GRACIE, THE INVISIBLE DOG

by

LYNNE MURPHY

When Paula Sinclair’s doctor told her she was losing her eyesight, after the initial shock, her first thought was, “Maybe now Boyd will let me get a dog.”

Her diagnosis hadn’t come as a surprise. For some time, people had seemed to appear out of nowhere into her line of sight, popping up beside her desk at work, or unexpectedly crossing her path on the subway platform.

“Loss of peripheral vision,” Dr. Greenberg said. “One of the effects of retinitis pigmentosa.“

The doctor went on to explain that there was no treatment for RP. The vision loss would continue, and then, perhaps many years from now, she might go completely blind.

“No family history of the condition?” the doctor asked. “If it’s hereditary, it usually shows up earlier. You’re what, 49?”

“Fifty,” Paula said. “Both my parents are gone, so I can’t ask them. But I never heard anyone in my family mention this.”

“You may have a mutant gene. We can send you for testing, in case there’s new research that can help. In the meantime, there are agencies in Toronto, the CNIB for example, that have visual aids. It’s best to be prepared.”

That was when Paula thought about getting a dog.

She had grown up with dogs, but her husband, Boyd, had never liked them. He thought they were dirty nuisances. “Always having to be walked and have their messes cleaned up.”

Paula wondered if he’d had a bad experience with a dog as a child, but there was nothing he could remember. He just didn’t like “those beasts.”

So, during their almost 30 years of marriage, Paula had contented herself with pet cats, one after the other. She was in mourning right now for Sukey, a bad-tempered Siamese, who had allowed them to live in her house for the past 16 years. But a cat wasn’t a dog.

When she told Boyd about the diagnosis, he began making plans. Boyd loved making plans. And lists. She found them everywhere in the house. On the fridge door, on his bedside table, beside the phone.

“Braille lessons,” he said, writing it down. “Talking books. Get rid of clutter you might trip over. Call Salvation Army pickup. What else can we do right away?”

“I was thinking about a helper dog,” Paula said diffidently. “Of course, I may not need one for a long time yet.”

“Oh, you might never need one,” Boyd said. “I’ll be retiring from the bank in seven years. If things progress slowly, like Greenberg said, then I’ll be at home with you, and I can be your eyes.”

Paula wondered why she wasn’t more grateful for this suggestion.

Paula called her daughter, Sophie, in Montreal, to give her the bad news. She tried to make light of the diagnosis, stressing what the doctor had said about “many years.”

But Sophie understood how devastating the prospects were, and they both cried a little. She also understood about the longing for a dog. She had adopted a stray, Callie, from a shelter as soon as she’d left home and had her own place.

“Good luck talking Dad into coming around,” Sophie said. “He’s more likely to let you get a helper horse.” She promised to come home soon for a visit, but without Callie.

Paula’s best friend was also sympathetic. Joyce, a librarian, enjoyed doing research, so she started looking into guide dogs right away.

“What kind of dog would you get if you had your choice?” she asked Paula one Saturday morning as they drank coffee in Joyce’s kitchen.

They usually met for coffee at Joyce’s when Boyd was home, and Boyd was nearly always home on Saturdays. In summer, he worked in the garden, and in winter, he worked on the house. Joyce’s yappy little terrier, Fergus, was not welcome at the Sinclairs’, and Joyce hated to be parted from her dog on her day off.

“A golden dog. A retriever or a Lab. Female. And you know what? I’ve always wanted to call a dog Gracie, after Grace Kelly.” When Paula was younger, someone had told her that she looked like Grace Kelly, and she’d had a soft spot for the actress ever since.

“You and your old movies.” Joyce looked up from her iPad. “Yes, it says here short-haired dogs are the best because they’re easier to groom. And they need to be a good size, but not too big to control. I can see Gracie now, Paula, trotting proudly along, showing you the way.”

“So can I,” Paula said wistfully.

Paula had always talked aloud to Sukey when she was alone in the house with her, saying things like, “Time I started dinner, Sukey.” She began picturing a dog sitting on the floor at her feet, watching her every move. One day, she found herself talking to Gracie as she had to Sukey. She shook her head. Better not let Boyd hear her. He’d think she was losing it.

As Dr. Greenberg had predicted, Paula’s vision continued to deteriorate, though slowly. Over the next few years, Gracie became more and more real to her. When she and Joyce were together, they indulged themselves, creating a dog with personality and quirks.

Gracie had a past. Some of her former owners had met unfortunate ends, such as walking in front of a bus or backing into a buzz saw. Gracie never explained what they were doing in that sawmill.

“She loves hospitals,” Paula reported to Joyce. “I took her with me when I went for my mammogram this week, and she followed the woman ahead of me in for her test. Well, you should have seen the look of horror on Gracie’s face when they came out of that room.”

