Losing Graceland (14 page)

Ben slept with Ginger in the other room, both of them clothed under a sheet. Ginger slept with her head in the crook of Ben’s arm. Before he drifted off he realized the last girl to sleep in his arms was Jessica, and she’d smelled different from Ginger. Jessica smelled like the mall, cocoa butter, and raspberry lip gloss. Ginger smelled like cigarettes and the back of an old car.

He’d bought her—it was a blunt way to see it, but he couldn’t
see it any other way—with the five thousand the old man had given him. All this time he’d worried about his skin, his jokes, his lack of muscled arms, when the solution had been cash. Just buy a girlfriend. Tack on the monthly payments as you would a mortgage or car loan.

He wondered if there was decent work in whatever town they were now in. Something where he could sweat out his anxieties and afford a small home and a small life. He didn’t need travel; he imagined Ginger wouldn’t need it, either, because small-town hookers weren’t the jet-setting type.

And he’d tell Jessica, of course. Talk about his new life and suddenly he’s a hundred years older than her freshman lap dogs. Maybe she’d even visit—he imagined a dinner with Ginger and Jessica, Ginger dressed in something short and tight, coiling a smooth, taut leg around his leg, fork-feeding him ziti spears while Jessica stares at them over the rim of her wineglass—and the day of their breakup when he asked Mindy to dinner would seem like nothing more than a player being a player. Every stupid thing he’d done would make sense. Failings transformed into charming idiosyncrasies, moral errors a necessary consequence of the life of a sex-starved cad.

Ben had tried those explanations before, after the affair with Carrie. Carrie the anorexic. Carrie the sort-of-goth chick. Chopped black hair, five percent body fat, a victim of sexual abuse who fucked like a berserker, leaving claw marks down his back and purple marks on his shoulders; she’d threatened him with lesbian affairs but never made good, dumped him on Valentine’s Day, and fucked him later that week in her parents’ basement. He’d known Carrie before Jessica, having met her in a sociology class. In the beginning, when he hadn’t yet fallen into the all-encompassing
tailspin of a love affair with a seventeen-year-old blond Lolita, sex with Carrie was therapy with a side of orgasm; she hadn’t been freaked out by his dad’s death. When he started dating Jessica a month after the funeral, he no longer needed Carrie but he couldn’t stop.

There’s a whole culture built around sadness
, Alex had said.
It makes you feel like a part of something bigger
.

He got caught—one morning Jessica dropped by unannounced as Carrie was leaving—and he begged Jessica for forgiveness. He never saw Carrie again, but the spell was broken. His infallibility shattered, the only chance he had at keeping Jessica. Either worship or nothing, he realized.

Ben awoke in the motel room, sweating. He stared down at Ginger’s little head tucked in the crook of his arm. Drawn curtains framed in sunlight. The weak air-conditioning whirred. He moved his arm and she tilted her head up.

“Is it tomorrow?”

He checked the clock radio. “It’s almost five.”

“We should stay here.” She yawned. “I just want to sleep and eat. Eggs, toast, extra-crispy hash browns. Ask your grandpa if we can stay.”

“He’s not my grandpa.”

“I know, I know. But I don’t know what else to call him.”

“Elvis.”

She laughed a little. “I’ve never seen anyone handle Clarence the way he did.”

“He’s good like that. You know he’s got an arsenal in the trunk.”

She looked up at him. “For real?”

Ben nodded.

“What’s he need it for?”

“Hank Rickey.”

“Who’s Hank Rickey?”

Ben pulled himself out from under Ginger and sat on the edge of the bed. He yawned and ruffled his hair. The brown carpet felt stiff against his bare feet. “Hank Rickey took the old man’s granddaughter.”

“You mean Elvis.”

“That’s right. Elvis.”

Then he shuffled to the bathroom and looked at himself in the mirror under the green fluorescent light. He splashed cold water on his face, letting it drip while he watched Ginger in the mirror’s reflection, her lithe body stretched on the bed. She put her hands behind her head, staring at the ceiling as if it were the sky on a summer afternoon.

