The New Elvis Page 7

  “Hi, Mrs. Edwin. Is Bea home?”

  “I’m afraid she’s resting right now, dear, but come in.”

  The Edwins had a bench in their entryway which served as a last-chance spot to sit before heading out, a place to wait for someone, something to dump things on if you were just coming home, and somewhere to sit and chat if someone stopped by. Ryan sat on the edge of the corduroy cushion and cradled the flower arrangement in his arms.

  “Where are my manners? Here, let me take those.”

  Mrs. Edwin put the vase on the narrow hall table used for keys, mail, spare coins and, at Christmastime, a Hummel nativity scene. She returned to the bench, rubbing her slacks down with her palms as she walked. “Those are beautiful. She’ll love them.”

  “Excuse me for asking, but my mother didn’t know too much. All we know is that Bea has been sick. I guess Mr. Edwin told my dad, who told my mom, who told me.”

  Mrs. Edwin was hesitant. She didn’t know how much she should say and how much Bea should tell him herself, but he had been like a son for years, and seeing him again warmed her heart. “It’s good to see you.”

  Ryan brightened. “I’ve missed you.”

  “I understand why you haven’t been around, but that Kincaid boy meant nothing to Bea. They went on three dates, and after the last one, she came home crying. Apparently, he took her to a party but ended up hanging out with some other girl while they were there. You would never treat her that way.”

  Feeling respectful, Ryan nodded.

  “And you’re getting more handsome by the day. How is that even possible? You look just like a young Elvis Presley. You’ve got those dreamy blue eyes and those… Well, here I am embarrassing myself and probably you, as well.” She laughed at herself, and he liked her for it.

  “How’s the dance studio?”

  “Same old, same old. I only go in once a week lately, since Bea fell ill.”

  “What exactly—?”

  “Do you know anything about rheumatoid arthritis?”

  “That’s an old-person thing where your bones hurt, right?”

  “Well, it can strike young people, too, even when you’re in high school.”

  Ryan picked at the buttons on the cuffs of his striped Oxford shirt and listened.

  “It’s a disease that causes the body’s immune system to attack its joints. She takes folic acid, hydrocodone, Oxycontin, Naproxin, prednisone, and muscle relaxers to manage the pain, but I have difficulty controlling how may pills she takes. She’s been allocated a dozen Lortab, a dozen muscle relaxers, and two Oxycontin per day, but I think there have been days that she’s had far more than prescribed because I’ve found her passed out in her room more than once.” Mrs. Edwin started stroking her arm in a self-soothing gesture before she moved on to her hair. She combed it with her fingers as she continued. “Remember how energetic she used to be? She’s not that girl anymore.”

  Ryan felt like he’d been punched in the gut and said nothing.

  Mrs. Edwin stopped stroking her hair and looked like she was about to cry.

  “Now all she says is that she wants to die.”

  Chapter 27

  Brown eyes wide, chestnut hair hanging in sweaty strands, Logan watched and waited. The men seemed enraged by the state of the yard.

  The first druggie punted a lightweight container a good twelve feet. “What the hell is this, an obstacle course?”

  The second meth-addled man kicked a stack of boxes that tipped over and spilled.

  “Bunch of shit,” he muttered. The sirens grew louder. “We gotta go.”

  “No, we gotta get the kid! He saw us!”

  The second man shook his head. “He doesn’t know what he saw.”

  They argued as they left the backyard, punching and kicking boxes as they went. Logan counted to ten before he crawled back into his own yard and then went out into the middle of the street, yards from the tangle of trucks there to fight the blaze. The killers backed away from the smashed Chevelle and peeled away without a backward glance.

  One of the firemen turned and saw Logan, standing alone in the middle of the road. In a daze, the boy clutched the deluxe limited edition Elvis album from 1957 as another fire engine roared down the street and navigated around Jarrod’s beloved and now battered ride, siren blaring.

  The fireman came and scooped Logan up into his arms. The boy’s dirty gray long johns were damp; he had wet himself.

  “You gotta get out of the street. Is that your house?”