“I bet she tried to stop you going in,” Joyce said, entering into the fantasy.

“She did. It was all I could do to get away from her and have my mammogram.”

They both laughed. That day, when Paula was leaving after her latest visit and had said, “Come on, Gracie,” Joyce had looked down to make sure she didn’t catch Gracie’s tail in the door. “I’m getting just as silly as you are, Paula,” she said.

Sophie was another big fan of her mother’s invisible companion, but she had been warned not to talk about her. Especially after Callie sent her love to Gracie in an email to Sophie’s parents, and Paula had to explain that to Boyd. He was not amused. Boyd had no time for whimsy.

“Imaginary animals—that’s bordering on second childhood, Paula.”

“Gracie isn’t imaginary. She’s invisible.” Even as she said this, Paula knew it was a mistake.

Boyd was enraged. “You and Sophie are being foolish,” he shouted. “There is no such thing as being invisible.”

He stalked off, but later that day, over dinner, he tried to offer a compromise. “How about we get another cat?”

Paula thought she heard a growl from under her chair. “I don’t know if I want the work of another cat,” she said quickly.

That was the day Boyd started Paula nagging to take early retirement. It made her nervous. She had worked as a paralegal at the same small law firm ever since Sophie had started kindergarten. Her employers were proud of the “family” atmosphere in the office. They provided the aids she needed to work, such as magnifying screens for her computer.

“Take early retirement or disability,” Boyd said. “Maybe I could take early retirement, too. That way, I would be here to drive you whenever you go out. You aren’t really safe on transit.”

Paula couldn’t repress a shiver. She didn’t want to be driven anywhere until it was absolutely necessary. And then, she heard a growly voice, down near her knees, say, “Mr. Bossy Pants.”

Before she had time to think, she said, “Gracie!” She looked up at Boyd, who was staring at her.

“You aren’t talking to that imaginary dog again, are you?” His shock was evident in his tone of voice. “Paula, this is beyond a joke. You need to see a specialist.”

“I don’t want to retire, Boyd,” she said, trying to ignore the slip she had made. “I enjoy getting out and being with people every day. And I’m fine on the subway now that I have my identity cane. People make way for me.”

She hoped this would divert his attention from Gracie and start a discussion of her cane. Boyd didn’t like her using it when they were out together. He claimed people stared at them. Paula took it with her anyway, in case they became separated in a crowd and she had to manage on her own.

But Boyd was not being sidetracked.

“A therapist. You need a therapist.” He took out his notepad and began to write. “I’ll phone Greenberg and see if he can suggest someone. Or maybe I should go with you to your next appointment. Yes, that would be better. We can get these things ironed out.”

“I don’t want to retire early,” she told Joyce the Saturday after this argument. She was almost tearful. “Boyd is just concerned for me, I know that, but my work is important to me. And to be stuck at home all day with him hovering over me, organizing my time…” She shuddered. “Today, he’s putting Braille labels on all the cannisters and the cupboard doors. I haven’t even learned Braille yet. But he has.”

“He needs another interest in life,” Joyce said. “I guess he can’t work in the garden today, with the rain.”

“He was desperate for something to do. So he got out the label maker this morning, and he’s having the best time. Kept showing me each cannister as he labeled it. I guess I should be grateful that he cares about me so much.”

There was a derisive snort from near the floor. Joyce didn’t react, but Fergus pricked up his ears and gave a little yip.

“And he’s insisting on seeing Dr. Greenberg with me next week. To ask about therapy. Joyce, I don’t need therapy. I’m dealing with this the best I can. On my own.”

“And you have Gracie,” Joyce said.

Boyd took the day off from his job at the bank to accompany Paula to her appointment with Dr. Greenberg. He was not happy with how the visit went. The doctor told him Paula was coping very well with her disability, and he wasn’t worried about her state of mind.

“Your wife is an independent woman,” he said. “I admire her spirit.”

On their way home, on the subway platform, Boyd was fuming.

“I don’t care for that man,” he said. “I think you should change doctors. He hasn’t helped you at all. Your eyes keep getting worse. And he doesn’t seem to recognize your mental problems. It’s not normal. An imaginary dog, for God’s sake. You have to get rid of this obsession, Paula.”

There was a snarl from near Paula’s knees. Then everything happened at once.

The train rushed into the station, and Boyd stepped forward. Suddenly, he glanced behind him, a startled look on his face. His knees buckled, and he fell forward onto the tracks in front of the oncoming train.

Brakes screeched, and people nearby began screaming. And Paula thought she heard a voice she knew saying, “Effing control freak.”

#

After Paula had been checked at the hospital for shock, Joyce came to take her home. Sophie had been notified, and was on her way to Toronto. The two women sat in Paula’s kitchen, drinking tea with lots of sugar in it. Fergus had come with Joyce, but he seemed nervous, and just wanted to sit in her lap instead of exploring the house.

