Authors: Wyborn Senna
“Straight off
The Ed Sullivan Show
,” Grandpa George agreed.
“Do you think she got the, uh—” Grandma Katherine searched for a polite word, “—
donation
from an Elvis impersonator?”
“Could be,” Gene said. “There are plenty of them in Vegas.”
“But she never found out who?” Grandpa George asked.
“She was never told who the donor was,” Gene replied. “This doctor she went to, Wendall Johns, he was a real private guy. One hundred percent confidential.”
While Bea lay on the left side of her bed, knitting the longest scarf in the world, Ryan lay on the right with his left hand slightly extended toward the open MacBook placed between them. The TV that had been set up in Bea’s room not long after she was diagnosed with RA was turned on, and the movie
Almost Elvis: Elvis Impersonators and Their Quest for the Crown
filled the screen. Ryan had placed a pad of paper and a pen near the right-side edge of the bed and was prepared to take notes.
After the opening montage of Elvis impersonators, the screen filled with the following words: “Every year, thousands of Elvis impersonators compete in regional contests all across America. Those who win qualify for a berth to the Super Bowl of all Elvis contests: the Images of Elvis World Championships in Memphis, Tennessee.”
Ryan straightened the pillow behind his head and grabbed a second one so he could prop himself up better.
A sign in front of a building in South Bend, Indiana, listed a pancake breakfast on the twenty-first, a sock hop on the twenty-sixth, and an Elvis contest on the twenty-seventh. Inside the building, men were busy taping the floor and hanging up decorative sheets on the walls in preparation for the Midwest regional qualifier events. At a table, cassette tapes and index cards were in the process of being sorted. An Elvis impersonator laced up the front of his jumpsuit, and a man fiddled with a soundboard while the Elvis impersonator in the folding chair next to him wrote something down.
Johnny Thompson spoke first, complaining about people yanking on his sideburns to see if they were real. Then, Quentin Flagg thanked someone who told him he looked awesome with a “thank you very much”. Next, Steve Sogura told people that he knew when he grew his sideburns out and dyed his hair, he was setting himself up for criticism. Robert Washington admitted he wasn’t likely to become rich and famous by impersonating Elvis, but he considered it a dream come true. Next, Doug Church checked to make sure his sideburns were even. Rich Andrews fixed his Elvis ‘do when he noticed a reflective surface he could see himself in. A jumpsuit-clad Irv Cass complained that he’d put on a bit of weight. And one judge mentioned that the first thing he looked for was the voice.
While Irv Cass ate breakfast with family and friends, he mentioned that the Elvis contest, Images of Elvis, was the biggest Elvis impersonation contest in the world. Meanwhile, in Indiana, Quentin Flagg delivered newspapers on his bicycle.
Ryan leaned forward to see the screen better. “That guy is about our age. When was this movie made?”
Bea stuck the tips of her knitting needles into a ball of cornflower blue yarn and performed a Google search on the laptop. “2000. So, if that kid was a teenager then, he’s—”
“Too young to be my dad.”
As the documentary continued, Quentin’s dad said that, just as the Colonel told Elvis his talent was worth a million dollars and he was going to get Elvis a million dollars, he wanted to do that for his own son.
“Oh, my God.” Bea made a face, pulled her knitting needles out of the thick ball of yarn, and grabbed her sports bottle, three-quarters full of water. “Can you imagine having a stage mom or dad like that, managing your career as an Elvis impersonator?”
Ryan mimicked Gene. “I know we’ve got to get to Memphis, Ry. Just let me stop in Malibu and check on that beachfront property first.”
Bea nearly choked with laughter as she took a sip. “And what about your mom?”
Ryan cleared his throat and, in a higher pitch, said, “I know you’re a good Elvis impersonator, Ryan, but don’t you think your act would be better if you incorporated a few magic tricks?”
Bea recapped her bottle and slid out of bed. Stiffly, she moved to the bureau, where she kept her meds. She uncapped a few vials, slipped a few pills into her mouth, and minced back to bed as slowly as if she were eighty years old.
“Jeez, Bea, if you’re this creaky now, what’s going to happen when you get old?”
“I’m not going to get old,” she retorted. “I’m going to die young and beautiful.”
“What about our wedding? I thought we were gonna have an Elvis impersonator marry us in Vegas.”
Bea smiled. “That’s two years away. If I die in ten, I’ll still be young and beautiful.”
