The Kiss Test (17 page)

“Oh, you think this is so amusing, don’t you?” I finally snapped.

Chris snorted. “Am I laughing?”

His eyes were laughing. “Yes, you are. You and Becker probably both laughed last night, didn’t you? ‘Let’s take Margo upstairs and brand her!’ That was the deal, wasn’t it? A bet. Or…or payback.”

“Branding
you
would hardly be the case, now would it, considering I have a matching tattoo with your name on it? And, it definitely wasn’t payback.” He paused and then frowned.

“Payback for what?”

“For—” I clamped my jaw shut. Chris didn’t know what I might need to be paid back for.

I figured he’d guessed all those years ago. I figured he knew how I felt about Becker back then and would have put two and two together.

“For
what?
” he asked again, leaning across the table on his elbows, narrowing his eyes.

“What did you do?”

I shook my head, suddenly famished. I tucked into my scrambled eggs with renewed fervor, while examining the design on the handles of my silverware. There wasn’t a design, but if there had been, I was examining what it
would
have looked like.

“Margo.”

“What?” I asked, completely innocently. “I’m eating my breakfast, and frankly you’re not helping my digestion.”

“Your digestion is going to need more than help if you don’t tell me what you’re talking about. What did you do that Becker or I might need to pay you back for?”

I waved my hand, burying my face in my morning Coke. “It’s not even worth mentioning.” At least, not if I wanted to get home from this vacation any way other than on foot. My very childish,
very
bad behavior was definitely not going to keep me in Chris’s good graces. Lord knew, if I confessed and he told Becker I’d been the one to spread the “Becker’s got herpes” rumor all those years ago—in a completely well-intentioned attempt to get every other girl on campus to steer clear of Becker so he might notice me—Becker would probably drug me and tattoo something much more foul on my body than my best friend’s name.

“You know, when time goes by, some things are just better left in the past.” I continued, “So, I want to be at Graceland by ten. To beat the heat and the crowds.”

Chris reached across the table and ripped my fork from my hand. “Oh, no. Changing the subject isn’t going to work.”

“Sure it is.” I did some reaching of my own and retrieved my fork. “You wouldn’t tell me about your California business, so I don’t have to confess my si—uh, little tiny mistakes of nearly a decade ago.”

I went back to my breakfast like a starving linebacker. My mother taught me not to talk with my mouth full, so as long as I kept food in my mouth, I’d be unable to answer further questions from my inquisitor.

Chris opened his mouth to speak, and, as I was between bites, I interrupted. “So, are you attending meetings in Cali or some kind of seminar?” Chris frowned and went back to his food, while I smiled triumphantly at the top of his head.

Finally, he took a break and drank some coffee before speaking again. “Anyway, we’re doing Graceland
tomorrow.
I’m totally Elvis’d out.”

I opened my mouth to protest, but stopped at the hissing sound from the next table. I glanced over to find a gray-haired lady glaring in Chris’s direction. With a mental note to watch my back and feign ignorance should I be in any way connected with the Elvis-Hater, I turned back to Chris. “We’re
not
waiting until tomorrow. We’re going today. That was the whole point of this trip.”

“You told me I’d be allowed to do what I wanted to do.”

“Sure, we can do what you want tomorrow, when I’ve seen Graceland.”

“I already made plans.”

“When did you have time to make plans?”

“When you were showering. I’m going skydiving.”

“Skydiving. Fine.” I shrugged. “I don’t need you to go with me anyway. You go jump out of a plane—Hey! Without a parachute would be great!—and I’ll go to Graceland.”

“You go, sister!” the little old lady at the next table encouraged with a toothless smile.

“Who needs ’im?”

I returned her smile and nodded my thanks before turning back to Chris. “See. It’s agreed. You skydive. I go see Graceland.”

“The only problem is that you can’t walk three feet without falling on your face.”

“I can so.” I straightened my spine as if to prove it. “I was fine last night.”

“And then promptly kissed the carpet before you’d taken two steps this morning.”