“The police told me that a man on the platform across from us thought he saw a gold-colored animal standing behind Boyd just before he fell,” Paula said. “Of course, that’s ridiculous.”

From under her chair came a steady panting. Gracie was laughing.

---

Mme Catherine Astolfo’s new book, Auntie Beers, published by Carrick Publishing, is now available on Amazon! Auntie Beers is series of interconnected tales told to the author by her mother, as well as a mystery that she couldn’t resist sharing.

Witty, raw and often poignant and crafted by an award-winning crime writer, one of Canada’s leading story-tellers.

To get your copy, here’s the link.

THE DOLLHOUSE

by

CAT MILLS

Charlotte opened the back door of the Jeep. Her dog, Artie, bounded out and immediately ran around to the side of the house, sniffing every tree and bush.

She warmed her hands deep in her pockets and surveyed her property. When she’d viewed the house three months ago, it was in the midst of summer, and the land was warm and cheery. The house looked different now—somewhat shabby, the lawn a little overgrown. Was it quaint, or eerie?

When she’d first seen it, the house looked big and magical, though beat-up. Tiny trees were sprouting in the eavestroughs. Green flecks of paint decorated the lawn. Her real estate agent had warned her about the sea air and what it could do to an old house.

Now she didn’t know how to feel. A weird energy coursed through her body. Half of her wanted to explore her new home, her fresh start; the other half wanted to crawl into a hole filled with blankets and die.

A scraping noise pulled her back to reality. She noticed Artie at the back of the yard, digging furiously.

She approached him slowly, growing alarmed.

Old bricks lay in a circle. On top of them lay a round wooden cover, damp and rotting. Artie was clawing his way around the bricks. Her pulse throbbed in her neck.

Her mother’s panic-stricken voice echoed in her mind: Stay away from the well!

She grabbed Artie by the collar and pulled him toward the house. He looked back a few times before giving in and following her to the front yard. She’d fill in that well in the spring. Wells were dangerous, vile things. She didn’t want one anywhere near the house.

She took out her rabbit’s-foot keychain, slid the house key into the lock, and walked into her new life.

The house was filled with boxes, her handwriting labeling the tops. Her possessions had arrived a few days earlier. Looking at them drained her energy. Perhaps she should have started afresh with brand-new objects, none associated with her past life.

She looked out the bay window at the deep blue sea. There were a few wisps of cloud over the water; a fogbank was growing on the horizon. The setting sun had lit everything pink. The leaves on the surrounding trees were dazzling orange, red. and yellow. Everything looked warm, despite the chilly October air. This peaceful space was all hers.

She unearthed the glasses, and opened the champagne left by her real estate agent. As she drank, her shoulders fell, her body relaxed.

She crouched down on the floor and pulled a large box toward her. Slicing through the packing tape, she opened the flaps and peered in at a childhood relic—her dollhouse.

Her ex-husband had always hated it. He claimed he found it creepy. Despite her pleas, he insisted it stay boxed up in the garage, saying they didn’t have space in their home for “that monstrosity”. But Philip was gone; he’d walked out on her in a way she had grown to expect from men. He no longer mattered. This was her house. She would decide what stayed and what went where.

Her beloved dollhouse was a gift from her father. He’d painstakingly taken each measurement and chiseled every detail to create a perfect replica of her childhood home. Its furniture was a near match for the real thing. When she gazed into it, she was transported back to the 1960s by the shag carpet, record player, and avocado-colored bathtub.

In the living room, she found three bubble-wrapped dolls: her mother, her father and herself. As a child, she’d marveled at the mini-people. Now, seeing them as an adult, they looked generic and vague. The only thing that identified them were the small wigs glued to their wooden heads.

Lovingly, she placed her father in the basement workshop next to the wooden worktable. Beside him, on a stool, she placed herself. It was a special treat to watch him work, because he was always busy and rarely at home.

Sometimes when he worked on the dollhouse, he would tell her about the war. Though he never took his eyes off what he was doing, she could sense him drift back to France. Often, he would go quiet. She’d felt embarrassed by his silence, and would look away from his face, focusing instead on his gold watch. She could still hear it: tick, tick, tick. She struggled to recall the sound of her father’s voice, but she never forgot the sound of the watch.

To this day, she refused to wear a watch or keep a clock in the house.

She unwrapped the doll of her mother, letting her hands glide over the elegant green dress and her mother’s dark hair. She placed her mother in the master bedroom, the one room in the dollhouse that remained unfinished. In their original home, the master bedroom had a grand four-poster bed, scarlet drapes, and antique furniture. The room in the dollhouse was white. Bare. Ugly.