She slid back onto the bed and Ryan leaned over to kiss her on the lips, but she pulled back. He’d forgotten she’d put pills in her mouth. She held up an index finger, grabbed her water bottle, uncapped it, and took a swig. Then she kissed him, slowly, warmly. Ryan thought she tasted like honey. When Bea pulled away, she had a thoughtful look on her face. “Do you think we’re ever going to find your real father?”
“I hope so.”
She glanced back at the TV screen. “Think it’s one of these Elvis contestants?”
“One of them,” Ryan said, “or maybe someone who’s played Elvis in a movie. But to be an impersonator, you’ve got to have a voice.”
“Well, we know you didn’t get your singing talent from Zella or Gene, so you’re right. It’s probably one of these guys who can really belt out a song.”
Bea was beneath her coverlet, her bony knees forming tents, while Ryan was on top, propped in a pile of pillows so he could see the TV. Twirling her blond curls in her fingers, Bea looked at Ryan, dreamy-eyed. “How many kids do you want to have?”
“Three,” Ryan said, without thinking.
“Three would be nice,” she murmured, snuggling close.
“Wait a minute. I thought you were going to die young.”
“Well, sure,” she laughed. “I’m going to pop the kids out, one a year, starting the year after we’re married. Then I’m going to die, and you’re going to be the best single parent on earth, win all kinds of awards, and all the moms in the PTA are going to have crushes on you.”
“Awards for what?” Ryan looked at the clocks of every shape and size filling Bea’s peach walls and realized how aware of time she was. He took off his Nikes and slid beneath the coverlet. It was four thirty. He had at least an hour before Zella would call him on his cell and make him come home for dinner. She was no longer “Mom,” and his dad had become simply “Gene.” The shift in how he saw them occurred the very moment his mother stood in their kitchen and wouldn’t meet his gaze.
Bea buried her face in his neck. “I had the weirdest dream last night. There was a turtle in a flat-bottomed dish filled with water, but it didn’t have a shell. It wanted other creatures to stick pins in it. I didn’t see what was doing the sticking, but the pins were stuck into the turtle. Then someone came and tried to take the pins out, but while the person was removing them, the turtle opened its craw, ran toward a sharp object protruding from the inside of its bowl, and impaled itself.”
“Have you ever had this dream before?”
Bea shook her head, and some of her hair got into Ryan’s mouth. He removed it from his lips and kissed her forehead before sitting back up, causing her to slip sideways.
They now faced each other. “What do you think it means?”
“I’ll think about it and let you know, but it sounds like the kind of crazy dream that doesn’t mean anything.”
Bea nodded, satisfied. “I was thinking more about
Elvis: The Miniseries
, and I went back after you left yesterday and watched every movie Jonathan Rhys Meyers made. You guys look the same, move the same, and sound the same. Do you think you could be brothers? He’s only eleven years older than you are.”
“Yeah, but he was born in Dublin. What are the odds a sperm bank sends its juice to Ireland?”
“Maybe his parents were here, then moved there, and then moved back.”
Ryan was dubious. “He has three younger brothers, all accounted for. It’s doubtful they wouldn’t know about me or need help from a fertility clinic to have me. Sounds like all four kids were regular births.”
“He spent time in an orphanage, though. Maybe we don’t have the whole story.”
Ryan sighed, giving up on that idea. “What are we going to watch today?”
They had been watching movies in her bed for months, had celebrated their seventeenth birthdays without fanfare, and were still no closer to finding out who Ryan’s real dad was.
Bea hit the remote and the next Elvis-themed movie began. This one was called
Elvis Has Left The Building
, and it had a roster of impressive stars.
“Read the intro,” Bea begged as words filled the screen. “I don’t want to get up and find my glasses.”
“Elvis Presley died in August 1977. At the time of his death, there were three known Elvis impersonators. Today, there are over fifty thousand. If that figure continues to grow at the present rate, by the year 2012, one out of every four people on the planet will be an Elvis impersonator. In the face of this potential threat to world security, a miracle occurred…and her name was Harmony Jones.”