  Logan nodded.

  As neighbors began to gather on front lawns, the firemen finished extinguishing the blaze. Logan glared at them. What took you so long?

  “Who was inside? You have brothers? Sisters?”

  Logan shook his head.

  “Your mom?”

  Logan nodded.

  A nearby fireman waved to a paramedic on the scene. A team approached the house with a stretcher and disappeared through the dark, gaping hole that was once a front door.

  “Your dad?”

  Logan shook his head and wriggled to indicate he wanted to be put down. The fireman obliged, and Logan took the man’s hand and led him over to the wrecked Chevelle. Jarrod lay behind the door on the driver’s side, half in the car, half on the ground. He had taken a single shot to the head and several to the chest.

  “Is that—is that your dad?”

  Logan nodded. His lip trembled.

  The fireman checked for a pulse and frowned. Logan knew what that meant from television shows he’d seen. He turned toward the house and watched as paramedics carried the remains of his mother out. They labored to get her down the front steps. Logan wandered away from the fireman and went up to the stretcher. The paramedics paused and looked at him as he reached out to touch the sheet, the Elvis LP still clutched in his other hand.

  “The kid. Get the kid,” someone shouted.

  Logan felt himself being hoisted up again.

  Chapter 28

  Mrs. Edwin called after Ryan got home from school the very next day to tell him Bea wanted to see him, so he took a shower, put on a clean, white dress shirt and khakis, grabbed his cell phone and a two-liter bottle of Diet Pepsi, and headed next door.

  With formal solemnity, Mrs. Edwin let him in. The flowers had been cleared away from the foyer table, and the air conditioning seemed to be set high. It created an icy atmosphere at odds with the fact Mrs. Edwin wore a blue wool sweater that had pilled along the arms and front. “I don’t know whether to take this old sweater off or keep it on. I get hot, then I get cold, and then I get hot again.”

  Ryan knew about menopause and suspected Mrs. Edwin was going through hormonal changes, which he certainly didn’t want to discuss. When she waved him toward the staircase, he nodded politely and headed up to Bea’s room.

  Her door was closed, so he knocked and waited.

  “Come in.” Her voice was slurry like his dad’s when he drank.

  He turned the knob and pushed the door inward. The room was no longer decorated with Disney princesses. Clocks of every shape and size now filled the walls, which had been repainted an inviting peach. In bed, Bea was flipping through an issue of Marie Claire. When she saw Ryan, she let the magazine fall shut and laid it flat on her legs, which formed two straight rails beneath the thin floral coverlet. “How do you do it?” That was the first thing she said, and he didn’t know what she meant.

  “Get better looking every goddamn year?” she continued, when she saw his blank expression.

  Ryan blushed and pointed to the chair at her white desk.

  Bea nodded, so he went and sat down.

  “You’ve seen me at school.”

  She waved her hand. “In passing.”

  “But you never look at me.”

  “You never look at me.”

  They sat there in silence while Ryan looked around the room. The flowers he’d brought were now on her dresser, which faced the foot of her bed. Ryan sniffed the air but couldn’t detect any scent. Maybe th
ey were too far away.

  “I’m sorry.”

  Bea frowned. “Sorry we haven’t talked since junior high?”

  Ryan shrugged and pulled at his collar to straighten it. “Kincaid.”

  “Kincaid means nothing. Have you seen me with him at all? Come on, Ryan, it’s been years. Have you seen me date anyone?”

  “No.”

  “Make out with anyone in the halls?”

  He shook his head, chastened.

  “Did you know I was diagnosed with rheumatoid arthritis when I was a freshman? That I’ve had this sucky disease for two years now?”

  Ryan’s throat closed. He couldn’t speak. She was the best girl he had ever known. The only girl he had ever kissed or held hands with. And that one night, he had felt so betrayed he never wanted to see her again.

  “Now that you know I’m sick, though,” she said, “you feel sorry for me.”

  “I am.” He paused. “Sorry you’re sick.”

  She let out a sudden, explosive laugh that caused him to jump. “Oh, it’s fine, it’s fine. The drugs are great.”