Looking back, she thought she’d been a disappointment to her mother. She had been a tomboy, and her mother a lady. The only thing her mother talked to her about was her father: his philandering ways, how badly he treated them both, and how he had a family elsewhere. Charlotte had never known whether this information was true, or what she was supposed to do with it.

She gently swung the front of the dollhouse closed and placed the hook on its latch. She ran her fingers down the length of the cord at the back, plugged it into the wall, and flicked the switch. Every room lit up magically, except the master bedroom light. The bulb there had a slight flicker; she would have to replace it.

She walked over to the couch and slumped down on it. She took a sip of champagne, and admired the dollhouse: its frosted glass windows, red front door, and carefully crafted flower bed edging the front path. Had her parents ever been happy? Was that the reason her own marriage had been so unbearable?

She placed her wine glass on the coffee table and put her head down on the armrest. Artie curled up on the small rug by her feet. She felt her heavy eyelids close—just before a shadow moved inside the dollhouse, and a tiny door closed.

#

Ambrose was a beautiful town, if you could call it a town. It was more like a foggy shoreline, with the occasional cluster of houses, and ports used by fishermen for two centuries.

Weeks passed, and Charlotte slowly filled her large, empty home with woolly blankets, candle holders, and colorful vases—even a piece of local art showing the foggy harbor. She met a few neighbors, friendly busybodies who were curious about the single woman From Away who lived in the big house.

Her job interviews had gone well. The region was in desperate need of medical professionals, even assistants like herself. She needed to be busy, so her mind would not drift to other, unwanted places.

One afternoon, she treated herself to a bouquet of flowers. She’d filled a vase with water when her eyes glanced over to the dollhouse. How quiet it had gotten outside; the normal cacophony of seagulls and distant traffic was gone.

She put down the vase and opened the dollhouse . Her eyes fell on her mother’s doll, standing in the master bedroom. Her glance drifted down to the garage, where her own doll sat alone on the stool.

Father was missing. Her blood went cold.

She looked in every room and couldn’t find him. She opened armoires and moved beds, but he was gone.

She stared down at the dollhouse, her arms limp at her sides. Where could he be? She walked to the bay window and looked out into her backyard. The brick well lay hidden by the tall grass. Its rotten wooden cover glistened with damp. Everything looked bleak. Foggy. Dull.

She looked back at the dollhouse. Her father had carved a plank and painted it green before he’d attached it to the back of the house. It was their backyard.

Her father’s doll was standing in the middle of the yard.

Charlotte picked up the doll and threw it into the dollhouse. Her hands trembled uncontrollably; her head pounded. She needed to get away.

Artie leaped up from the couch, and started jumping and whining. She grabbed his leash, opened the front door, and he bounded out.

#

She was 12 years old. It had been a hot, humid summer—the kind that leaves a sticky layer of sweat and dust all over one’s body. She’d been away at camp in the Laurentians, swimming in the cool lake waters and fostering a crush on the cute boy in the cabin next to hers.

She’d planned on taking the bus home. Her parents never picked her up from camp; they were always too busy with work or social gatherings. So, when she approached the bus with her duffle bag over her shoulder, she was shocked to find her mother waiting in their old, mint-green Cadillac.

Her skin prickled; something was very wrong.

As they drove over the bumpy dirt roads, her mother was quiet. Charlotte looked out the window, and waited for her to speak. Eventually, she did.

Her father was gone; he’d left in the middle of the night with his suitcase. He had finally abandoned them, her mother coolly explained as she changed lanes.

Charlotte remembered feeling empty. It wasn’t just the abandonment that chilled her; it was her mother’s indifference.

It was the longest day of her life.

She sat with Artie on the edge of the pier, looking out over the stormy waters. The whitecaps were growing. The wind was picking up, but she didn’t notice. She was looking into the past, and all she saw were the trees passing by the Cadillac’s window as her mother gave her the news that shut part of her heart away forever.

After her father left, Charlotte’s mother took on a new life. She laughed more and was nicer to Charlotte. They started going to galleries and bonded over art. She’d lost her father, but finally had a mother—a mother who became fiercely protective of her, who gave her an early curfew so she wouldn’t get into trouble.

That’s when her mother became terrified of wells. She told Charlotte stories about children falling into them and being trapped forever. Charlotte started having nightmares about being at the bottom of the well, the only sound a clock slowly ticking.

Rain started to pelt down. Artie whined, shaking Charlotte from her memories. She looked up and noticed a black storm cloud overheard. The rain was rapidly picking up, the wind blew a spray of sea mist into her face. She grabbed Artie’s leash, and together they raced home, her clothes growing wet and heavier by the second.

The power was out when they got back inside. Charlotte flicked the switches in vain. A crack of lightning lit up the windows. She darted around the house, opening the windows to close the outside shutters.