Bea giggled, and they settled in to watch the show. It opened with actor Gil McKinney, driving his trademark pink Cadillac, giving a little blond girl a ride home. The year on the screen read “1950”, and he was singing “Down by the Riverside”. The girl asked Elvis how she could thank him for the ride, and he told her that maybe someday, she’d do something special for him. Flashing forward to the present day, Harmony was driving her own pink Caddy, selling Pink Lady Cosmetics, knowing Elvis would guide her wherever she went. In the course of the movie, Harmony found herself in the company of Elvis impersonators, all of whom died in freak accidents, culminating in the largest calamity of all, when a roof at a convention center collapsed from the weight of all the Elvis impersonators standing on it, watching the skies, looking for a sign from the King.
“So the favor Harmony did for Elvis was killing off all the Elvis impersonators,” Ryan surmised as Bea clicked the remote and the screen went dark. “I don’t think I liked that movie. Plus, no one in it could be my dad.”
“Are you sure? Go through it for me.”
“Real Elvis Gil McKinney was born in ‘79, so he could be my brother but not my dad. The director, Joel Zwick, who played Squashed Elvis, could be my dad, but he’s pretty famous, and we don’t know if he can sing. Mailbox Elvis was played by Tom Hanks, and the likelihood of Hanks donating sperm to a fertility clinic is remote. Plus, we don’t know if he can sing. Hole-in-the-head Elvis is David Leisure. He’s too much of an oddball to be a serious dad candidate. Then you’ve got Burning Elvis, played by Richard Kind, who’s just a sitcom guy.”————
Bea sighed. “So let’s go over the Elvises in the other movies.”
“We’ve been through them all. Jim Belushi as Elvis in
Easy Six
? No. Henry Herrera as Elvis in
Rancho Cucamonga
? No. Michael de la Force from
Elvis & June: A Love Story
? No. Bruce Campbell in
Bubba Ho-Tep
? Don’t make me laugh.”
“Well, it was a funny movie.”
“Any one of the guys in
3000 Miles to Graceland
? No. Shawn Wayne Klush from
Shake, Rattle and Roll: An American Love Story
? Nope. Harvey Keitel from
Finding Graceland
? Never. Pieter Kuijpers from
Elvis Lives!
? No. You can go all the way back to Kurt Russell, and my dad is
not
Colonel Jack O’Neil from
Stargate
.”
“OK, OK. So maybe we have to go about things differently.”
Ryan started to put his Nikes back on. “We’ve just about run out of Elvis movies anyway. Maybe…” He stopped, fixated on one of the many clocks over Bea’s white desk. “No, that would be crazy.”
“What?”
“When my grandparents came over for dinner, my dad mentioned my mom’s doctor in Vegas. He said his name was Wendall Johns.”
Because their friend Noah was eighteen and had a car, Bea and Ryan convinced him to take a weekend road trip with them, using the cover story that they were off to visit a fellow senior who had to move in the middle of the school year because his dad was transferred at work. Since Zella liked to keep mementos, it had only taken Ryan a month of Saturdays to find the card with Dr. Wendall Johns’s business address and phone number on it, paper-clipped inside a tiny, 1988 calendar that was stapled on the fold.
In Vegas, a woman sat on the second-story porch of the condo she shared with her husband and two young daughters, as Ramona had done so long ago. She was thin, with a head of wispy angel hair, and her girls were sitting at her feet, playing a game of checkers, when Noah, Bea, and Ryan pulled up in Noah’s red Mustang. Noah parked at the curb, and they got out, confused by what they saw. The former fertility clinic had been turned into a tanning salon, plastered with posters of scantily clad men and women with ripped, tanned bodies.
Bea’s sweet but weary voice floated up to the woman on the porch. “Are you sure this is the right address?”
The dark-haired boy who looked like Elvis studied the business card he withdrew from his wallet. “This is it.”
The woman on the porch stood up, stepped over her daughters’ game in progress, and moved to the railing. “What are you looking for?”
The trio looked up, and the dark-haired boy spoke. “Las Vegas Fertility Associates.”
The woman’s angel hair floated around her face like gauze. “That place hasn’t been here for years.”
“What about Dr. Wendall Johns?”
“That’s the guy who ran the place. He retired. Moved to Rolling Hills Estates, over by the golf course. I think the ‘Rolling Hills’ part comes from the fact that to buy a place there, you’ve got to be rolling in hills of cash.”
The teenagers laughed politely and didn’t bother to get directions. Instead, they went back to the car, and the angel-haired lady watched as Ryan helped Bea get into the back seat. The woman wondered what was wrong with the girl and felt sorry for her.