1947 - Elvis enters seventh grade at Milam Junior High School
the family is living at 1010 Green Street in Tupelo, a house designated for whites only in a respectable ‘colored’ neighbourhood.
He was skinny and unremarkable--except that he sang too much.
Some students who enroll in school midyear create a sensation. They're the topic of hasty hallway exchanges between locker neighbors. They're furtively eyed in the cafeteria. At night they're evaluated in detail over the telephone.
But the shyish, skinny kid who entered Mrs. Camp's sixth grade class at Milam Junior High School in 1947 made no grand entrance. For one thing, he didn't enjoy the mystique of a distant former residence. He had transferred from a school just a few miles away in the east part of town
They would also live to berate themselves for lacking the foresight to tape record his vocalizing. Far from it, they grew downright weary of the weekly performances. But then how could a bunch of 11-year-olds be expected to divine in the youngster's wooden renditions of a schmaltzy ballad and a honky-tonk tune the future king of rock n roll?
'Every Friday in activity period he sang Old Shep and Frankie and Johnny', says Evelyn Helms, a member of Mrs. Camp's class and the mother of UTC professor Marilyn Helms.'He sang all the blessed time and drove us all crazy. We'd say, 'Oh, no, Elvis is gonna sing again'. If we'd only known'. Just 10 years later, Elvis Presley reserved the choice section at the foot of the Mississippi-Alabama Fairgrounds stage for his Milam classmates.
From the adoring faces and outstretched arms at his feet in a local newspaper photograph, it appears the poor boy turned idol was again driving his classmates crazy ... but nobody wanted him to stop singing any more.
Blackened Haze (Elvis Presley) - PART ONE -- "Sunset"
My gosh I'm so excited to share this with you all. It's a story that explores a possibility where a reader, Elvis's longtime girlfriend, is there to help him through his mother's death and work towards happiness and peace. This is a bit sad at first. I will say I felt a little solemn at times. But I am proud of it and I love it and I hope you all do too. I love you all so, so much. I do not have a taglist but if you would like me to tag you at the next parts I will. The colonel is mentioned but is not a villain due to the fact that at this point, he and Elvis had good relations.
“I came as soon as I heard you were here,” you say softly as you enter the hospital’s private waiting room Elvis is in. He’s sitting on the blue couch with his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands when you first walk in, but he lifts his head up when he hears your voice.
“Hi, honey,” he says, voice raspy and weak, waving his hand for you to come over. You approach him and set your flowers on the table in front of you two before sitting down.
“How is she?” You ask. His mother was admitted three days ago, and he’d arrived around twelve hours ago. It’s 4 in the morning now and Elvis doesn’t look like he’s slept a wink yet. You put a hand on his forehead to brush his hair out of his face. He doesn’t look like he’s been crying, but he’s pale and his eyes are bloodshot from a lack of sleep.
“They haven’t told me nothing,” he says. His voice is still low and glum. You move your hand to his cheek.
“Have you slept at all?” You ask, moving your thumb up and down his cheek.
“Not yet,” he says.
“Lay your head on my lap and try to sleep some,” you say, scooting away so he has enough room to lay down.
“I..I can’t. What if somethin’ happens to her while I’m asleep?” he asks, rubbing his eyes.
“I’ll wake you up if anything happens. I promise,” you say. “You need to get some sleep or you’ll barely be able to make it through tomorrow.” You put your hand on his waist and gently start to ease him down. He hesitates at first, but eventually complies, resting his head on your lap. “Just relax,” you say, putting a hand on his shoulder. You feel his body heave with a shaky sigh. You can feel his nerves, how hot he is from the stress, the cold sweat on the back of his neck. He can’t even be with his mother right now because Vernon is with her. That must be the hardest part. She’s everything to him.
You can’t imagine what life would be like without her. You both know she’s very, very sick. But your heart won’t let you think about losing the sweet, loving woman who welcomed you with open arms into their home when you and Elvis first started dating, and again welcomed you into Graceland when you moved in. The woman who always cared for you, and more importantly, for Elvis. She’s his best friend. The person he’s closest to in the whole world. He wouldn’t be able to go on without her.
