IMPERSONATOR

© 2002 by Philippe Ramakers

I was in bed with Mike Roth when the call came from my mother. We were half-awake, snuggled together, as the early light filtered through the blinds and the mocking birds outside the window cooed like doves. Mike's erection, an early morning promise, was warm against my thigh. When the phone rang, he pulled me closer.

"Ignore it," he murmured into my hair. "Let it ring."

"Can't," I said. "You never know."

I tugged back the sheet, releasing the trapped odors of warm bodies and last night's love making, and lifted the phone.

My mother's voice was so quiet, so flat, it took me a moment to register it.

"Sid's in the hospital," she said. "Will you come, love?"

~ While I dressed, I glanced regretfully at Mike: his brown hair was rumpled, his chin shadowy, the sheet had tented enticingly over his groin.

"What'd she say?" he asked.

"Sid's had a heart attack. No biggie. People get over them fast today. Still, I should be with her."

He frowned, sitting up in the bed.

"Bummer," he said. "You flying to Florida?"

I had one leg in my jeans, hopping, and nearly fell over with shock. Lies will always catch you out.

"No, no. They moved to Palmdale."

"Palmdale? Your mother moved back? You never said."

"I didn't?" I pulled the sweatshirt over my head, muffling my words. "Thought I told you."

"He's the historian, right?"

"Yes," I lied. "Sid. The historian."

~ The lies started six months ago when Mike joined my law firm. I'm a second year associate and he came as a lateral from one of LA's big five. There was talk that he'd be made partner within a year.

There is a look that says alpha-male: it's in the tilt of the head, the steady gaze that holds no fear of predators or lesser beasts. He had that. I also liked the way his hair fell over his forehead, and the wide shoulders that made his expensive suit hang just right. I dressed in my designer clothes for a week hoping he'd notice me and the first time I saw him strolling out of a conference room I invited him to dinner. I asked a couple of the other young lawyers as well and told Mike it was my way of welcoming him to the firm. How could be refuse? Most men find me attractive, especially if their taste is for long-legged skinny brunettes, and I was beaming like a flashlight, blinding him, so he wouldn't see the yearning in my eyes.

My mother called from Vegas just as I was serving the sautéed veal.

"Prepare yourself, darling," she screamed. "For a married mother."

"What? What did you say?"

There must have been dread in my voice: my guests, all litigators, perked up at once, anticipating an accident, lawsuit, potential client. I lowered my voice.

"Mom, let me call you back. Where are you?"

"I just got married!" She was squeaking with joy. "I'm in a wedding chapel. The Nine Lives of Elvis Wedding Chapel. Katie! You happy for me? You always said…"

"I'm thrilled, mom. I am. Where are you staying? Let me call you there."

"The Tropicana. But sweetheart, we're on our honeymoon, remember."

She gave a girlish giggle that chilled my blood. My mother? Honeymoon?

I could hear a male voice in the background saying something that sent her off on another wave of laughter.

"Who is he, mom? I mean, what does he do?"

"He's a historian," she said.

"An historian?" I repeated. The word had a calming effect on my heartbeat.

"Yeah. He's got a History of Elvis shop on the Strip," she shrieked. "Call you tomorrow, darling. Bye."

The phone clicked. I returned to my dinner party. Mike Roth, senior associate, Harvard law school, eyes of a smoky blue, and the only reason I'd been cooking all afternoon, raised an eyebrow.

"Good news?" he said.

"Well yes," I said. "My mother just got married again."

There was a chorus of questions.

"To an historian," I said, smiling. "In Nevada."

~ I didn't invite Mike to the party for my mom and Sid two weeks later. It seemed easier not to mention it. I knew my mother would be nervous around Mike and she gets loud and silly when she's nervous. His background would unnerve her. Mike's father is a retired judge. His parents live in Palo Alto.

Instead, I told Mike that mom and her new husband would be living in Florida. The lie just slid out of my mouth, with all the ease of snake oil on a slick surface.

