The boy is vexed that I haven’t seen Love Me Tender, so he takes me to Loew’s that evening. He whispers all the way through, pointing out what he wishes he’d done differently.
“We could’ve watched this at home, and you could’ve talked as much as you liked,” I tell him.
He looks surprised. “What? You got it?”
“Sure do.”
“And you still ain’t seen it?”
“I’ve been with you the whole time I’ve been back,” I say.
“Well, almost.”
He grins. “Let’s go home then. I’ll tell you all about it.”
He drags me out of the theatre, and we watch it again in the screening room. Between mouthfuls of popcorn and sips of soda, he points things out, proud, excited, still half-convinced this dream could vanish any minute. He even cries a little, saying he’s glad I’m here to witness it all.
“Me too,” I tell him.
***
“Wanna come with me and George to WDIA’s Goodwill Revue tonight?” he asks casually.
We’re at Jim’s Barber Shop on South Main, where the boy’s having his hair cut.
“Sure,” I say. “But are we allowed in?”
“Sure we are. We’ll stay backstage, though, I don’t want to make a fuss.”
He says it lightly. I’m a bit concerned that our presence might be intrusive, two white kids at an event like this. The boy assures me it’s fine, explaining that George is working at the show and we’ve been invited.
“If we hadn’t,” he says sharply, “I’d never impose.”
He’s clearly excited.
“You’ll love it!” he exclaims.
“I’m sure I will.” I walk over to the chair and smile at him in the mirror, resting my hand on his shoulder. He touches it and tells me, beaming, that B.B. King and Ray Charles will be there.
“Wow, that’s amazing,” I say. “I can’t wait.”
He grins. “Me either.” His leg bounces restlessly, as it always does.
“You ought to get that under control,” I tease.
“Come here, you,” he laughs, tickling me before jumping out of the chair to pay.
He leaves a tip for the barber, and we rush out to the car, always moving, always going places.
***
The show is pure fun. We stay backstage, where B.B. greets the boy like an old friend, and everyone is genuinely pleased to see him there. We keep sending each other big-wow faces, the music is miles better than at any square, white musicians’ revue. Here we have gospel, rhythm and blues, and even a funny comedian during the break. We dance quietly in the wings, trying to be discreet, but no one seems to mind. We can’t help ourselves.
When DJ Rufus Thomas insists the boy come out to say hello, the crowd goes wild, none of us expected it.
I don’t know if it’s a good idea, but I’m taken with the energy. When a man named Nat Williams from the station, standing next to me, asks why the girls are losing their minds over this white boy while barely reacting to Ray or B.B., I tell him it’s universal, that the boy is simply magnetic, and it’s got nothing to do with race.
“He’s just a good-looking kid,” I say, sounding more like his PR manager than his sometime lady.
Mr Williams looks at me. He doesn’t say anything, so I continue, “I mean, just like me and all my friends, we adore Sam Cooke, think he’s the most incredibly handsome and gifted man.”
Mr Williams smiles, “I suppose,” he says. I shake his hand and tell him it’s a pleasure to meet him.
We’re in a riotous mood when we get home. The boy is always full of beans after hearing rhythm and blues, so you can probably guess what we get up to, and we don’t sleep much. But what twenty-one-year-olds need much sleep anyway?
I’m grateful Miss Mary sleeps out back in her own little house, because the boy is so energetic he keeps getting up to sing and play his guitar. He laughs as he sings Wear My Ring Around Your Neck and tells me most of his songs are somehow connected to me.
“But not Lawdy Miss Clawdy,” I say. “No, not that one.”
He laughs. “Surely not that one. Jesus. I have more respect for you than that.”
