Elvis and the Grateful Dead Read Online Free Page A

ought to expand their horizons, including you, my dear.”
    The only horizon I want to expand is to get a manicurist for Hair.Net, but that’s hard to do. Every time I get a bit ahead, somebody comes along with a sob story. Mostly Mama, who usually needs a little breather in Tunica (her words, not mine). But I’ll have to say that subsidizing her occasional gambling jaunts is a small price to pay for having a mother who is larger than life.
    Life with Mama is never boring. And if either one of us ended up in front of a speeding train, the other would step in and take her place on the tracks.
    She follows me into the bedroom trailing Hawaiian ginger perfume and hot-pink ruffles while I slip into a yellow sundress and matching Michael Kors ballerina flats. Designer shoes always perk me up, and after today’s events at the chapel, I need all the help I can get.
    We head down the stairs just as Lovie breezes in with the party food and her overnight bag. (She’s spending the night with me, which is not unusual. If she’s staying late in Mooreville or I’m staying late in Tupelo, we crash at each other’s houses.)
    Fayrene is right behind her. When I lift my eyebrows, Lovie winks at me.
    “Fayrene said she came early to help.”
    Snoop is more like it. Fayrene loves to be in the know. But I’m more than happy to leave arranging the food to Mama and her coconspirator in dance and devilment because Lovie is motioning me behind their backs.
    We slip out of the kitchen and into my living room. Actually it’s two rooms with vaulted ceilings and the adjoining wall knocked out, dominated by my antique baby grand piano. When you enter you have the feeling of being in Thomas Jefferson’s elegant Monticello.
    “What gives, Lovie?”
    “Rocky called again. He’s booked a room at the Ramada.”
    “It’s a nice hotel.”
    “Why doesn’t he want to stay with me, Callie? He’ll just be here a few days and then he’s flying to Mexico on a dig.” Rocky’s an archaeologist who apparently has more passion for treasures of the past than the treasure right before his eyes. “He’ll be gone no telling how long. What am I going to do?”
    Asking me for love advice is like asking a sinner to preach at a Baptist church revival. I wrote the book on how not to . Still, I can’t be flippant with Lovie. For the first time since Aunt Minrose died (Lovie was fourteen), she is thinking of men in terms of commitment instead of a Band-Aid to tape over the wound of loss.
    “It looks like Rocky wants to move slowly, Lovie. And that might be a good idea.”
    “I’m not interested in slow . I want a little sugar in my bowl.”
    How like Lovie to use the language of the blues. Aunt Minrose was a professional musician and Lovie’s no slouch, herself.
    “Focus on the bright side. I’ll bet he’s bringing not only the sugar but a big stirring spoon.”
    Mama sticks her head around the door frame. “To stir what?”
    “The Prohibition Punch,” Lovie says, referring to her special recipe that parades itself as punch but has enough alcohol to make a herd of elephants tipsy. Actually the recipe originated with a governor’s wife in Georgia during the Prohibition Era.
    Lovie squeezes my arm, then swishes past me to the kitchen while I race to answer the front door.
    Standing on my porch are Tupelo’s mayor and his wife, and behind them are Beulah Jane and twenty bespangled, pomaded impersonators.
     
    By seven thirty the party is in full swing. The bigwigs are crowded around the refreshment table refilling their cups with Lovie’s recipe and loosening their ties. Fayrene is in my Angel Garden/courtyard matching Beulah Jane and the officers of the fan club with Elvis stories of her own. (Fayrene claims to be Gladys’ niece’s second cousin twice removed). And Mama’s at the piano pounding out Elvis songs while the impersonators try to outdo each other showing off their vocals and their hip moves. George Blakely, a skinny balloonist from