"He teaching at Evergreen?"

"I think he's retired now," I replied, truthfully.

The party for the newlyweds was at my brother Alan's place in Northridge. Alan manages a Thrifty Drug Store and his wife, Sylvia, used to be a cashier. All those years hanging around the cash register has made Sylvia an avid reader of show-biz magazines and she couldn't wait to meet Sid. She'd got it into her head that he was an Elvis impersonator and, in her view, that was just a hair short of being a movie star.

"Oh, I'm so excited," she said, shaking her little hands together and rocking on the balls of her feet. "An Elvis impersonator!"

"He is not," I said, through gritted teeth, "an Elvis impersonator. He's an Elvis historian."

We were waiting at the window of their little tract house when an old bronze Cadillac pulled up. At first we stared at my mother as she stepped jauntily out of the car. After my father left she'd let her hair grow long and gray but it was now cut short and streaked. Her skin was tan, and she was wearing a full skirt, cinched in at the waist with a wide belt. She wore her usual shoes: shiny, black, four-inch stilettos.

Then a man rushed around from the other side of the car to take her arm. We all gasped. "It's Elvis!" whispered Sylvia.

Elvis in his middle period, before he got fat. Only when Sid got closer could we see the deep crevices that lined his face, note that the teeth were imperfect, the hair though coifed and oiled was thinner than it should be. He wasn't very tall.

"This is Sid," said my mother, her eyes shining.

In the kitchen an hour later she cornered me.

"You like him, Katie?"

I kissed her soft, powdered cheek, could smell the My Sin perfume she still wore. "He's nice," I said. "He seems like a nice guy."

And he did. He treated everyone with a kind of respectful subservience, like someone who's about to take your car keys and park your car. He remembered names and used them in every sentence. He talked about "my retail business" as if he were running Bloomingdales.

"He looks like Elvis," I said.

"Well, of course," she said. "He was an Elvis impersonator. Best in Vegas. Until his hair got thin."

~ I had shared none of this with Mike. It just didn't come up. He knew I had studied law at night school while I worked as a legal secretary so it's not as if I pretended to be a debutante. But he seemed to think my salesman father had been some kind of middle manager and no doubt he imagined my mother as a middle management wife. Even on her best days she'd never be able to pull that off. Once, years ago, my father in a mean mood had called her trailer trash. She had shrugged it off. She was raised in a trailer in the fog-bound and bare hinterlands of mid California after all.

"Trailer for sure," she had said to him. "But not trash."

~ All the way to the hospital, I cursed myself for lying. Palmdale/Florida, who the hell cares, I said aloud. But I felt stupid. Why lie about our parents? It's not like we choose them.

I forgot these concerns when I saw the pale, exhausted woman with mussed hair who greeted me outside the intensive care unit at Palmdale General Hospital. She was wearing the fluffy fur mules she wore around the house, old sweat pants and sweatshirt. No make up. It was clear she'd left the house in a hurry.

"He's gone," she said. "Sid's gone."

"Gone?" I asked, stunned. Where could he have gone?

"He's dead. My Sid's dead."

She started to cry. I held her for a few minutes, stroking her back. Then I took her arm and led her to the car. She was so shocked; all I could think to do was get her home and into a warm bed. At their townhouse, the blinds were closed, a bottle of beer was open on the counter and dishes sat abandoned by the sink. My mother stood in the middle of the room and looked around, bewildered. I poured her a scotch and sat her down on the sofa.

"It was a heart attack?" I asked.

Her face was ashen.

"I thought it was the chili," she said. " He loves that chili. But the pain kept on, so I called the paramedics. He passed out in the ambulance. He didn't…" she stopped, swallowed, her eyes met mine with blank disbelief "even wake up."

I hugged her.

"Mom, I'm so sorry. He was a good man."

"The best," she said, her eyes filling with tears.

Later she said to me:

"Katie, will you come with me to the funeral home? To choose the coffin?"

