He wasn't conscious of the moment when he made the decision to go all the way to Memphis with her. He simply couldn't make himself do anything else. The driving was good for him, he told himself. He needed a vacation.
As they approached the eastern border of New Mexico, Angela began to cry again. When he couldn't bear it any longer, he snapped at her. "Will you stop it, for God's sake. You didn't even know the man."
"I'll cry if I want to. I didn't invite you to come with me. You can get out any time." She reached for the radio and spun up the volume. Since morning she had been listening to news reports coming from Memphis.
"… the twenty thousand mourners who were lined up along Elvis Presley Boulevard this morning have now swelled to fifty thousand, all of them hoping for a chance to view the body of the King of Rock and Roll as he lies in state in the drawing room at Graceland. Vernon Presley, the father of the singer, has ordered that doors to the estate be opened to allow as many of his fans as possible to file through and pay their respects. Thousands of floral tributes have arrived from all over the world since yesterday after-noon, many of them bearing the simple inscription, 'To the King.' All of the mourners share disbelief that the King is dead…"
Joel snapped off the radio dial. He didn't want to hear about kings dying. He didn't want to think about…
Angela turned the radio back on. He gave her an icy glare-the glare that had intimidated heads of state and corporate presidents. She ignored it.
Outside of Amarillo they blew a tire. The service station was dry and dusty and the heat rose in waves from the cracked asphalt. They sat at a rickety picnic table in the sparse shade of a dying ailanthus tree while they waited for a new tire to be put on.
"Elvis gave so much to me," Angela said. "When I was upset or sad, when my husband Frank treated me like dirt, Elvis was always there. His songs made me feel at peace with myself. This might sound sacrilegious, but I don't mean it to be. Sometimes when I'd kneel in church to pray, I'd look up at the statue of Jesus. And then it would seem like it was Elvis hanging there. He sacrificed so much for us."
Joel couldn't think of a single thing Presley had sacrificed except dignity, but he didn't say so. The woman was crazy. She had to be. But then, what did that say about him?
"Did you go to high school, Joel?" she asked. It was the first time she had addressed him by name. He wasn't accustomed to women like Angela calling him by his first name. He would have preferred her to call him Mr. Faulconer.
"I went to a military academy," he replied stiffly.
"Did they have cheerleaders?"
"No. Certainly not."
"I used to be a cheerleader. I was one of the best." Softly, sadly, under her breath she began to chant, "We've got the team, we've got the steam, go fight. We've got the team, we've got the steam… I was so popular in high school. All the kids liked me because I was never stuck up, not like some of the other girls. I was nice to everybody. You know what I liked best about high school? Your whole life was ahead of you, and in your mind you made all the right choices. In your mind everything came out perfect. Not like real life, when you marry the wrong man and have trouble with your kid. Not like what's happened to you and me."
He jumped up from the picnic bench so suddenly that it tilted, nearly unseating her. "Don't you dare presume to speak for me. My life is perfect. I wouldn't have it any other way."
She gave him a look so sad that it cut right through him. "Then why are you going to Graceland?" she asked softly. "If your life is so perfect, why are you going with me to Graceland?"
He turned away from her. High, dusty weeds spoiled the polish on his expensive shoes. A coffee spot marred the spotless white of his custom-made dress shirt. "I've been tired, that's all. I needed to get away. I need a rest."
This time she was the one who gave a soft snort of disbelief. "Never kid a kidder, Joel. You're even lonelier than me."
He wanted to strike out at her for her presumption, but he couldn't summon up words that were cruel enough. She came up behind him. A hand settled in the center of his back and rubbed gently, like a mother comforting a child. His eyes drifted shut with the pain of her soft, soothing touch.
The service station attendant called out that their tire was ready. It was Angela's turn to drive.
"God has Elvis now," she said as she merged with the traffic in the right lane. "I keep trying to tell myself that."
"Do you really believe that?" he scoffed.
"Don't you?"
"I'm an Episcopalian. I give to the church. Sometimes I even attend, but-no-I don't believe in God."
"I'm sorry," she said sympathetically. "I think it must be harder for men like you to believe. You have so much power that you start thinking you're God, and you forget how unimportant you really are. Then, when bad times hit, you don't have anything to fall back on. With me it's different. I've never been important, and I've had faith all my life."
"God is nothing but a crutch for the ignorant."
"Then I'm glad I'm ignorant, because I don't know what I'd do without Him."
They continued their odyssey-Amarillo to Oklahoma City, Oklahoma City to Little Rock, Little Rock to Memphis-two middle-aged people on their way to Graceland, one of them mourning the passing of her youth, the other on his way to see death so he could make up his mind if he still wanted to live.
They reached Memphis early Thursday morning. A crowd of several thousand had kept vigil at Graceland throughout the night, and it was already difficult to find a parking place anywhere near. Angela parked the Toyota in front of a fire hydrant some distance away. Joel badly needed a shower and clean clothes, as well as a decent meal. He thought of calling a taxi to take him to a hotel. He thought of a dozen things he could do, but he ended up walking to Graceland with her.
The day was already heavy with humidity. Helicopters circled over the mansion, and all the flags they passed hung at half mast. The sight of the flags deeply disturbed him. It seemed inappropriate to mourn a rock and roll singer so lavishly. Would the California flags be flown at half mast when he died? He shook off the thought. He didn't intend to die for a very long time. When he got back home, he would see his doctor and tell him how badly he had been feeling. He would tell him about the tightness in his chest, about the fatigue and depression. He would get some pills, watch his diet, start exercising again.
Although it was still early, souvenir hawkers plied the crowd that had gathered around Graceland's high brick walls and spilled out onto Elvis Presley Boulevard. Weeping mourners hugged Elvis T-shirts to their chests along with photographic postcards and plastic guitars made in Hong Kong. Joel found the vulgarity unspeakable.
The funeral cortege would be emerging through Graceland's famous music gate, and Angela wanted to be able to see it all. Joel moved her to the front of the crowd that had gathered in the shopping center directly across the street. It took some time, but despite his disheveled appearance, people sensed his importance and made way for them. He noted the heavy police presence and numerous first-aid stations set up to tend to those who were fainting from heat or hysteria. The city officials were obviously worried about the temper of the crowd, which seemed to change indiscriminately from a noisy outpouring of grief to almost carnival gaiety. A woman in green rubber shower thongs told Angela that at four o'clock that morning a kid in a white Ford had jumped the curb and hit three teenage girls who were keeping vigil. Now two of them were dead. Life seemed increasingly arbitrary to Joel.