You calm yourself out of the thoughts of losing her by closing your eyes and rubbing his shoulder up and down, trying to think more positive thoughts. Gladys is going to live. She’s going to get better. You blink slowly, tiredly as you keep your touch on him, feeling him start to fall asleep. He’s exhausted. He may have been up for over 24 hours at this point, considering he’d been in the car most of yesterday, stressing about Gladys. Your chest aches with sympathy at the thought of his suffering over the last few days. Luckily, he’d been granted leave from army training to see his mother. But that didn’t do much to ease the fear and pain. You look at his hands, which were shaking slightly. His nails are bitten down well below his nailbeds, a nervous habit he’d developed as a teen. You hear him sigh softly. He was asleep now. Thank goodness. You lean your own head back and close your eyes, letting your breathing slow. You hadn’t been up nearly as long as Elvis, but you’d barely been able to sleep these past few days knowing Gladys was suffering and Elvis was too. A call had come at 3am this morning telling you Elvis was at the hospital now and had been for eleven hours, so you drove as fast as you could to the hospital to meet him. Exhaustion and fear wracked your mind, just like him. For Gladys, and for Elvis. You put a hand on your forehead and try to calm yourself. Gladys was going to live. Everything was going to be okay. You keep repeating that until deep, dreamless sleep welcomes you.
When you wake up to the waiting room’s door opening, Elvis is still in your lap. You can tell it's been a long time because you’re absolutely starving. You put your hand on his head and pat it as you watch a nurse with a tray of food approach the two of you. Elvis shifts, slowly sitting up and rubbing his eyes.
“Honey?” he says, turning to you.
“I’m here.” Your hand goes to his shoulder.
The nurse sets down a tray with two bowls of oatmeal in front of you, pushing your pink flowers – Gladys’ favorite color – aside. “You two need to eat something. Haven’t had a bite since you arrived,” she says sweetly.
“Is there any news?” Elvis asks.
The nurse shakes her head. “I’m not your mama’s nurse, Mr. Presley. I just got assigned to bring you food. I don’t know anything.”
Elvis swallows and nods slowly. “What…what time is it?”
“6pm. You slept nearly fourteen hours.”
Elvis nods again, but he looks a little guilty. “You needed it, baby,” you say, handing his spoon to him. “You need to eat.” The nurse leaves.
Elvis looks down at his oatmeal. He doesn’t seem that interested in it, but you pick it up and set it in his hands anyways. “I know you’re not hungry, but you gotta have something.” You take a bite of your own oatmeal. It wasn’t delicious, but you were starving.
Elvis shook his head. “My stomach’s in knots. I can’t eat a thing.”
“I know. You have to try.” You take his spoon to scoop up a bite for him, putting it up to his mouth. He eats it. You can tell it instantly makes him realize how hungry he’d been. “Eat the whole bowl,” you tell him, handing him the spoon and getting back to work on your own food. Slowly, he nods and starts eating again. It takes a great weight off your chest to see him eating. You were a little worried about his state, but as he eats, a lot of color comes back into his face. By the time he’s finished the bowl, you’re almost done with yours. You take the last few bites and set down the empty bowl.
He looks a thousand times better now that he’s eaten. “You feeling better?” You ask him, and he nods.
“It’s gonna be ok,” you say, pulling him into a hug and putting your hand on the back of his head. You can feel his body relax against yours.
“I’m scared,” he whispers, his voice breaking.
“I know. I know, Elvis.” That’s all you can bring yourself to say, feeling emotional as he pours his feelings onto you. You pull away from the hug and put your hands on the side of his face. “We’re gonna get through this, ok?”
He nods. “Ok. Ok.” You move your hands down to hold his, squeezing them. His eyes look into yours. He looks so tired and scared. Younger than usual. You smile at him, and he manages a weak smile back.
“Promise…promise me you’ll stay with me,” he asks, his voice trembling a little as he puts a hand on your cheek.
You nod. “I will. Forever. I’ll stay with you no matter what.” He visibly relaxes a little at this, like he’d been afraid of you leaving him. You rub the side of his shoulder. “You have nothing to worry about,” you promise, and he nods, sighing. You open your mouth to talk more, but as you do, the door opens and a different nurse comes through.
“Mr. Presley?” she says.
“Yes?” Elvis turns to her, taking his hand off of you.
You turn to look at him. His eyes are wide.
“Uh…your mother…she went into cardiac arrest,” the nurse says, tears starting to fill her eyes.
“What?” you ask.
“Her heart gave out. She’s…gone. I’m so sorry,” the nurse says, her voice breaking with sadness. Gone? The world stops for a moment, and you can’t feel anything, blinking over and over again until you snap out of it.
You turn to Elvis. He’s staring at the wall in front of him. He swallows, but doesn’t move a muscle. His eyes are wide.
You bite your lip to keep from crying.
“Would you like to see her and say goodbye, Mr. Presley?” the nurse asks.
Elvis’s lip starts to quiver and his brow furrows as he continues to stare at the wall. You run your hand up his back. He looks numb. Incredibly disoriented.
“Elvis, honey,” you say, but he interrupts you.
“No.” His voice is weak, but firm. “She–she can’t be gone.”
You don’t know what to say, inhaling a shaky breath from your nose. “I’m sorry,
honey,” you say.