"Of course I will. Alan will be here later. You want him to come too?" "No," she said. "Your brother's got a bit stodgy since they made him manager. And there's something special I want."

~ Mr. Jameson, of Babbitt & Sons Funeral Home, was a solemn, thin-faced man who called himself our counselor. He shook hands, took my mother's hand in both of his, bowed a little, then he took us down to the Casket Room. The way he said it, it sounded like a ballroom.

"Prepare yourselves," he said, in his whispery voice, pressing the button in the elevator. "It can be a shock to see so many."

The elevator, black glass with shiny brass rails, seemed to sink under the earth, then the doors opened slowly. It was a ballroom. An enormous room full of coffins: wooden ones and metal ones and tiny white ones for babies. Some were made of mahogany that gleamed with brass trim, others were silver or pine or gold. The lighting was soft and eerie. There were no windows in the room. I had a tight grip on my mother's arm and I could feel her trembling.

"Come on, mom. Take a breath, then just pick one real fast."

"I know what I want," she said.

She was heading for the black polished coffins at the end of the room. Jameson was fast behind her.

"Good choice," he said.

Mom peered inside at the cream satin lining.

"You got one lined in black?" she asked.

He stroked his chin.

"We can do that," he said, as if considering an option on a new car.

"Velvet," she said.

The hand came away from the chin and the mouth fell open.

"Black velvet?"

Yes." She looked like a defiant child staring at him.

"That might," a thoughtful pause, "be possible."

He led us right to the back, to a shiny black coffin that had its lid down. Jameson lifted the lid carefully, silently. The lining was thick, black velvet. Dracula would be cozy in it.

"This is the one," mom said. "I have to take it home."

"I'm so sorry, ma'am. That's not possible."

"Then someone will have to come here, before Sid is," she paused, faltering, "placed in it." Both Jameson and I were staring at her.

"Why mom? What's the problem?" I asked.

"I want an Elvis painted on the velvet, inside the lid," she said. "An Elvis like the one we have in the house."

I thought Jameson was going to pass out. It took a full minute for my mind to make sense of the words. It's not like you hear them every day.

"Painted on?" Jameson asked.

"Yes. Painted on the velvet."

"Mom, just put the picture in the casket," I suggested. "Your picture at home."

"Oh, no. I have to keep that. I want to look at that every day. It looks so like Sid."

"I really don't think…" Jameson began, but I interrupted him, shaking my head.

"Mom, who are you going to get to paint..?"

"You have to find somebody," she said. "Today."

~ I had three sets of yellow pages open on the floor and the phone pressed to my ear when the doorbell rang. Price no object, mom had said. Pay them whatever they ask. I must have looked doubtful.

"Don't look like that," she'd said. "My Sid took care of me. Had his insurance policy all paid up. You've got a rich mother now." Then added with a funny note in her voice, "Just like you always wanted."

I opened my apartment door and felt my heart jump when I saw Mike. He kissed the top of my head and walked right in.

He grinned when he saw the Elvis on Black Velvet leaning up against the wall. I had borrowed it from my mother for the artist to copy. I lowered my voice as I talked into the phone.

"Just a regular Elvis, thin period," I said. "But I need it done today."

"No. No. On the er… lid."

I glanced at Mike. He winked.

"Okay. Thank you. Yes, I'll try them."

I hung up the phone.

"Some kind of gag gift?" he asked. "For somebody with exquisite taste?"

He laughed, adding, "It better not be for me!"

"No. Not for you."

"These things are only funny for about five minutes, Kate," he warned. "Better to buy a bottle of good wine."

He moved to the fridge, helped himself to a soda.

"Been trying to reach you all morning. I guess you were at the hospital. How's your step father doing?"

I stared at him. I wanted to lie. I wanted to say fine, just fine, and get Mike out of there, and hope he would never learn differently. But I couldn't.

"He's dead," I said. "Sid's dead."

Mike had the soda half way to his mouth and he stopped, rigid with surprise.

"What?" he asked finally.

"Died last night."

