The boy doesn’t pick me up at the airport, Red West does, driving the boy’s new car. I giggle when I see it: a lavender Lincoln Premiere, similar to my old Cadillac.

“He wanted to be here,” Red tells me. “But it’s mayhem around him these days.”
I pretend to understand.  “Well,” I say, “it’s good to see you anyway.” 

I hug him before he takes my luggage. Red opens the car door. “He’s at your house, waiting for you,” he says, then drives me back to Miss Mary’s.
The boy rushes out, Miss Mary trailing behind him, arms open, a grin taking up his whole face.

“And we’re back!” he shouts, grabbing me by the waist and swinging me around.
“You have no idea how much I have to tell you!” he laughs, carrying me inside. He’s tanned, healthy-looking, in high spirits.

***

We all sit in the kitchen, Red, Miss Mary, the boy, and me. He keeps touching me, pulling me onto his lap, kissing my hand, my arm, my hair, my neck.
“Hot damn!” he exclaims playfully. “You smell good.”
I grin as I slip off his lap.

He’s changed, more confident, and just a touch less decorous downstairs in Miss Mary’s kitchen.

He launches into stories about touring, interviews, TV appearances, California, describing fame as thrilling. We laugh at his anecdotes, caught up in his excitement.
He mentions Las Vegas briefly. “It wasn’t what it’s cracked up to be.” Red suppresses a laugh.
He tells us about girls he’s met, casually, carefully, not lingering. 

“I’ll tell you more later,” he says quietly to me, then continues his lively stories. He’s happier now that I’m here, and we’re all back together again.

***

Red excuses himself, and the boy says he’ll stay here if I want him. I squeeze the hand that’s holding mine on the table. 

He tells us about the Steve Allen Show in July, I watched it on television on the Vineyard with Topper, and I laugh, and smile, saying nothing about Topper, because the boy is so happy to share all the fun.

He talks about his days in Biloxi in July, about a girl called June who was a real sweetheart. Then he goes on, one long, unpunctuated, speedy rant that tracks the first seven months of 1956. Afterwards, we exhale, exhausted, our hair blown back by the tornado of his sudden, whirlwind national success.

“Now,” he breathes out, “I want to be alone with Big Bird there.”
He grabs my hand and drags me upstairs.

***

Upstairs, he’s so impatient he throws me over his shoulder and runs to my room.
“I want you right now,” he says, out of breath. 

Then he throws me onto the bed, drums his chest, and howls, “I’m a big fat monkey and I’m gonna fuck you like a chimpanzee.”
It’s so random and surprising to both of us that we collapse laughing. 

I lose all memory of a before or after, I just lie there in the dusk of the hot August night, feeling his body against mine. I don’t remember my name or his, or who I am without him being there.

A tinge of guilt rises. The thought of my Topper, back up East, breaks my heart in the strangest of ways, because the heart somehow also beats intensely for someone it has loved for a lifetime.
Why haven’t we fallen out of love already?

I watch him sleeping, wrapped around me, telling me, even now, that he’ll never let me go. I watch his body move as he draws breath. I lie as still as I can, not to wake him.
His long lashes. His straight, slightly greasy, mousy-blonde hair. His sleepy little movements. The soft cough. The way his hand occasionally grapples for mine in his sleep.

I know exactly how the youth of America feels when they see him.
I see it too.
He is special. He’s an American god, even if he’s also just my boy.
My silly, distractible, human boy I can’t seem to shake.

***

We laze around all morning, reacquainting ourselves, listening to records in my room.
“Hey,” he says, flashing a grin, “I recorded this one just for you. If you ever hear me sing it, it means I’m thinking about you.”
He pauses, still smiling. “It kind of sums up our whole… I don’t know what to call it.”
He lets the thought hang in the air before dramatically adding, “Dynamic.”

I laugh. “That sounds ominous.”
Then I get up and cross the room, sitting beside him on the bed where his guitar rests across his lap.
“When the maestro is ready,” I say. 

“Well, uhm…” he begins, scratching the back of his neck. “I already mentioned it in my letter to you, but not in detail. Figured I’d rather just play it for you when you got back.”
“Will you just play it, then? Or are you going to explain what’s so special about it first?”

There’s a hint of impatience in my voice. It unsettles him just a little.
“Yeah, sure,” he says, and starts to strum.

He hums the opening line, then begins in earnest:
“I’ve been traveling over mountains, baby, trying to get to you…”

It’s a slow, soulful acoustic version of Trying to Get to You, and as he warms into it, I feel every word.
By the end, in one nervous burst, he throws the guitar to the floor and pulls me beneath the covers before I have a chance to react.

Later, when we are chit-chatting in bed, he starts talking about the girls in Vegas.
“Do you mean the showgirls?” I ask, confused.
“Yeah, whatever. Showgirls. All kinds of girls, you know…”
He doesn’t explain exactly who he’s referring to.

“They have a special look, those girls.”
His voice trails off into the images in his mind, and for a moment, I’m left standing outside, in the cold.
He returns to me. “You know. They dress a certain way. Wear their makeup a certain way.”