Boom! Crack! The storm was directly overhead. Artie whimpered. Charlotte grabbed him and climbed onto the couch, pulling the blankets around them both.  Her eyes locked on the flashes of white light outside.

She fell into a dark, confined place. Her whole body ached. She was wet, up to her shoulders in cold, muddy water. She couldn’t feel her legs. Was she floating or touching the ground? Darkness enveloped her. Every sound was muffled, everything except the ticking of a clock.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

She bolted upright, clutching her throat, shaking and covered in a cold sweat.

The storm was still raging, but the thunder was gone. Her eyes fell on the dollhouse. The lights were on. The front of the house was open. Her father’s doll was gone.

She couldn’t see him, but she knew where she’d find him.

She ran outside, barefoot. Her feet squished in the waterlogged soil; cold mud squeezed up between her toes. Her cardigan stuck to her arms.

A bolt of lightning lit up the sky as she trudged forward.

Stay away from the well!

She grabbed its rotten wooden lid. It felt like a thick sponge and splintered in her hand. She heaved it aside and stared down into the darkness.

The storm silenced. The world disappeared as she stared down into the well. Then she heard it.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

Muddy water soaked into her jeans. Her fingers sunk into the soil, water bubbling around. She knew why her mother had kept her away from their well.

Finally, she cried.

#

Next morning, the sun was bright, the brightest Charlotte had ever seen. It pierced through the few remaining leaves on the trees, making them look like fire.

Charlotte crouched over the dollhouse. Carefully, she spread white mortar on a tiny clay block. With the precision of a surgeon, she placed the final brick in place. A small circle of red bricks stood out against the painted green grass.

She left her mother’s doll in the bedroom, where it was sterile and cold. That is where she would stay. Alone.

Lovingly, she picked up her father and smoothed out his shirt. She gazed at his tiny wooden face and blond wig. There were no words to say; nothing left to feel. She put her father’s doll into the well. Slowly, she placed the lid on top.

She took her own doll out of the workshop and slipped it into her pocket.

The storm was gone; the sunlight had chased away the darkness.

She led Artie across the dirt road. Together, they walked past the brambles to the shoreline. There, she climbed on top of a large boulder. Artie followed her, his claws scraping the rock. He sat down beside her.

Together, they watched the glass-like water and a lonely blue heron fly by.

It was time to put the dollhouse back in the box.

THE END

 

FAREWELL TO THE KING

by

ROSEMARY MCCRACKEN

When the news broke that the King of Rock ’n’ Roll had died, Les Moms were beyond consolation. We knew the words to every song the King had recorded. We’d lost our dearest friend.

The four of us gathered at Toni’s apartment that morning. Elvis was singing “Are You Lonesome Tonight?” on the record player when I arrived.

“There’ll never be another like him,” Mai-Lei wailed. “Elvis was the King. He was ours!” Her pretty face was wet with tears.

“We should hold a wake,” Cécile said. “Stay up all night to show how much we miss him.”

I lowered myself onto the sofa with Robbie strapped to my chest in his Snugli. “Sleep tonight, my friends,” I told them. “Tomorrow, we go to the King’s funeral.”

They stopped what they were doing and stared at me.

Toni, jiggling little Gabriella on her hip, was the first to speak. “The funeral is in Memphis, Paula. And in case you don’t know, Memphis is south of the border in the U.S. of A.”

“Toni’s right,” Mai-Lei said. “There’s no way we can get from Montreal to Memphis for the funeral tomorrow afternoon.”

I waved off their protests. “Bon Voyage Travel is offering a charter flight to Elvis Presley’s funeral. The first 150 people who put their money down will leave Dorval Airport at 7:30 tomorrow morning.”

They stared at me with wide eyes and open mouths.

“A bus will take us to the Elvis sites in Memphis,” I told them. “And we’ll be back in Montreal tomorrow night. What do you say?”

“What would that cost us?” Mai-Lei asked.

“One hundred and sixty-five dollars each.”

“Mon dieu!” Cécile cried.

“And a babysitter on top of that?” Mai-Lei said. “Dream on.”

“It’s not impossible,” I told them. “One hundred and sixty-five dollars is five dollars a week for the next 33 weeks. We’ll give up smoking for Elvis. And we all know someone we can leave our kids with for a day.”

“Might work for the three of you,” Toni said. “You’re not breastfeeding.” She looked down at Gabriella.

“Pierre would let you go to Memphis?” Cécile asked me.

“Pierre can’t stop me,” I said. “The cops nailed him in a raid last week. He’s doin’ the Jailhouse Rock.”

The girls giggled uneasily.

“We have to do this,” I told them. “For us. We can tell our kids we were at Elvis Presley’s funeral in 1977.”

“We’d need the money today,” Mai-Lei said. “That won’t be easy.”