"So why are you…?" he began, looking round at the yellow pages, and the Elvis picture propped up against the wall. "What's going on, Kate?"

When he saw that I was crying, he led me to the sofa and held my hands, and waited for me to speak. So, I told him the truth. I couldn't look at him. I kept burying my face on his shoulder, but he held me away at the end, tilted my chin.

"But why did you lie to me? Your parents living in Florida. Your stepfather a university professor?"

"I didn't exactly say that. But anyway, it was stupid."

He shook his head.

"Stupid is right," he said. "People don't care about stuff like that anymore."

I looked up at him, angry at his patrician, smug certainty.

"When you call your parents," I said slowly. "I want you to tell them that you're involved with a girl whose stepfather was an Elvis impersonator and whose mother was raised in a trailer park just outside King City. Okay?"

There was a kind of shadow that passed over Mike's eyes, just a flicker for a second.

"Point taken," he said.

"And now I have to find someone who can paint an Elvis on a coffin lid. Oh, rats."

Mike was leaning back on the sofa. He seemed uncomfortable still. After a while he said. "I know someone. Opal at Venice beach. Remember the pro bono stuff we did for the rehab center?"

"But she's a doper."

"Clean now," he said. "I think. She sells at the beach. Elvis on black velvet. She could do it."

"You're sure she can paint?"

"She can paint Elvis, I know that. You'll just have to trust me on it."

"I do trust you, but... "

"You should remember," he added, "that I have never lied to you."

"Why should you lie?" I yelled. "You've got nothing to lie about. Middle class parents, Claremont, Harvard. Heck, why should you lie?"

"I'll bring her over to the funeral home," he said. "Meet you and your mother there at four."

~ My mother, Mr. Jameson, and I waited for half an hour in the Babbitt & Son's lobby. Finally, Mike pushed open the doors and led a black teenage girl towards us. She had her hair in cornrows and dark shadowed eyes that had the flat, street-smart look of someone who has seen it all from the cradle. She was so thin as to be gaunt and her eyes looked enormous in her tiny face.

I introduced Mike to my mother.

"So pleased to meet you," she said formally, then grinned. "Cute, Katie. He's such a cutie."

I flashed her a warning look.

"Pleased to meet you at last," said Mike, shaking her hand, not even glancing in my direction. "I'm just sorry about the circumstances. But - this is Opal. I think she'll do a good job for you."

My mother studied the girl.

"You could do self portraits," she said. "Look at those eyes! Oh, my. Look at her, Katie. She's like those pictures of black kids with the big eyes we used to buy on the Santa Cruz boardwalk years ago."

The rest of stood frozen.

"You like those, huh?" Opal asked.

"Oh, I loved 'em!" said my mother, smiling at her. "Just like you. Beautiful little kids." Opal gave her a long look, then smiled.

"Thanks," she said.

As one, Mike, Mr. Jameson and I all let out a breath. Where we saw addiction, a childhood of abuse and deprivation, track marks and malnutrition, my mother saw a beautiful child with big eyes. They began chatting immediately about what Elvis she wanted. My mother produced her picture.

"His best period," said Opal, approvingly. "Totally. You want the shirt blue, with the collar up? 'Cos you know he had a silver shirt, stiff collar came right up to his hair, with this kinda pale blue inside. Awesome."

My mother's eyes widened.

"Yes, " she said. "Silver. Yes."

"You want to see samples of Opal's work, mom?" I asked, feeling very nervous. "Before she starts on the actual, well, lid."

"Oh, I'm sure Opal can do it," said my mother.

I must say, when I saw the finished product I was impressed. Elvis in tight purple pants, wide belt, silver shirt with the collar up. His hair was falling over his eyes, and he looked hot, slightly sweaty, his hips swiveling. There was energy coming out of him in powerful sexual waves.

"Wow," said Mike and I together.

My mother looked, shook her head in wonderment, turned to Opal with tears in her eyes.

"Oh, my little love," she said, "what a beautiful work of art this is."