“She can’t be gone,” he repeats, turning to you. You grab his hand.
“I’m so sorry,” you say.
“Mr. Presley, if you’d like to see her now, you can say your goodbyes,” the nurse repeats. Elvis shakes his head. It’s like he doesn’t believe this is real.
“Come on, honey,” You say, standing up. He shakes his head, but you tug on him and he stands. He numbly follows, keeping your hand in his and his eyes on the floor. As you walk out of the room, he opens his mouth as if to say something, but all that comes out is a shaky gasp. You squeeze his hand. “You’re okay.”
His jaw is shaking still as you follow the nurse into a private suite. When she opens the door, Gladys is lying on the bed. She looks peaceful. She’s not breathing. She is still. Utterly lifeless. It really hits you then, and you start to feel tears come down your cheeks. Your eyes glance at the other side of the room, where Vernon is sitting, sobbing, with his head in his hands. You look up at Elvis, who approaches the bed slowly and reaches for his mother’s hand. When he feels her skin against his, reality smashes into him and he breaks. He takes several fast, gasping breaths before he starts to cry. He can’t stand anymore, dropping onto his knees with a thud and keeping Gladys’ hand in his. His head is down but you can see the stream of tears and hear the violent, anguished, gasping sobs you’d never heard someone make before. He mumbles something between his cries, but it’s unintelligible. You squat beside him and put your hand on his back, feeling him shaking over and over again as cries wrack his body.
You can’t help but cry quietly beside him, feeling his grief. Glancing over at Vernon, you see still has his head in his hands, unable to look at his wife or son. You don’t know how long you stay like that. Next to Elvis, listening to him cry and rubbing his back. You’ve never seen someone so sad. His sobs eventually turn to gasps and whines, and you look out the window and see the sun is starting to set. Your feet are starting to go numb. Elvis starts to quiet after a while, and the nurse speaks softly, gently.
“We have to take her to the morgue now, Mr. Presley,” she tells him.
“No,” he cries, squeezing her hand tighter. You stand up a little and put your hands on his waist, trying to get him to stand up by pulling. He’s stubborn, but weak, and you’re able to pull him to his feet. He takes one look at his mother’s face and starts sobbing again. He turns to you and you put your hand on his cheek. His eyes and the area around them are red, contrasting his pale, tear-soaked face. His breathing is too fast. He’s not getting enough air.
“Elvis, sit down,” you tell him. “You’re going to make yourself pass out, honey.” You ease him towards the chair opposite Vernon’s, and he all but collapses into it. “Breathe. Slower,” you tell him as he bends over, putting his head in his hands. You pat his back in a slow rhythm to try and get him to relax and regulate his breathing. Vernon has stopped crying now and shakes hands with the nurse as she apologizes to him. You don’t watch, but you hear the footsteps and the wheels start to roll as they take Gladys out of the room. Elvis can’t hear it over his cries and gasps, but after a few minutes of you whispering to him and patting him gently, his breathing evens out and he looks up to see that she’s gone. Vernon comes over.
“Son, we need to go now,” he says quietly. You can see Elvis’s eyes are welling up with tears again. “There’s—there’s a car waiting for us outside.”
You nod, taking Elvis’s hand and helping him up slowly. You guide his arm around your shoulder. There’s no way he can walk in this state on his own. You follow Vernon to the exit of the hospital. He’s silent, keeping his head down and shuffling slowly next to you as you make your way into the backseat of the car outside. Elvis puts his head in his hands as the car takes off, and you keep your hand on the upper part of his back, pressing your other hand on his thigh. The ride is silent save for Elvis’s small gasps between cries, and it goes by quickly. As you pull up to Graceland, Vernon gets out of the car on his side and comes around to you and Elvis’s side, opening the door for the two of you. Elvis looks up and takes his father’s hand to get out of the car and you follow, letting him put his arm around you again. You silently take him upstairs and into his room, lowering him to the bed gently before sitting to the left of him. He’s still crying, much quieter than before, but you can hear his shaky breaths and soft whimpers. He’s on his side, trembling, with his back facing you.
“Elvis,” you whisper softly. It’s hard for you to keep your composure. You’d known Gladys for six years, being Elvis’s girlfriend since senior year. Losing her was painful for you, too. But it was a million times more painful for Elvis, and it hurt you to see him suffering so much. “Elvis, honey, you’re gonna be ok.” You put your arm over his waist, resting on his stomach, and your other hand combs through his hair gently.
“I c-can’t live wi-without her.” His stuttering cuts a hole in your heart, a reminder of the shy, nervous boy who was bullied for his speech impediment when he was younger. He still stutters occasionally now, especially when he’s upset or tired.