“It was early, and I was hung over.”

“It doesn’t matter.” Chris swallowed some coffee and then set it back down before giving me his serious look. “You can’t go off by yourself, especially in a place like that.”

“What kind of place would that be, sonny?” snarled my champion at the next table.

Whereas I might have felt like snapping her head off if she had been on Chris’s side, I gave her a discreet thumbs-up under the table, because she was on mine.

Chris decided to play dirty. He turned his thousand-watt smile on the poor, unsuspecting female…and she was a goner. Didn’t matter how old they were. Within ten seconds, she waggled her eyelids at him, clutching her heart.

I absolutely could not compete with electrically charged male testosterone.

“You don’t understand, ma’am.” Chris dripped honey in an attempt to attract the bee to his nectar. “Margo here was injured a few weeks ago, in a very unfortunate accident. She’s not fully…well.” He drew a circle around one ear with his forefinger. I kicked him sharply under the table. He never took his luring eyes off his victim, and she was so enamored at this point, I knew I was on my own. “I’ve been caring for her the whole time, with no break. She requires care 24/7 and, well, I’m just plumb worn out.”

Plumb worn out?
I hadn’t heard that phrase since visiting my grandma when I was a kid.

“Oh, you’re such a good young man to take care of her when she needs help. You deserve a break.”

“No, he doesn’t!”

Both Chris and my former teammate, who’d defected to the other team simply because Chris had a Y chromosome, turned to stare at me, eyebrows identically arched.

“He doesn’t deserve a break,” I repeated, albeit in a much more subdued voice, now that everyone was staring at me and probably thinking I just proved Chris’s point about my mental instability. “I deserve to go to Graceland. My life is in the toilet, and I
deserve
to see Elvis.”

Old Lady wavered. I saw her favor tip in my direction. After all, she was obviously a Memphis native, where Elvis was everything. I leaned over and placed a hand on her shoulder. “You understand my needs much more than he does. Don’t you? I mean, it’s not just
anywhere
I want to go, it’s
Graceland.
” For good measure, I turned so she could see my I Love Elvis T-shirt.

Slowly, her tiny head began to nod, as we shared a brief bonding moment. Finally, she turned to Chris, and I swear there were tears in her eyes. “Take her to Graceland, boy.”

“I will,” Chris replied politely, although the glare he shot me was anything but. “Tomorrow.”

“I’m going today.” My temper again. I took a twenty out of my wallet and laid it on the table. “I’m going
now.
So, I guess I’ll meet you back here tonight.”

With that I got up and stalked across the room, in a completely straight line, with no falling, no swaying and no faltering of steps.

Until I got into the elevator, where I promptly hit the floor just as the doors closed.

Much to the horror of the two extremely hot guys at whose feet I fell.

It had to have been the alcohol last night. And maybe the pain in my hip from having needles stabbed into it. I absently rubbed the sore spot and got pissed off all over again. This was obviously all Becker’s fault. Giving us free alcohol all night then luring us into his tattoo parlor. It smacked of conspiracy, of payback.

Damned if he hadn’t succeeded.

“All right, everyone! Let’s begin the tour.”

We followed the guide in a semi-orderly fashion up the steps leading to the front door of Graceland. I tried to stay ahead of the two women behind me who, no sooner had our shuttle passed through the famous wrought-iron gates with their musical notes and silhouettes of Elvis, had loudly burst into tears. They appeared to be in their mid-fifties and probably had been the same groupies who followed Elvis around years ago, screaming and crying when he made eye contact with them. I, of course, would never have done that.

“See?” I silently admonished the absent Chris. “I’m not such a wacko.”

As we paused to wait for the ladies to gain control over themselves, so their sobbing didn’t disturb the tour, I glanced around, back out toward the boulevard that ran in front of Elvis’s home. From our vantage point, I could see a BBQ restaurant and a Krispy Kreme, and it struck me that Elvis might not be altogether pleased at how his lovely country home had become so commercial. On the other hand, I think he’d trusted his daughter to handle his affairs in a dignified manner, so maybe he was pleased after all. His fans, even those who, like me, were too young to have lived the Elvis experience, had an opportunity to come here and revisit it. I guess, if you lived on in people’s hearts, you never really died. Maybe Elvis had known all along that this would happen.

