively, his eyes traveled up and down my body in a smoldering appraisal that I tried to ignore.

“The way you started, I thought maybe you noticed it, too.” Sue said, pointing back to the couch.

Elvis and I followed her direction. There on the immaculate surface of the cushion was the distinct impression of his perfectly formed behind. I glanced at Elvis for an explanation, but he only shrugged.

“You see it, too!”

I turned back to Sue and feigned shock.

“Don’t overdo it, Sam,” Elvis warned.

Had he been close enough, I would have given serious thought to shoving a swift elbow into his side, if that was even possible.

“Oh, we see this all the time.” Sue waved her hand dismissively.

“Sure, all the time,” her friend spoke up.

“But he’s only here when the crowds are small,” Sue clarified.

I must have looked like a bobble-head as I looked back and forth between the two women.

“He?” I wanted verification from Sue.

“Me,” Elvis said.

“Elvis,” said Sue.

My thoughts were whirling with the madness.

“I’m glad you told me, or I might have thought I was going mad.” I held my hands tightly to hide my nervousness.

“Oh no, he’s here often.” Sue said cheerfully as the four of us stared at the large couch with its mysterious indentation.

I loosened my clutched hands, feeling comforted that my secret was so far safe.

“I think he enjoys this little game of ghost.” Her friend added.

“That does sound like him, yes,” I smiled at Elvis’ silly expression and his pointed finger moving in small circles close to his temple.
I recall it was you who was nicknamed crazy!

“Oh, we have a few other secrets, too.” Sue’s tone of voice was coy, and her eyes twinkled.

“Really?” said Elvis, his eyebrows rising as he stepped away from the wall.

I moved into his line of vision and blocked him from our banter. I could hear him chuckling from behind me.

“What would that be, if you don’t mind my asking?” I continued.

“Well, take the ceiling in the foyer for instance.” Sue’s eyes widened with excitement.

As she turned her back to the living room and returned to the foyer of Graceland, the four of us followed, staring upward to the ceiling.

“I don’t see it,” I confessed.

“In the left upper corner, see that patch?” Sue pointed.

I had to strain to see the small cracks of plaster that were partially repaired.

“What caused the hole?”

“Elvis’ temper caused it.” Sue laughed.

“He shot out the toilet upstairs.” Her friend giggled.

My mouth hung open. That Elvis had a temper was well known, but the bullet-damaged wall truly brought home for me just how hot he could burn.

The front door of Graceland swung open, and a new group of tourists walked through, giving us nothing more than a glance as they passed by. I couldn’t help but notice the look of I-cannot-believe-we-are-here wonderment on each face. And when I turned back, I was surprised to find we were all alone. Sue and her friend had melted into the passing crowd. It was just Elvis and I, but he was busy inspecting his handiwork.