I wonder how men can so easily divide their women into good girls and bad girls, and never judge themselves by the same standards. I also wonder why no one ever sees me for what I really am: a bad girl. A very, very bad girl. It’s as though everyone in my life chooses to ignore that side of me. Even Miss Mary, who still doesn’t know that the boy and I have shared bedrooms for years. Topper, who refuses to acknowledge that I’m a wicked little thing. And even Tilly, who sees me as this wholesome, moral soul she happens to call her best friend. Come to think of it, Cornelia’s the only one who ever really sees me for what I am, and she doesn’t seem to mind at all. She just thinks it’s absolutely fine, even if she isn’t the slightest bit as bad as I am.
The boy tells me Dixie’s gotten married and asks if I’d like to drive over to see her sometime, to say hello, see how she’s doing. Of course I do.
“I hope she’ll have a happy life,” he says, suddenly melancholy.
“I’m sure she will,” I say. “A girl like Dixie will. She’s such a good girl.”
Then he says, “Ah, I have another one before bed,” and plays I Was the One sitting by the window, looking out into the night. It feels like a farewell to her, and I hope she understands it’s for her. I’m sure she does.
I applaud, and the boy jumps into bed again. “I think I might have a disease,” he says, half-embarrassed.
“If you do,” I say, “you should’ve told me sooner, I don’t want to catch anything.”
He looks down, “Not like that. I mean…I think I have a sex maniac disease.”
I guffaw. “You do?”
He nods solemnly. “I think I’m a nymphomaniac.”
I tell him all twenty-one-year-olds probably are.
“Now stop talking,” I say, “and prove it.”
***
The screenwriter for the boy’s next movie is in Memphis to get to know him. The studio wants the film to echo his life and rise to fame. We giggle about it, films now being written to fit him. Him!
“It’s kinda mad,” I say.
He shakes his head with a grin. He’s excited, but also humble. We can joke and pretend he’s a megalomaniac, but he isn’t. All this fame hasn’t changed him much. He’s grown into it, somehow, though he’s still the silly baby I’ve known since the forties.
“You bet I am,” he says, winking from the driver’s seat of my Cadillac, the one we’ve been using around town, since everyone recognises his. This way, we can move in peace.
At the Hayride performance, I sit with the man from the film, Hal Kanter, both writer and director. He’s mesmerised by the crowd’s near-religious frenzy at the boy’s entrance. He asks endless questions about us, how long we’ve known each other, what he’s like offstage. I feel like I’m being interviewed for a job. I steer everything back to the boy: how wonderful, gifted, and sweet he is; how we’re all so proud of him. How he’s still the same kind Southern boy he’s always been. And again, I feel like I’m doing his PR, but I don’t mind.
Still, I don’t want to be part of the circus. I prefer the sidelines. And Hal Kanter? He’s one of those men who knows exactly how to make a canary sing. Before I know it, he’s shaking my hand and saying, “I hope to see you again, Miss Darling. Don’t hesitate to visit the set if you’re around.” Then he’s gone, back to Hollywood.
In between all of this, I study. I go to the library, write essays, prepare for my thesis. I send assignments up to college by Special Delivery so they’ll arrive before Christmas. For once, I feel ahead of the curve.
I talk to Topper on the phone. He tells me about Harvard and how fun it is to see my Cornelia and her boyfriend around town.
“I wouldn’t be surprised if there’s an engagement coming up soon,” he says.
We laugh.
“I can’t even remember his name,” I admit guiltily.
“Arthur. Artie,” Topper laughs. “Get it right, and call your friend.”
“Thanks, Master,” I joke. “I’ll call her right away.”
***
One day, when I think we’re having a good time, we’ve just been out buying Christmas presents with Red, who’s home for the holidays, the boy sits me down.
“Baby,” he says, and I know something I don’t want to hear is coming.
“Uh-huh,” I say, sitting beside him on the sofa in the downstairs sitting room. “What is it?”
He clears his throat.
“You know I never wanted to lie to you,” he begins. “I want us to keep this thing clean, no lies, no secrets.”
I just nod.
“I could make up all sorts of stories, but I don’t want to. And what I’m about to tell you, you ain’t gonna like it.”
I feel a little sick.