The women finally gained control of themselves and the guide called to us to begin our tour. I concentrated, figuring I needed to add to my Elvis knowledge, if only for the purpose of having more trivia with which to torture Chris. I learned Graceland was a Georgian colonial with Corinthian columns holding up the front portico. I stared upward as we passed under the portico. It sounded like a word from a “Word of the Day” calendar, one that us New Yorkers don’t have much opportunity to use in our day-to-day lives.

Once inside, being in Graceland was like stepping back into the seventies. I looked down at myself, almost expecting my clothes to miraculously morph from khaki shorts and a T-shirt to bell bottoms and a tie-dyed smock. Thankfully they didn’t, so I went back to paying attention.

Although we were warned not to touch anything, we were encouraged to hang back and enjoy the house if something caught our eye. I intended to keep up though, so as not to miss any of the guide’s words. I’d waited years for this visit, and I wasn’t about to be left out of anything. Plus, thankfully, the tour moved slowly enough that I kept my balance with no problem. Again, speaking to Chris in my mind, I said, “I told you I could do this on my own.” I didn’t need a keeper, no matter what everyone seemed to think.

“Can we go upstairs?” one woman asked, and we all turned to look up the impressive, white-carpeted staircase leading up to the second floor.

“I’m afraid the second floor is off-limits to the public,” our patient tour guide replied with a smile.

“’Cause that’s where Elvis is, right?” some guy with a redneck accent piped up. “He really ain’t dead, is he? He’s just up there hanging out, watching all us tourists on hidden cameras, right?”

The tour guide laughed, as the entire group searched the walls and ceiling for surveillance equipment.

“Well, that’s what some people think. But since us guides aren’t even allowed upstairs, I can’t say with any certainty.” He gave us a wink and then began the meat and potatoes of the tour.

I’d seen pictures, but truly, they didn’t do justice to real life. Elvis’s tastes leaned toward the gaudy, with lots of chrome and glass, bold colors, fabric-covered walls, shag carpet and furniture no one else would be caught dead with—maybe with the exception of Adair, who, though no Elvis fan, would have swooned over the fur-covered chairs in the Jungle Room and the mirrored ceiling and walls in the TV room downstairs.

Outside, we visited some of Elvis’s car collection, the pasture that housed his horses and the Trophy Room. We passed through the Hall of Gold, an eighty-foot hall lined with Elvis’s gold and platinum records and other awards. At the end of the Hall of Gold, we entered the Big Room. The Big Room contained enough memorabilia to make the most casual collector flush. I nearly had heart palpitations. There were Priscilla and Elvis’s wedding outfits (Elvis wore a snappy black paisley tux), paintings of Elvis, his collection of police and sheriff’s badges, guns and many of the clothes he’d worn on stage. What I wouldn’t have given for any of these items in my collection. My stuff seemed pale by comparison.

I relaxed and relished the tour. The Meditation Garden, one of Elvis’s favorite places, was the final resting place of the King and the members of his family. Surrounded by a circular brick wall with a beautiful fountain at the center, the sound of water added to the peacefulness, white noise softening the footsteps and words of the tourists, allowing one to drift into their own thoughts if desired.

The Meditation Garden also drew more sobbing from our more dramatic tourmates. Trying to be helpful, the redneck man who insisted Elvis was alive and living on the second floor of Graceland, roughly patted one of the women on the shoulder. “Y’all just dry yer tears now,” he explained with a knowing nod of his head. “Ol’ Elvis is right up in them there windows, watching y’all right now. He din’t really die. He just got tired of all the publicity and went into hidin’.”

The two women looked at him oddly, but they did settle down a bit. As he left them to rejoin his family at the grave of Elvis’s mother, I saw them both peering back toward Graceland, probably wondering if maybe Elvis
was
watching them.