“He sure took a lot of those pills,” Ginger said. “My mom used to take pills. She said it was for panic attacks.”

Ben fell into the easy chair pushed against the wall. He stared at Ginger.

“What?” she said.

“Nothing.”

“You don’t look like it’s nothing.”

“I dreamt about my dad this morning.”

“So.”

“So he died last year and I haven’t dreamt about him in a long time.”

“Oh shit.” She frowned. “I’m sorry. What was the dream about?”

“Dreams always sound stupid when you tell people what happened.”

Ginger flipped onto her stomach and rested her chin on her
hands. “I don’t care. I like hearing other people’s dreams because I never dream.”

“Everyone dreams. You just don’t remember them.”

“Same difference. So tell me.”

Ben told her his dream. When he finished he stared at the brown carpet and remembered yelling at his mom a month after the funeral because his dad’s mud-caked sneakers were still in the foyer, sitting in the corner atop a yellowed sheet of newspaper dotted with dried mud.

His mom had stood at the kitchen sink with her graying hair pulled back tight. She was barefoot. Through the small window above the sink Ben saw the cloud-darkened sky.

“Let me make you a sandwich,” she said. “Would you like a sandwich?”

“Throw those sneakers away, Mom. They’re useless.”

“I will. But you have to eat. You don’t look well.”

It was summer break and two months earlier his dad asked him to hose off his sneakers because he’d gotten them dirty while unclogging the drain tile in their backyard. Every day he reminded Ben and every day Ben forgot. One month later he was dead, yet there they remained, blue-and-white Nikes, encased in cracked mud, still smelling of his dad’s feet.

“I’m not hungry,” Ben said. “Don’t change the subject.”

She turned to him, and Ben realized how old she looked. The way the freckled skin on her neck crinkled like crepe paper. The way her bones showed through her clothes.

“Please don’t touch them,” she said.

“But he doesn’t need them anymore.”

“I know,” she said. She looked like she could scream; all he could do was walk away before he screamed, too.

One year had passed and whenever Ben came home to visit they were still there: blue-and-white Nikes, laces frozen in mud. Soon they moved to the closet, where he figured they remained, buried under forgotten gloves, hats, and winter scarves.

He stared at the motel room ceiling and pushed his sadness down to wherever it was supposed to be. It had been one year and he felt that was long enough. They build skyscrapers in a year, he thought. And airports and suburban developments. Get over it. Move on.

Ginger pulled off her shirt. She giggled and flung herself back, bouncing off the mattress. She pulled the sheet to her chin, grinning. Her lips were very red, her teeth very white. A clump of mascara clung to the tip of her eyelash.

“Let’s fuck,” she said.

Ben leapt onto the bed and she screamed with laughter.

hey knocked on the old man’s door after sunset and when he didn’t answer Ben walked in. The lights were off but the TV was on. In the flickering dark Ben saw the old man lying on the motel bathroom floor, head propped against the wall, spilled complimentary mouthwash in a green puddle, bath towel clutched in one hand. Dried vomit crusted to the side of his face, and his red sweatpants smelled of urine. When Ben touched his shoulder he opened one eye and started to sing.

“
TodayIstumbledfrombedwiththundercrashinginmyhead.
”

Nine
P.M
. Shelby Hospital waiting room. Nubby orange office chairs and coughing children. Ginger slept with her head on Ben’s shoulder as he checked his voice mail. The Elvis biography sat in his lap.

Benny boy, where the fuck are you? Call me. My name is Steve and we used to play basketball together
.

Hi, it’s Samantha. I’m driving home from work and I was going to stop for a beer at Jack Astor’s if you were around, but I guess you’re not, so bye-bye
.

Ben. Rent is due. Call me
.

It’s Jess. Listen, I’m going to be back home only for a week and I wanted to know if we could meet for some coffee. I’ll be in my room all night unless Alan comes over. Call me before you go to bed
.

Ben saw the doctor walking toward them. He nudged Ginger awake.