  Ryan knew her well enough to know she was bluffing. He came over and sat on her bed. He reached out for her hand. She looked at him, startled, and then placed her hand in his upturned palm. He interlaced their fingers and gave her hand a firm squeeze.

  “Tell me about it.”

  Bea burst into big, blubbery tears that caused her nose to run. She had held so much in for so long and hadn’t let anyone in. Hadn’t had him. Now he held her close, not minding the tears and the snot dampening his shoulder. He would hold her as long as it took, and he would not let go. Finally, the tears abated, and Bea stared up at him, her blue eyes luminous.

  He stroked her hair back from her face. They were both sixteen, and their childhood affection had taken a sharp turn into a sexual realm. Her sandy blond curls had grown past her shoulders to the middle of her back, and oftentimes, she let her hair hang free instead of tying it back or up. He tilted her chin upward and gave her a long, deep kiss far different from the innocent pecks he’d dared to give her in junior high. She was a woman now, and her breasts were full. He cupped one in his hand and felt giddy and then, just as suddenly, he dropped his hand. She was sick. He shouldn’t be thinking about sex. “Tell me about it.”

  She looked at him, confused by his pulling back.

  He grinned. “We have plenty of time later to catch up in other departments. I want to know exactly what you’re going through.”

  Bea’s mother had always told her Ryan was mature beyond his years, and now she thought she understood. Most boys wanted to dive right into heavy petting. Ryan was different—he cared about her heart. She stared up at the canopy over her bed, an expanse of frilly ruffles that made her feel as if they were sitting beneath a peach sky.

  “I’m in pain all the time. My bones hurt so badly in my legs and arms, I just want to scream. Today I’ve taken plenty of meds, so I can hold your hand without wanting to rip your head off. But look.” She rolled up the sleeve of her camouflage patterned thermal shirt and showed him a series of bumps. Those are rheumatoid nodules. Aren’t they gross?”

  She glanced at him, and he shook his head that, no, they weren’t.

  “I get up in the morning and can barely move I’m so stiff. I’m tired all the time. My head is always hot. Here, feel.”

  She took his free hand and pressed it against her forehead, and Ryan thought she felt warm.

  “And I don’t feel like eating.” She tossed the magazine off her lap and pulled down the covers so he could see her waistline.

  “I don’t think you look bad at all.”

  “Eating makes me sick. When I try to hold a pen, my fingers cramp up because my knuckles ache so badly. And look.” She yanked the coverlet down so she could pull her legs out. “Look at my feet. I can’t bend my toes they’re so stiff. It’s like I’m freaking ninety years old. My hips hurt, my shoulders hurt, my knees hurt, my ankles hurt, and my elbows hurt. Crap, even my face hurts.”

  Ryan couldn’t hold himself back. He needed to kiss her again.

  He leaned forward and pressed his lips against hers. “Does this hurt?”

  “No,” she giggled. “Not so much.”

  Chapter 29

  Uncle Wendall drove back to Las Vegas slowly, steering the Cadillac like a luxury boat up the I-15 North toward Barstow, eventually crossing into Nevada, which looked like a deserted wasteland of cacti, tumbleweeds, dirt, rocks, and billboards assuring the road-weary that Sin City had rooms ready for them. Compared to the bustle of Santa Monica, the route looked like a nuclear blast had cleared the area of all life except at truck stops, where burly drivers stopped for chili and burgers, and rest stops, where tired travelers sorted through trinkets and bought gallons of soda, cups of burned coffee, candy bars, and potato chips. It was early evening, and the windows were down as they drove. Logan sat beside his uncle, unable to talk, still clutching the Elvis’ Christmas Album like a blankie.

  Going through his sister’s destroyed home had left Wendall dispirited. Emergency personnel offered him large rubber boots two sizes too large so he could wade through the premises, and each room looked like the site of an ongoing archaeological dig, with piles of ashes and the occasional half-burnt item, the ruins piled knee high even as it was reduced to gossamer grayness. Ash swirled around him as he poked stacks with a charred yardstick. The upper strata seemed to be newer items, circa the mid-nineties, and the second layer seemed to contain items from the eighties, including some of Logan’s baby clothing and toys. Beneath that, there were items from the seventies, sixties, and fifties, many of them belongings of MawMaw that Ramona had been unable to part with.