But we managed to get it. Toni raided the joint bank account she had with Rocco, her husband. Cécile wheedled it out of her horny father-in-law. Mai-Lei dipped into the till at her brother’s restaurant. And I cleaned out the emergency fund I’d created by squirreling away money from Pierre’s grocery allowance.

That afternoon, we took the Métro to Bon Voyage Travel and bought our tickets.

As soon as I got home, I made the call. “Change of plans,” I said. “Gonna say farewell to the King in Memphis. I’ll be behind the buses outside Forest Hill Cemetery.”

“Suspicious Minds” was on the radio when I hung up. Elvis was singing about being caught in a trap. I was determined to get out of mine.

#

Toni arrived at the airport with Gabriella the next morning.

“You gotta be kidding, Antonia,” Cécile said, rolling her eyes.

“I’m breastfeeding and Gaby won’t take a bottle. I can’t go without her,” Toni said. “But she’ll be no trouble. All she does is sleep and feed and poop.”

“You’d better be right,” Mai-Lei grumbled.

Toni looked down at my feet. “Blue suede shoes, Paula?”

I shrugged. “They were good enough for Elvis.”

Mei-Lei pulled a camera out of her backpack. “We gotta have a group shot with Paula’s blue suede shoes in the middle.”

“Monsieur,” I called out to a man in a business suit, “would you take our photo?”

We posed for several shots. Then we remembered why we were at the airport and scrambled to make our flight. We found ourselves breathless in the departure lounge with dozens of other women. Many were in their twenties like us, but there were several teenagers, and a good number of older women. They wore Elvis T-shirts and Elvis ball caps and Elvis badges. Many of them were in tears.

The King was crooning “It’s Now or Never” over the sound system as we filed into the airplane.

I sank into my window seat and tried to relax.

“If I died today, my life would be complete,” Cécile moaned when she sat down beside me. “I’ll be with him this afternoon in Memphis.”

“I’ve never felt so close to him,” I heard Mai-Lei tell Toni in front of us.

Gaby, we soon learned, did more than sleep and feed and poop. She screamed at the top of her lungs. As the plane climbed into the sky, she started to howl and she didn’t let up.

“Shut that damn kid up!” a woman shouted across the aisle.

“Yeah, shut her up,” Cécile muttered beside me.

“Air pressure in her ears,” I called out to Toni. “Nurse her to make her swallow.”

Was I ever glad I’d left Robbie with my landlady.

The airline provided coffee and pop, and we’d brought peanut-butter-and-banana sandwiches, Elvis’s favorite. “Hey, it’s not fancy,” Cécile said when we’d shared our cookies and Rice Krispy squares, “but I’d rather be eating lunch here with Elvis than in the fanciest restaurant in the world.”

Mai-Lei heaved a sigh. “I can’t believe he’ll never release another record.”

“Don’t be cruel,” Toni said with a groan, and moved Gaby to her other boob.

Cécile stopped munching her sandwich. “It’s over. The King is gone.” 

#

After four-and-a-half hours in the air, we landed at Memphis International. The airport was a circus, packed with fans carrying Elvis posters, waving Elvis banners, wearing Elvis caps and T-shirts and rhinestone jumpsuits.

But going through customs was a breeze. “How long will you be in the United States?” the frazzled agent asked me.

“Just a few hours,” I said, my heart hammering in my ears. “We’re going to Elvis Presley’s funeral, then flying home.”

“Tell me something new,” he muttered and waved me through.

No one asked to look in my handbag.

Outside the terminal building, the heat and humidity nearly bowled us over. Mai-Lei snapped photos of us hamming it up with the Elvis Forever sign I’d made. I took the camera and got a few shots of her.

Then we boarded our air-conditioned bus. “Cool in here and there’s a toilet at the back,” Cécile said, nabbing a window seat behind Toni and Mai-Lei. “We could stay on this bus until it’s time to fly home.”

I took the aisle seat beside her.

“Why didn’t we ever see Elvis in concert?” she asked, her brown eyes filled with tears.

“Because he only came to Canada once. Back in 1957, and we were in in kindergarten then.”

“We should have gone to see him in the States. The one trip we ever took for him was to his funeral.”

I reached over and patted her hand.

“I’m Virgil, your driver this afternoon,” the bus driver announced. “Welcome to Memphis, the city that gave the world the Holiday Inns. And Elvis Aaron Presley, the King of Rock ’n’ Roll.”

Elvis’s name was greeted by whoops and cheers and clapping. Mai-Lei turned in the seat in front of us and gave Cécile and me a thumbs-up.

“All flags in Memphis are at half-mast,” Virgil continued as he maneuvered the bus through the airport parking lot. “And traffic’s the worst I ever seen. Thousands of people from all over the world are here to say goodbye to the King, same as you. On top of that, 16,000 Shriners are in town for their convention. Good thing you folks fly out tonight. There’s not a hotel room to be had in all of Memphis.”

