The New Elvis by Wyborn Senna Page B

hot. Here, feel.”
    She took his free hand and pressed it against her forehead, and Ryan thought she felt warm.
    “And I don’t feel like eating.” She tossed the magazine off her lap and pulled down the covers so he could see her waistline.
    “I don’t think you look bad at all.”
    “Eating makes me sick. When I try to hold a pen, my fingers cramp up because my knuckles ache so badly. And look.” She yanked the coverlet down so she could pull her legs out. “Look at my feet. I can’t bend my toes they’re so stiff. It’s like I’m freaking ninety years old. My hips hurt, my shoulders hurt, my knees hurt, my ankles hurt, and my elbows hurt. Crap, even my face hurts.”
    Ryan couldn’t hold himself back. He needed to kiss her again.
    He leaned forward and pressed his lips against hers. “Does this hurt?”
    “No,” she giggled. “Not so much.”

Chapter 29
    Uncle Wendall drove back to Las Vegas slowly, steering the Cadillac like a luxury boat up the I-15 North toward Barstow, eventually crossing into Nevada, which looked like a deserted wasteland of cacti, tumbleweeds, dirt, rocks, and billboards assuring the road-weary that Sin City had rooms ready for them. Compared to the bustle of Santa Monica, the route looked like a nuclear blast had cleared the area of all life except at truck stops, where burly drivers stopped for chili and burgers, and rest stops, where tired travelers sorted through trinkets and bought gallons of soda, cups of burned coffee, candy bars, and potato chips. It was early evening, and the windows were down as they drove. Logan sat beside his uncle, unable to talk, still clutching the
Elvis’ Christmas Album
like a blankie.
    Going through his sister’s destroyed home had left Wendall dispirited. Emergency personnel offered him large rubber boots two sizes too large so he could wade through the premises, and each room looked like the site of an ongoing archaeological dig, with piles of ashes and the occasional half-burnt item, the ruins piled knee high even as it was reduced to gossamer grayness. Ash swirled around him as he poked stacks with a charred yardstick. The upper strata seemed to be newer items, circa the mid-nineties, and the second layer seemed to contain items from the eighties, including some of Logan’s baby clothing and toys. Beneath that, there were items from the seventies, sixties, and fifties, many of them belongings of MawMaw that Ramona had been unable to part with.
    His sister’s life lay before him in slabs that could be peeled away, and they told the tale of mental illness and hoarding, the sickness of too much stuff. He tossed the yardstick he had been excavating with and a cloud of ash filled the room like gray snow. He wanted to sit down and cry, but he had to be strong for the child. Social workers said Logan had stopped talking the night his parents died. It was one of those deeply concerned women who had remembered Ramona had a brother, because he was mentioned by name the day Angela confronted Ramona and Jarrod in their cluttered backyard.
    After ascertaining that Ramona’s maiden name was Johns, they located only one Wendall Johns in the United States, a retired fertility specialist who lived in Las Vegas, and gave him a call. He was there within six hours to claim his nephew and sign the necessary paperwork granting him permanent custody of the boy he’d always felt sorry for.
    Wendall’s ambition had receded with the passing years. After he had bankrolled enough green to retire in comfort, he closed the fertility clinic on Harmon and moved to a gated community a few miles off the strip. His backyard faced the back nine of an eighteen-hole golf course, and he played at eight a.m. every Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday with three pals he also played poker with every Monday and Wednesday night. Sunday was his day of rest. Instead of going to church, he got several newspapers, made a pot of coffee, stretched out on his living room chaise in front of