Elvis Takes a Back Seat by Leanna Ellis Page A

down, but how? I’m trapped. “Ivy?” She turns finally, her face pale, eyes wide. She presses a hand to her mouth.
    â€œDo you need a towel?” I ask, seeing it on the concrete at the tip of my shoe.
    Ivy picks it up, dabs her mouth, then lays it atop Elvis, carefully straightening the folds and edges.
    â€œNow what?” Rae asks. “It’s getting heavy.”
    â€œI can’t put it down.” The weight of the door pushes against me. Elvis’s head presses into my stomach.
    â€œI’m okay.” Ivy steps behind me and pulls the door open wide. “Go on.”
    â€œI’m glad we aren’t attracting any attention,” Rae says.
    We shuffle through the stairwell, then into a narrow hallway. The walls are painted yellow, but there are no decorations. Nothing but door after door of rooms. At the end of the hallway, I notice a sign with the silhouette of a woman.
    â€œThere’s a restroom.”
    But Ivy heads straight for the elevator, which has a sign pasted over the buttons. “Out of order.”
    â€œGreat,” I mutter. “There’s another elevator down the hall.”
    This time we have to pass the Jungle Room bar and the entrance to the lobby. No one seems to notice us as we scurry along like mice carrying a block of cheese the size ofWisconsin. When we reach the other elevator, I lean against the wall, my arms aching. “Ivy, are you sick? Do you think I should take you to a doctor?”
    â€œI’m fine. Just carsick.”
    I hesitate to mention the obvious, then say, “We’re not in a car.”
    â€œI’m not over the drive yet.”
    â€œIt could take a few more hours,” Rae says as if she’s had experience with this sort of thing. “You’ll feel better when you get something in your stomach.”
    Ivy doesn’t look too sure about the idea.
    â€œShould we call your dad?” I ask.
    â€œI’m fine. Really.” Her voice takes on that huffy quality of irritation, and I drop the subject.
    I glance up at the lights above the elevator. How much longer? The hallway is deserted except for a framed poster of Elvis and a vending machine selling water and Cokes.
    Ivy lifts the corner of the towel covering Elvis’s face. “That’s creepy.”
    â€œWhy do you think I banished Elvis to the attic?”
    Finally the elevator arrives. It’s empty. We board it, inching forward, careful not to scrape Elvis against the doors. A minute later we carry him down the hallway to our suite.
    â€œWhere?” Rae asks.
    â€œOver there.” We shuffle our way to the sitting room and set him on a corner table.
    Ivy flips the towel over his head, covering at least his face. “He was staring at us.”
    â€œLaughing at us is more like it.” I feel laughter bubble up inside me.
    * * *
    â€œWHEN IN MEMPHIS, eat like the natives,” I say, pulling into Corky’s, one of the best barbecue joints in town according to Southern Living . Weaving the unwieldy Cadillac through the narrow parking lot is an exercise in holding my breath. It’s usually my personal rule not to eat at places with big pigs on the side of the building, but it’s also my rule not to chase impossible dreams. This trip is an exception to all.
    The air inside the restaurant smells tangy, mingled with the succulent scent of roasted pork. If I was looking for a quiet dining experience, this isn’t it. But at least the music piped through the restaurant isn’t Elvis. After a short wait we’re seated in a booth.
    â€œSweet tea?” the waitress asks.
    â€œIt’s been years,” Rae says, “but I believe I’ll indulge in the house wine of the South.”
    â€œYou must not have been in the South much, sugar,” the waitress remarks. “Or else you have great self-control.”
    â€œI’ve never been accused of that.”
    â€œTell us about Oregon,” I say,