We merged into the city traffic. “We’ll be spending the afternoon in the suburb of Whitehaven,” Virgil said. “Whitehaven is 12 miles south of downtown Memphis, and its best-known landmark is Graceland, the King’s home.”

The passengers responded with more whoops and cheers. Gaby let out a wail, and Toni did her best to pacify her.

We crawled through the streets. About 20 minutes later, we managed to merge onto a major thoroughfare where traffic was almost at a standstill. “Elvis Presley Boulevard,” Virgil said. “In 1971, the City of Memphis changed the name of this stretch of Highway 51 in honor of the King.”

Creeping north on Elvis Presley Boulevard, we passed a Denny’s Restaurant with a gigantic flower arrangement in the shape of a guitar, a muffler shop with a hound-dog floral display, and a car dealership with Rest in Peace Elvis on its neon billboard. At a light, a uniformed police officer crossed the boulevard in front of our bus holding a young woman in his arms. She must have passed out from the heat, or maybe from the excitement.

Then we were in front of Graceland’s famous metal gates with their musical notes. Police officers were holding fans back. Down the drive, I glimpsed the white mansion fronted by four pillars and two stone lions.

“Graceland, the King’s home,” Virgil said.

“C’est extraordinaire!” Cécile’s voice was filled with reverence.

The bus went completely silent for several moments. Until Gaby started to scream.

“Damn kid!” someone shouted.

Elvis’s “Love Me Tender” wafted over the sound system, and Gaby quieted right down.

“When the King bought Graceland back in 1957,” Virgil said when the song was over. “this was way out in the country. But this area’s grown up in the past 20 years.”

“Can we get off and take photos at the gates?” Mai-Lei called out.

“No, ma’am,” Virgil said. “Private funeral service starts in there in 10 minutes. You shoulda been here yesterday. Thousands went in to pay their respects. They were lined up for blocks down the street.”

“I don’t care,” Toni shouted back to us. “I’m livin’ my dream just seeing Graceland.”

“I can feel Elvis all around me,” Mai-Lei yelled over her. “He lived and died in there.”

Beside me, a sobbing Cécile leaned back in her seat, clutching her heart. In front of her, Mai-Lei snapped photos through the window.

People were standing and sitting on the branches of the trees beside Graceland Christian Church, Elvis’s neighbor to the north, trying to see beyond the rock wall. The church grounds were littered with pop cans and fast-food wrappers.

We crawled north on Elvis Presley Boulevard. Crowds thronged the sides of the street, wooden barricades holding them back from the traffic. At Forest Hill Cemetery’s main gates, we pulled into a parking lot filled with rows of buses.

“We can watch the funeral procession go into the cemetery from here,” Virgil said. “Only invited guests are allowed in there, but you folks can get off the bus and walk around. We’ll wait here until the procession leaves the cemetery.”

We followed him into the heat outside. He joined a group of drivers having a smoke. We stood fanning ourselves in the shade of a tree at the edge of the parking lot.

“Seems this is as good as it gets,” I said to the girls. “It’s a downer that we can’t go into Graceland or the cemetery.”

“That would’ve been out of sight,” Toni said, “but it’s enough for me just to be in Memphis. Elvis knows we’re here for him. And Gaby’s happy here too.” She patted her sleeping infant’s head.

“Careful,” Mai-Lei said. “Don’t wake her up.”

I lit a cigarette, and Toni waved me away. “Don’t smoke near my baby.”

We watched the procession come up the boulevard. It was led by a silver Cadillac, followed by a white Cadillac hearse and 17 white Cadillac limousines. A helicopter hovered overhead. People on the sides of the road reached out their arms as the hearse drove by.

“He’s in there!” Cécile cried as the hearse approached us. She started to run towards it.

Mai-Lei and I held her back, and she collapsed, sobbing, in our arms. But she pulled herself together a few moments later. “Let’s hold hands,” she said, her eyes on the procession.

The four of us gripped one another’s hands as the vehicles turned into Forest Hill Cemetery. Then we hugged and pledged our eternal love for Elvis.

Mai-Lei pulled a portable tape recorder from her pack. “I need to hear his voice.”

“We can hold a vigil in the bus while he’s put into the ground,” Toni said.

“Not in the ground, Toni,” Cécile chided. “In the Presley family vault.”

“Let’s do it,” Mai-Lei said, and they turned towards the bus.

“I’ll be with you in a few minutes,” I called after them. “I need another smoke.”

I took a homemade badge out of my handbag proclaiming that Montreal Loves Elvis and pinned it on my blouse. Then I lit a cigarette and headed behind the buses. No one seemed to be following me.

