Dream Angel : Heaven Waits Page 3

  “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.

  “Why would anyone shoot a toilet?” I whispered.

  “Aw, it never worked right, anyhow.” He rubbed his chin pensively.

  “And…?”

  “It was running all the time, keepin’ me awake.” He threw me an impish look.

  I waited, thinking maybe there was more. His lips twitched with amusement, as he attempted to stifle one of his great laughs, and each moment that passed only escalated his amusement. Soon the sound of his chuckles spilled out into the foyer. I imagined the house swelling with happiness. His humor was always contagious, and I too, began to laugh openly. Our hysterics grew until a tour guide stepped back into the room with a look of befuddlement.

  “Ma’am, I’m going to have to ask you to keep moving along. We don’t want to hold up the line.” The young man was polite but firm.

  Elvis and I looked around at the empty room and fell into another round of laughter. I held my hand up to hide my smile and tried to pull together a serious response.

  “I understand. Sorry, I’ll move along.”

  I began to make my way down the hall, toward the bedroom used by Elvis’ mother, but stopped when I heard Elvis growling from behind.

  “Listen, son.”

  I turned back to find Elvis, swiping at tears of laughter that were quickly drying with his change of expression.

  “This is my house. She’ll do as I say!” His words were heated, and the crystal chandelier rattled over head.

  The next scene played out before me like an Abbott and Costello meets the mummy skit. Elvis looked up and quickly stepped out of danger’s way, as though anything could harm him. The tour guide slowly turned his eyes upward as what little color he had drained from his face. I again started to laugh. The young man cracked and galloped right by Elvis as he rushed for the exit.

  “Boo!” Elvis exclaimed and I swore I saw the usher flinch.

  Chapter 4

  They say every King needs a castle, and at the age of twenty-two Elvis had found his in Graceland. With its sharp color pallet, and flamboyant furniture, Graceland is as unique as its owner. Every room has a theme, and every fan has their favorite. And, I was no different. While Elvis’ chuckles fell silent, I collected my own humor and continued down the corridor to his mother’s room, my favorite room at
Graceland. A thick chain strung across the doorway to prevent visitors from actually entering. I practically laid my body against it as I leaned in to admire the rich colors.

  The room’s lavish setting was a long way from Mrs. Presley’s humble beginnings in Tupelo. The bed was draped in rich amethyst silk. And a white Christmas tree, still decorated with purple ornaments, emphasized a regal feeling to the décor that would have made a queen feel at home. I marveled at the floor-to-ceiling violet curtains and matching bedspread.

  What grace, I thought. Was her son’s sudden wealth overwhelming?

  “Yes, it was.” Elvis’ velvety voice broke into my thoughts.

  I turned to find him leaning against the snow-white banister that led up to his private quarters. His gaze burned between us and added to his distinctive rebel-with-out-a-cause posture.

  You left without a goodbye, I internally sulked.

  “That’s because it wasn’t,” he said in a rather flippant tone. I could feel myself pouting, but stopped when Elvis jetted out his own lips in an exaggerated mope.

  For a time, I had wondered if angels could listen to our thoughts. Elvis had proven in the past that he could do just that, yet I had never directly asked.

  “Do you listen to all my private thoughts?” I said, hoping to sound confident, and in charge of my escalating emotions.

  His eyes sparkled. “Not all.”

  “Oh?” I walked towards him with all the poise I could muster.

  He stood up straighter and pushed out his chest but did not stop my approach. As I drew near, any frustration I may have previously felt melted over the sight of him taking in the view. His attention lingered in all the right places starting with my eyes and progressing south. I yearned to feel his arms around me and taste his lips, but when I saw him smirking, I stopped just beyond his reach.

  You’re listening now, aren’t you? I taunted, and a half grin slid across his face as if someone had just whispered a secret in his ear.

  My insides quivered from the thrill. I felt alive in his presence, whole, as if he were the missing piece to my personal puzzle. I wasn’t sure if it was being close to an angel, to the man himself, or to God that had brought me that feeling but I liked it.