Then she hugged her in one of those big hugs I've known all my life, damn near lifted Opal off the ground.

"That," said Mr. Jameson, "is the best Elvis on Black Velvet I have ever seen on a casket lid." He looked up and gave the tiniest of smiles. Impossible to tell if he was joking.

~ We were not prepared, on the day of Sid's funeral, for the number of people who waited outside Babbitt & Sons Funeral Home.

"My God, half of Palmdale is here," said Alan, as we pulled up in the limo.

"And Vegas," said my mother, eyeing a couple of tall but aging gals who were dressed in spangled black on the edge of the group of friends and neighbors. I was looking for Mike and I spotted him immediately. He was alone, and stood separate from the others. He stared straight ahead and didn't even see us climbing out of the car until I called his name.

He seemed fine at first. He greeted my mom, shook hands with my brother and sister-in-law, kissed my cheek. Then another limousine pulled up and four men got out. They were middle-aged, identical in height and dressed in purple jackets, pegged pants, and string ties. They wore their black oiled hair with unmistakable long sideburns, and a forward falling coif. Four exact replicas of the Guam Elvis stamp.

"The Vegas Elusive Elvi," said Sylvia, awed, as my brother rushed over to greet them.

"They volunteered to be pall bearers for Sid," said my mother. "Didn't even have to ask them."

Mike was looking around and glanced quickly over his shoulder.

"Anyone from the firm here?" he asked.

He meant partners, people of importance.

"No," I said. "Just you."

The relief on his face was so obvious that I took a step backwards, away from his circling arm.

"You want to sit at the front with us?" I asked, testing. "Or the back? You need to slip out early?"

"Got a depo at eleven," he said. "So maybe at the back? Wish I could come back to the house, but . . ."

I smiled.

"That's okay," I said. "I understand."

He held my shoulders and looked into my eyes and his kiss was as soft and as sad as I felt. But as I watched him walk into the chapel, in his perfect suit, I felt, along with regret, a kind of freedom. I'd expected that he would draw away. I'd felt the distance grow between us, perhaps because I had lied to him, perhaps because I was not who he thought I was. It was painful, but also a relief to be rid of the middle-class girl I'd been pretending to be for six months. The girl with expensive clothes, and the right accent who gave small dinner parties and served Veal Marsala. I decided to bury her with Sid.

~

Just before the ceremony, the family members were allowed into the private viewing room to see Sid. He looked very smart in a silver shirt, purple pants. It was Sid at his most suave, ready for a show; his hair coifed forward, his mouth full in that quirky Elvis smile. The velvet Elvis on the lid, gyrating and swiveling those hips, was luminous in the softly lit room.

I touched Sid's cold cheek.

"Bye, Sid," I said. "Thanks for loving my mom."

Then I stood back to wait as Alan and Sylvia moved forward to say a final word. My mother was last. We stood behind her, as she walked towards the coffin. She was wearing an elegant black suit, cinched in at the waist, short straight skirt. She had on four-inch heels in black patent leather and a tiny hat with a veil that could drop over her eyes. She looked like a movie star. She stood alone by the coffin and leaned down to Sid. She seemed to be talking to him. Finally, she placed a kiss on his cheek, then with her thin, tanned arms, reached up, and slowly, gently, closed the lid.

"Not for anyone else to see," she said to us. "Just family."

She turned to Mr. Jameson who stood by, hands clasped in front of him, head bowed. The four Elvis impersonators waited behind him.

"We're ready now," she said.

§ § §

Mary McCluskey is a British journalist who alternates between Los Angeles, California and a small Shropshire village in the UK.

Her work has appeared in a number of publications, including Zoetrope's ALL STORY EXTRA, LINNAEAN STREET, The PAMAUNOK REVIEW, EXQUISITE CORPSE, SALON and ATLANTIC UNBOUND.

She has just completed a novel White Nights, and is working on another.

She is an Associate & Contributing Editor of LITERARY POTPOURRI and can be reached at:mary.mccluskey1@btinternet.com .