“You know how the Colonel wants me out with a lotta girls all the time, not just one?” he tests.
The urge to stop him, or to run, is almost unbearable. I feel heavy, and a tear forms in the corner of my eye.
“Oh, baby,” he says, coming closer. “I got a girl coming in just before Christmas, she’s gonna spend the holidays with the family at Audubon Drive.”
“You what?” I say. “With your family? What about me?”
He shrugs, that old defensiveness flickering. “Far as I know, you got a steady fella up in New York, don’t you?” he says, conveniently forgetting, of course, that he’s got Barbara here in town and June in Biloxi too.
“It’s just for the papers, that’s all,” he adds quickly without weight.
But I already know what’s coming, so I tell him Miss Mary has Christmas off anyway, and that I’ve been invited to Tilly’s for the holidays, besides, there’s a New Year’s party I should attend.
“Good,” he says. “Well, that’s that sorted.”
And I realise I’ve assumed all the wrong things. He has changed. Every day he’s getting better at shutting things away, and I find myself worrying for him more than ever.
I can’t see this ending well.
He tries to lighten the mood, and does it badly.
“You know how Marilyn Evans was decent to look at?” he says.
I don’t reply. I’m staring into the fireplace, thinking about lighting it, because the room feels cold.
“Well,” he continues, “the new one’s a real looker. Total babe.”
He says it without the slightest concern for my reaction.
“Hmm,” I say, filling the grate with firewood. “Do tell.”
He doesn’t catch the sarcasm, and I, in turn, don’t catch the irony of my frustration. I’m not so different from him, really. I treat Topper much the same way the boy treats me, only I’m a little more sensitive, more discreet and in contrast to the boy, I feel guilty about it. The fact that I’ve never even connected the dots is astonishing.
“Her name’s Dottie Harmony…”
“Is that really her name?”
“I don’t know, but she’s a proper good-looking girl. Sexy, too.”
He’s somewhere else entirely, and doesn’t notice my shoulders tense as I light the fire and sit in front of it, purposefully with my back to him. I want him to stop, to come back to me.
Suddenly I feel his arm around me; he’s come to sit beside me on the floor. He’s back.
“I’m sorry,” he says, kissing my cheek. “I’ll make it up to you tomorrow, alright? Let’s do something just us, somethin’ to get us back on track. It’s hard when we’re both gone so much.”
“All right.” I say, and get up.
“Let’s go down to the garden studio,” he says, brightening. “We ain’t hardly used it.”
At the little cottage at the edge of the garden, the floor is covered with Christmas presents. He gestures for me to go in and open them all.
“We can do Christmas now,” he grins.
All the jewellery he’s bought is rose gold, not really my taste, until the last box: a platinum tennis bracelet. I kiss him and say thank you, that it’s perfect.
But nothing is perfect this Christmas.
I start to think about how I want my life to be, outside of here, outside the South, outside of him. Perhaps I should move in a different direction. Perhaps I shouldn’t toss everything else aside every time he calls.
Because what’s the reward?
Then I look at him, and I see it right there.
I tell myself I’m a fool. This love in Memphis will always be complicated.
I kiss him, tell him I love him, and that I want to hear him sing. We go into his studio, where he turns up the dials, and we fool around with the instruments. I sit at the piano and, for once, sing Come to Me, My Melancholy Baby for him.
He gets a little teary. “You got the prettiest voice,” he says, wiping his eyes. “I forgot you could play, too.”
He puts his arm around me, sitting down beside me. “Don’t let me forget that again,” he says.
We need a change of mood, so we mess around, he bangs at the keys, we laugh and sing Christmas songs until evening falls.
Then we walk back up to the house and watch Now, Voyager in the screening room. When it’s over, the boy cries and says he hates it.
Jerry: “And will you be happy, Charlotte?”
Charlotte: “Oh, Jerry, don’t let’s ask for the moon. We have the stars.”
My World of Interiors 