So I jumped when I felt a tap on my shoulder. A woman of about my age with a mane of teased black hair stood behind me. She looked like a tough, street-smart version of Priscilla Presley.

She glanced down at my badge, then scrutinized my face. “Montreal blonde who loves Elvis. You must be Paula.”

I nodded, and she pointed to the badge she was wearing: Knoxville Loves Elvis. “I’m Larissa. Come with me.”

I looked around nervously. Other than the two of us, there was no one behind the buses. I followed her.

She pulled up in front of the wire fence. I looked around again. We were completely alone. I reached into my handbag and removed a packet from the false bottom. Larissa quickly slid it into her shoulder bag, and pulled out a small, fat envelope. She showed me that it was filled with large American bills. I slipped it into my handbag, and she sauntered off, disappearing between two buses.

By this time, hundreds, maybe thousands of people had congregated outside the cemetery gates. I crossed the road, and glimpsed a sea of flowers beyond the gates. I chatted with a police officer who was doing crowd control. He’d been a year behind Elvis at Humes High School, and had seen the King perform at the annual talent show just months before he graduated in 1953. “He put a foot on a chair, strummed his guitar and sang his heart out. For me, that’s when rock ’n’ roll was born.”

At a sidewalk souvenir stand, I bought four black T-shirts stamped with Elvis’s face and the words Love Me Tender, four Elvis coffee mugs and four Elvis baby bibs. I put my Montreal Loves Elvis badge back in my handbag and ran for the bus. My blouse was drenched with sweat and sticking to my skin.

“We been waitin’ for you,” Virgil said as I climbed aboard. “Funeral procession left five minutes ago.”

I smiled and thanked him. Back in my seat, I handed out my Elvis gifts to my friends. “Let’s wear our Elvis shirts back to Canada,” I said. I needed to change out of my sweaty blouse.

We took turns in the washroom at the back of the bus. “This has been the best day in my entire life,” Mai-Lei said when she returned to her seat.

Outside the airport, Mai-Lei took a photo of Virgil in his driver’s seat. Inside the terminal, she snapped photos of us in our new T-shirts.

On the plane, we listened to Elvis and dozed a bit. A few people complained to Toni that Gaby’s disposables were stinking up the washroom. I told her not to pay them any mind.

Cécile placed a gentle hand on my arm. “Merci, Paula,” she said. “I can tell my grandkids I was at Elvis’s funeral.”

She pulled the baby bib from her bag. “And they can wear this!”

#

“They’re searching bags and purses,” Cécile whispered in the lineup for Canadian customs.

My heart slammed into my throat.

“It’s gonna take forever to get through here,” Toni whined, “and Gaby’s diaper needs changing.”

Gaby let out a howl.

“Phew!” Mai-Lei wrinkled her nose. “I can smell it.”

Toni’s eyes flashed daggers at Mai-Lei. “Your kid don’t poop?”

“He poops at home, which is where yours should be, Antonia. We’ve had to put up with Gaby all day.”

Toni moved closer to Mai-Lei, but Cécile edged between them. “Arrêtez, vous deux! Let it go. We’ve had a long day, and we’re all tired and cranky.” She whispered something to Mai-Lei, and steered her ahead of her in line.

“I’ll take the baby for awhile,” I said to Toni. When I had the Snugli strapped in place, I motioned for Toni to walk ahead of me. I slipped the envelope of cash into the Snugli, pushing it down into Gaby’s diaper.

My gut was twisting as we neared the customs counter. “You’d better take Gaby now,” I said to Toni when we were almost at the front of the line.

“Anything to declare?” the Canadian customs officer asked as he searched my handbag. He had a bad case of acne and looked like he was still in high school.

My heart hammered as I held up my Elvis mug. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw another officer going through Toni’s diaper bag at the counter beside us. Gaby was screaming in her Snugli. The officer waved Toni on.

“And this T-shirt,” I added, thrusting out my chest for my officer. “I was at Elvis Presley’s funeral.”

“Far out!” he said, ogling my breasts. He didn’t bother looking in the handbag that I held wide open for him.

In the ladies’ room, Toni slipped the Snugli’s straps off her shoulders. “Hold Gaby while I take a leak.” She thrust the baby into my arms and went into a cubicle.

I reached into the Snugli and pulled out the envelope. I wrapped it in a paper towel and stuffed it in my handbag.

“Thanks, Paula,” Toni said, when she took Gaby from me. “What would we do without you?”

#

I hugged my handbag to my chest as we headed into the city on the airport bus. “Thank you, Elvis,” I whispered. “You made it work.”

The money from Pierre’s drug stash would mean a fresh start for me and Robbie, away from Pierre and his fists. I would miss Montreal and Les Moms, but that couldn’t be helped.

And I would always have Memphis.

THE END