“You will, baby,” You say. He has to. Your hand that was in his hair moves to his face, to his soft cheeks which are stained with tears that you wipe away. You have a decent view of his face. You’ve never seen him so sad in your life. You’ve never seen anyone so sad.
“I can’t,” he cries, fresh tears streaming down his cheeks. You wipe them again.
“You can. You’ll go on,” you tell him, leaning down and kissing his temple. “You’re gonna be ok. I promise.” It doesn’t stop his crying, but he does lean into your touch a little more.
The door bursts open, and you turn to see the Colonel and Vernon in the doorway.
“Elvis,” the Colonel says, “There’s some people who want to take some photographs outside. The press.”
“N-no,” Elvis says, keeping his back to the door.
“Elvis…” Vernon says.
“Just a few photographs. They’re not going to do anything to hurt you,” the Colonel reassures him.
Elvis seems a little calmed at the Colonel’s words, and he slowly sits up and wipes his eyes. “I’ll…I’ll go out f-for a few minutes,” he says. You help him out of bed and walk with him behind the Colonel and Vernon down the stairs. As he walks out the door with Vernon, you sit down at the bottom of the steps and put your head in your hands, letting yourself cry. Gladys is gone. Forever. You hadn’t seen much of her over the past few months, temporarily moving back into your parents’ house when Elvis left, but when you came to Graceland to check in on Elvis’s parents while he was away, she was always sad, drinking or taking pills. She was heartbroken when Elvis left. She’d lost her first son and couldn’t bear the thought of losing her other.
As you cry, you feel a tap on your shoulder and look up to see the Colonel holding a glass of water. “Thank you,” you mumble, taking a drink and wiping your mouth before handing the glass back to him. He wordlessly nods sympathetically and walks away. After a few minutes of staring at the door in front of you, it opens and Elvis comes back in. You stand up and he comes into your arms.
“You did good…you did good,” you tell him, rubbing your hand up and down his back. He doesn’t respond. He’s still shaking from head to toe, weak with grief, barely able to breathe from the pain clenching his throat and pressing on his chest.
“Come on, honey,” you say. “Let’s go upstairs…” You pull away from him, wrapping an arm around him, and guide him up the stairs and back into his room. He collapses onto the bed, curling on his side again. He’s stopped crying for now, numbly looking out the window and taking labored breaths with his arms over his chest. He looks like he’s struggling to keep his eyes open.
There’s no point in trying to get him to change. After everything that happened today, you worry that the effort could be too much. You can give him a bath tomorrow and change him into something more comfortable. At the very least, you’ll take off his shirt and pants, leaving him in his undershirt and boxers for the night. Leaning down, you easily unbutton his pants, and he lets you slide them off. Getting his shirt off is harder. You have to pry his arms away from his chest to unbutton it and pull it off, setting it on the floor. He crosses them again, still keeping his eyes in straight ahead.
“You’re gonna be ok.” Your voice is soft and gentle, as reassuring as you can make it. He looks up to you and shakes his head, his face crumpling and chest shaking visibly as he draws in a breath. It’s the only night he’s ever spent in his life without his mama.
“I…I c-can’t sleep knowin’ she’s not here,” he whispers. “We slept in the same bed till I was thirteen. And now…” Tears start to stream down his face again, and you lay down behind him, kissing the nape of his neck.
“I know. I know…” that’s all you can say. He starts to sob again. You don’t even know how he has it left in him. He must be exhausted at this point, having cried for some five hours at this point, seeing as the sky is black now.
Your hand gently rubs his side back and forth, trying to soothe him, but you’re exhausted too. “It’s gonna get better, baby,” you say softly, but he continues to sob and shake.
“I can’t….I can’t live without her…I can’t,” he repeats over and over again between cries. The pain of seeing him like this is palpable and exists on every level, aching in your chest, pounding in your head, gripping your throat.
“It’s ok. You’re ok.” Your hand gently goes under his shirt, feeling the bare skin of his side. He doesn’t feel like he’s the wrong temperature in any way. That’s a good sign, but it does little to ease your worry for him as you closely feel his desperate breaths under your hand. “Breathe, baby, breathe,” you urge him. It’s like he physically can’t, like it’s not just grief that’s attacking him, but panic.
“You have to calm down, Elvis. You’re going to hurt yourself. Please.” Your begging does nothing. He can’t stop crying. He can’t relax even for a moment. You resolve to continue rubbing up and down his side and whispering gently to him, reminding him that you’re there and you’ll stay.
When you look out the window, the stars are out but there’s no moon in the sky. Memphis is quiet save for Elvis’s raspy sobs and desperate gasps for air. You put your head down on the pillow. The only thing you can do is continue to be with him, praying that tomorrow will bring some form of peace to your troubled hearts.
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