We were shuttled back across the street, and though I was getting tired, I had no intention of going back to the hotel until I’d seen everything. Elvis’s jets, the “Walk a Mile” film, which, Elvis fan though I was, nearly had me nodding off in its brief twenty-two minutes, and finally the Automobile Museum, where I had someone take my picture in front of the Pink Cadillac Seville. That one would be blown up and hung on my wall as part of my collection.

The Automobile Museum was set up like a park, where tourists meandered amongst the cars Elvis had treasured, reading about each one before moving on to the next. I wasn’t much interested in cars, so I just admired their nice paint jobs and wondered where I’d ever put one if I were so lucky as to add an Elvis car to my collection. As a collector, owning one of Elvis’s cars would be a coup. However, I’d have had to rent a garage to keep it in, which was pretty much out of the question. Unless I lived in the car in the garage, which was a distinct possibility if I didn’t find a job with which to pay my rent.

I couldn’t think of that, I decided. This was a sacred day. An Elvis day. A day meant just for me, to take my mind off my troubles and put it on something I enjoyed, which had no connotations of trouble involved. Elvis.

A few doors down from the Automobile Museum was “Sincerely Elvis,” the only exhibit I’d not yet looked at. Though beginning to drag my feet and feeling a little lightheaded, I couldn’t pass it up. I slowly wandered through the little building, smiling at all the things Elvis’s people thought the rest of us would enjoy. The gold telephone from Elvis’s bedside, his baseball memorabilia and his LP display. This stuff made Elvis real. He’d been a real person who liked baseball and talked to friends on the phone.

“Wouldn’t you just love to
touch
that?”

I turned to find a little old lady waggling wrinkled fingers in the direction of the gold telephone.

“Um, sure,” I replied with an agreeable smile. I didn’t have much experience with the elderly, but Adair had mentioned his elderly grandmother was highly excitable and prone to fainting if she was contradicted, which caused her blood pressure to fluctuate too quickly.

“That Elvis was one hot man,” she whispered conspiratorially, leaning toward me until I was surrounded by a cloud of Bengay strong enough to cause permanent corneal damage. “Course, in his day, I wouldn’t let my girls watch him. Got ’em too riled up.” She waggled a finger in my direction. “You get riled up by Elvis and them pelvic gyrations?”

“Well, no—”

“Oh, don’t lie to
me,
missy. I been a mother to two girls who liked me to think they were all pure and innocent, too. But, I saw the way they was watching Mr. Elvis’s pelvis do all that thrusting and poking.” She put her hands on her hips and gave me a demonstration of pelvic thrusting I feared would send her by ambulance to the nearest chiropractor.

I shot a frantic look around the room to see who she might belong to, so I could return her to her owners. No one appeared to be looking for their granny, so I was stuck with her.

“You like that movement?” she asked again, crowding into my personal space. I backed up.

“Uh, no, not really.” On Chippendale dancers maybe, but not on little old ladies. It was time for escape tactics. “I think I need to—”

She poked me in the ribs. “You one of them anorexics?” she asked.

“What? No.”

“Yer too damn skinny. I always told my girls that men like women with a little meat on their bones.”

I stared down at this tiny little woman. I towered over her at five foot four, and probably outweighed her by forty pounds, and she was calling
me
skinny.

“I’m a runner,” I assured her, taking another step away.

“Running from what? A man? A man with pelvis
gy
rations?”

The next demonstration of pelvic thrusting was worse than the last and beginning to creep me out.

“Uh, I gotta go,” I said. “Nice talking to you.”

Without waiting for an answer, I turned to go, only to find a looming figure behind me. The quick movement sent my equilibrium into a tailspin, and the room whirled around me. I reached out toward the person who’d startled me—Elvis, I registered, as I went down—and lunged for his hand.

The last thing I remember was an elderly voice screaming like a banshee, “She’s molested Elvis. She’s molested the King! Call the police!”