  His sister’s life lay before him in slabs that could be peeled away, and they told the tale of mental illness and hoarding, the sickness of too much stuff. He tossed the yardstick he had been excavating with and a cloud of ash filled the room like gray snow. He wanted to sit down and cry, but he had to be strong for the child. Social workers said Logan had stopped talking the night his parents died. It was one of those deeply concerned women who had remembered Ramona had a brother, because he was mentioned by name the day Angela confronted Ramona and Jarrod in their cluttered backyard.

  After ascertaining that Ramona’s maiden name was Johns, they located only one Wendall Johns in the United States, a retired fertility specialist who lived in Las Vegas, and gave him a call. He was there within six hours to claim his nephew and sign the necessary paperwork granting him permanent custody of the boy he’d always felt sorry for.

  Wendall’s ambition had receded with the passing years. After he had bankrolled enough green to retire in comfort, he closed the fertility clinic on Harmon and moved to a gated community a few miles off the strip. His backyard faced the back nine of an eighteen-hole golf course, and he played at eight a.m. every Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday with three pals he also played poker with every Monday and Wednesday night. Sunday was his day of rest. Instead of going to church, he got several newspapers, made a pot of coffee, stretched out on his living room chaise in front of the fireplace, and flipped through every page of every paper, sometimes stopping to read a headline, occasionally stopping to peruse a story.

  Wendall looked over at the malnourished boy who sat so far away, he was pressed against the passenger door. Bruises dotted his arms and bare legs like leopard spots. He didn’t want to think about how Logan had gotten them. Recalling the last time he’d seen him, he began to sing. “This old man, he played one, he played knick-knack on my thumb, with a knick-knack paddy-whack, give a dog a bone, this old man came rolling home.”

  Logan didn’t budge.

  “This old man, he played two, he played knick-knack on my shoe, with a knick-knack paddy-whack, give a dog a bone, this old man came rolling home.”

  Logan stirred a bit on the seat, like he needed to go to the bathroom but couldn’t or wouldn’t ask.

  “You need me to stop?”

  Logan turned and
met his uncle’s open, blue-eyed gaze with his own dark, haunted eyes. He nodded.

  Wendall pointed at a sign fifty yards in the distance. “Good timing. There’s a stop in five miles. That’s about five minutes. Can you hold it that long?”

  Again, Logan nodded, grateful that his uncle was taking care of him. He remembered the song, remembered the warm feeling he’d had the day they played with the big plastic ball on the front lawn, and remembered the old Cadillac. This new one smelled good and looked like shiny blueberries, if blueberries could shine. Somehow, he doubted it. Fruit didn’t shine unless you waxed it, like Mrs. Henn, who kept a big golden bowl of fake apples and pears on her dining room table, and he was certain, with blueberries being so small, it would take at least an hour to wax a whole bowlful.

  His uncle smelled like coconuts, so he must still wear the same tropical cologne. He seemed like the kind of man who, when he liked something, he stuck with it. Not like his mom, who bought a fragrant beauty product, tried it, put it in a box, and then bought the next one, hoping she’d like it more.

  As his uncle pulled in at the rest stop, Logan looked down at the red Elvis’ Christmas Album in his lap. It was the one thing worth saving from his house. MawMaw and his mother had always been happy listening to Elvis as they played cards. When they were happy, they didn’t yell or tell him what to do. They were in their own bubble of lady-talk, their chatter a counterpoint to Elvis’s smooth singing voice.

  “You going to stare at that album all night or are you gonna come with me?” Wendall didn’t sound angry. He stood at the open passenger door and waited patiently for Logan’s attention. Logan looked up, slid off the seat, and followed his uncle, still carrying the album. Wendall noticed but said nothing. The boy had been through more than a child should, and if he wanted to carry an album, so be it.