The doctor squirted a dollop of Purel into his palm and rubbed his hands together. He forced a smile at Ben, wrinkled his forehead at Ginger, and put his hands on his hips. “Your grandfather is resting comfortably,” he said. “His pinky, though—it’s infected. Can you tell me how he lost it?”

“He slammed it in a car door,” Ben said.

“He must have slammed it pretty hard.”

“You should’ve heard the scream.”

“I bet.” The doctor raised his eyebrows as if he didn’t quite believe Ben but was willing to let it slide. “Anyway, we cleaned it and I have him on Cipro for ten days. As to the overdose, we found these.” He held up an orange pill bottle. “Which we believe he purchased in Canada. Made any trips to Canada recently?”

“No.”

“Then I’d keep an eye on his Internet use. Most seniors mail-order nowadays. It’s a wonder we don’t see more cases like this.” He handed Ben a white slip of paper. “This is a prescription for Percocet. Not as heavy as what your grandfather was taking, but still, keep the bottle on your person so this doesn’t happen again.”

“Can we see him?”

“Sure. He’s groggy, so it might take a little song and dance to get his attention.”

Ben thanked the doctor and they started to walk away, but the doctor cleared his throat.

“You should know your grandfather’s exhibiting signs of dementia.”

“Like Alzheimer’s?” Ben asked.

The doctor plucked a clipboard off the intake counter and glanced at a chart, whistling quietly through his teeth. “It appears to be in the early stages. Of course we’d need to run some tests before saying anything definitive.”

“So it is Alzheimer’s?”

“The best we can do at this point is make an educated guess. But his behavior indicates some sort of impairment. The pinky accident may point to a loss of motor ability.… Tell me, is his whole Elvis getup a personal preference?”

“He loves Elvis,” Ben said.

“I got that. He called for his daughter before we inserted the stomach pump.”

“Lisa Marie?”

The doctor cocked an eyebrow. “Who else?”

The old man’s room was small but private. The vertical blinds were pulled tight. A small TV hung in the corner of the ceiling.

The old man stared at Ben with unfocused eyes and tried to sit up. His hand was wrapped in fresh gauze. “
Mercenaries,
” he whispered. “Before we hit Shake, we need mercenaries. Many as we can afford.”

Ginger touched the old man’s hand and he smiled, so she kept
it there. His green aviators sat on a small table near the bed. The single lamp burned dim.

“How are you feeling?” Ginger said.

“Tired,” the old man said. “Told the doctor I’m on four hundred milligrams Lortab every three hours, just like the
PDR
says. I’ve been off Nardil for a month, so he doesn’t need to worry about contraindications. He took my pills anyway, even though I told him four hundred milligrams Lortab every four hours. Just like the
PDR
says.”

“I don’t think we can make it to Shake,” Ben said.

“We have to.”

“I checked your rice sack and there’s fifty bucks left. We don’t have any money. We barely have enough to get back to Cheektowaga.”

The old man tried to shout but a wad of mucus foiled his plans and he launched into a wet coughing fit. Ginger poured him a cup of water.

“Nadine needs me.” He breathed hard. “A life with Hank isn’t any sort of life. That’s why I hired you. That’s why I stepped back into the world I left behind—”

Ben held up his hand. “Does Nadine even exist?”

The old man paused with his cup in midair. “Sugar, get my wallet from the nightstand drawer.”

She found it next to an empty pack of chewing gum and a dog-eared copy of
The Essential Kabbalah
.

“Behind my Wegmans Shoppers Club Card there’s a photo,” the old man said.

She took it out and handed it to Ben. A black woman held an infant, tiny wrinkled face captured in mid-cry.

“Nadine Emma Brown,” the old man said. “Emma sent me that photo two months before she died of heart failure.”

Ben handed it back but the old man shook his head. “You’re holding redemption right there. Keep it as a reminder.”

“I can’t get an apartment in Amsterdam with redemption,” Ben said.

“What do you need an apartment in Amsterdam for anyway?” the old man said. “The French are assholes. Christ’s sake, they think Grace Jones is a genius.”