He looks me in the eye, kisses my lips, brushes my cheek, then holds my face gently between his hands.
“I like that look,” he says, leaving an empty space for me to fill.

“And?” I ask.
“Well, I’m just saying.”

He turns onto his back, staring at the ceiling. One arm moves beneath my head, pulling me in closer.
“I think it’s a sexy look.” He glances back at me.

“Are you trying to say you want me to dress and look more like a hooker?” I ask.
I don’t know whether to laugh or be aghast.

“Well, they aren’t all hookers, baby,” he says. “I just like that made-up look.”
He grins. “It turns me on. I think it’s sexy.”

Then he rolls over again. “Not saying I don’t like your…”
He pauses, chuckles to himself. “Debutante, kind of high-falutin’ look.”

I’m too confused to say anything.
No one has ever told me they don’t like the way I look before.

“I’m just saying my preference is sexy. Not this.”
He smiles and winks, like he isn’t giving me a dressing-down, literally.

“I mean, look at you, Miss Magnolia Moneybags!”
He props himself up and starts tickling me. “It’s self-explanatory.”

Then he rolls on top of me, not giving me space to reflect this new nuance in his personality back at him.
He doesn’t want to hear what I think about it.
He wants more play. More closeness. Physical conversation.

And then, he wants me to become something I’m not.
I’m so befuddled by this new turn in his psyche that I don’t react.
I hadn’t ever thought of myself as an object in his eyes, and in a quiet, subterranean way, I’m deeply hurt.

My mood sinks.
He doesn’t notice.
Instead, he wraps himself around me again, all skin and warmth and muscle, and I lie there, blinking into the stillness of the room.

Then I feel his breath on my neck. His fingers trailing my arm.
And I’m carried away by him again, back into the present.
Into the presence of him, and me, and us, here in my room.

I feel all the things I’ve been missing in him.
The draw of him.
And I surrender to the moment.

I can talk to him about this some other time.
It won’t surprise him if I don’t start dressing like a Vegas girl.
He can care about that as much as he likes, because I’m a non-conformist.
And the boy is not the boss of me.

***

The boy’s got a few errands to run while he’s in town, and he says I have to come with him.
“I actually wanted to go see some of my friends,” I tell him.
“No can do, darlin’,” he says, shoving me into the car. 

We roll over to pick up Red, who’s clearly annoyed I’m there. He makes inside jokes with the boy and ignoring my existence. I keep a cheery exterior, laughing along at his jokes, especially the ones meant to keep me out of the circle, which I keep reasserting myself into.

The boy tells Red I’m comin’ out to California with them, that it won’t just be him and Red.
“What the heck? Why?” Red explodes.
The boy doesn’t flinch. He’s the leader of this pack, and he isn’t about to feed into Red’s little tantrum.

“Birdie’s my girl,” he says. “She’s my talisman, and I need her for good luck.”
He turns his head and winks at me. “She’s also the only natural remedy I got for sleep. Only one who can talk me to sleep,” he adds grinning, drumming his knee.

“But…” Red starts.
“No buts,” the boy says, waving it off.

I see Red working up a sweat, but I don’t pay it any mind. I can’t deal with this kind of posturing. I’m too old for it.

***

As far as I’m concerned, we’re having a ball at the Fairgrounds. The boy and I are full of high jinks, laughing, messing around, enjoying the attractions. We joke and chase each other, being silly and free.
Red, on the other hand, is not best pleased. He’s the one left out now.

And as we’ve been there a while, a crowd starts to gather. People come closer, trying to see if it’s really him.
Red, who’s trying to keep some kind of safe space for the boy, is clearly out of his depth, and we are not helping him.
I keep forgetting the boy is famous, and it jolts me back into this new, uncomfortable reality every time.

Then a man starts getting aggressive, first with Red, and then with the boy. Something about a ‘degenerate haircut’, which makes me laugh at first. Who even says something like that?
The boy laughs too. We’re still on that other frequency, light-hearted, rebellious, untouchable, 

Until the man lunges.

Suddenly, Red and the man are in a full-on fistfight.
The boy and I freeze. It’s no longer fun. It’s not a joke anymore. There’s blood, and Red is fighting, and I feel sick to my stomach.
I’m not used to aggression, it triggers something in me, and I just want to go home.

The boy draws me in, shields me from the worst of it.
It’s a scene, I tell you. 

We’re rushing home. No one says much. We’re all caught in this charged, nervous energy, something communal and vibrating, like the aftermath of a thunderclap, but it doesn’t clear the air. If anything, it leaves the mood worse.
Deflated. Disoriented.

I sit in the backseat, watching the boy. His shoulders are drawn tight, his jaw clenched, his profile fixed forward.
And I know, this is not a time for words.
The best thing I can do now is say nothing at all.

***

When we get back from the Fairgrounds, as if that scene weren’t enough already, Mr P has had a call from the Shelby County police. They’ve told him everything and painted Red as the villain.

So we arrive at Audubon Drive to a severe telling-off from Mr P, who can be thoroughly unpleasant once he’s triggered. I do not appreciate his tone.
I’m out back with Mrs P while the boys argue inside. We don’t speak much. We just exchange glances, listening for meaning in the raised voices.
So we sit. And we wait. Pretending we’re in a different world from the men inside.

Eventually, the boy comes out and says Red is leaving. Moments later, we hear the car engine start and fade down the street.
“What happened?” I ask.

Mr P joins us. There’s been a confrontation about Red’s temper, how it’s dragging Red to the dark side, and how keeping him around reflects badly on the boy.
It’s decided: Red won’t be coming out West with us.

“But…” I start, “he really was provoked today.”
Mr P shoots me a look. His eyes say, Why are you speaking? He turns back to Mrs P and carries on.

It’s a management decision. There’s nothing we can do about it.
The boy  seems to have resigned himself to it.

“I’ll figure somethin’ out,” he says. “Can’t have Red no more, but I sure as hell can’t put you on the payroll either.”
“Good,” I reply, too brightly. “Because I’m certainly not going to be anyone’s minion.”

It’s the wrong time to assert myself. The wrong time to be visible at all.
He gives me a look that says enough. 

Then he tells his parents we’re leaving, that he’ll be back in the morning to pack for California. They hug. And off we go.
“You okay?” I ask once we’re in the car.
“Not really,” he says as he backs out of the drive, fans still screaming on the lawn.

***

I’ve decided to take care of him tonight, to baby him and look after him. He’s a spent man this evening, all heavy and depressed and pouty.
“Come cuddle,” he says, his voice croaking deliberately to trigger my maternal instincts.

I snuggle up to him. “What’s going on inside that beautiful little head of yours?”

“I’m stressed out. This is overwhelmin’. I’m constantly afraid for my life. My mamma keeps havin’ omens about me dyin’, I get death threats, people think I’m the devil. The establishment’s against me, tryin’ to make me into some kinda degenerate corruptin’ America’s youth. And I’m not, I’m just singin’ my songs. I don’t do nothin’.”

He starts to cry.
“Today I just felt so sad about it all. I can’t do anything by myself anymore. I can’t even take you to the Fairgrounds,” he says, giving me a deflated look. “I’m stressed about the movies. I ain’t never acted before, and I’m scared I won’t be good enough.”

I sit with him and listen.
I tell him I’ll run him a bath, and he accepts, still pouting, milking it, but it’s all right. He actually does have reason to be stressed. He’s carrying the world on his shoulders, and I tell him I’m proud of how he handles himself.

He plunges into the bath, and I ring for Miss Mary, who says she’ll bring dinner up to my room. He sits slumped in the tub, and I offer to wash his hair. He nods dramatically, like a tired toddler.

I soak the sponge, wash his hair, and watch him relax. I start easing his mood with a few jokes, flatter him, dry him off, and bring his pyjamas.

Miss Mary comes in with dinner, which he eats in bed with the television on. I clean up afterwards and place the tray outside on the console table. He doesn’t want me going downstairs, he wants me close, so I stay.

I nestle in and say yes to all his demands. It’s all right; we knew each other before we knew ourselves.
We were each other’s first language. We don’t need to solve anything. I just need to be here now, promise him the world, and let him fall asleep.

Tomorrow he’ll wake up rested, and we’ll fly to California on my birthday. I’ll stay with him until school starts, because I see this is real, not a manipulation.

I tell him everything will be all right. That he’s the greatest. That of course I’ll never stop loving him.
But I also tell him, “I will never, ever in a million years start dressing like a Vegas showgirl, no matter how sexy they are.”
And: “I will never, ever walk around caked in makeup. Take it or leave it.”

I tell him that I won’t let consumerism colonise my body like that, that my face is a no flag zone. 

He starts to cry again and says he’s sorry. That maybe it was just a joke. Then he says I’m pretty just the way I am.
I tell him, “I’m not just pretty. I’m beautiful.”
We both laugh, and he grabs me and holds me tight.
“Whatever you say, Big Bird,” he murmurs. “You’re the boss.”

He repeats himself, drifting between fear and excitement.
And we move slowly into the night.

I tell him he’s the greatest. Of course I love only him.
He says I’m the only one he’ll ever care for like this.
And it hurts too durn much.

He cries quietly, finally feeling the weight he’s under.
I stroke his hair. I make him laugh again. He holds me so close it hurts.
“Shut up now,” I whisper, “and fuck me, you big fat monkey.”
We both laugh.
And we’re back in our safe world, that space between this world and another.

***

In the morning, I take him back to Audubon Drive to pack.
Then I drive to Mabel’s house, pick her up, and we head to the country club to catch up.

Bingham is there. He says the boy is the coolest person who’s ever crossed Beale Street, and Mabel concurs.
“I don’t care what anyone says. He really is the best.”

I try to tell them that plenty of cool people crossed Beale Street before the boy, and that it’s on their shoulders he’s standing.
They smile politely but don’t say much.

“But he is so good,” Mabel says. “And I never even really liked him.” She says it as if that somehow proves how impressive he must be.
“Same here,” Bingham adds, sipping his Coke. “He really is somethin’, that boy of yours.”

I take a long sip through my straw.
I saw it first, I think, in a rare burst of ego overtaking me.