Black Elvis

Iowa Winter

58 The week Junior died, the temperature dropped to fourteen below and stayed there. The seats on my Honda felt like they were made of plywood, and the engine groaned before turning over, a low sound like some Japanese movie monster waking up after a thousand-year sleep. I had long underwear on under my suit, but I could still feel my legs numbing up. Four miles to the funeral parlor, and the heater never did kick in. After it was over, we all went back to Louise’s for food. There was a big ham her sister, June, had brought down from Madison, and the girls, Maddy and Chris, were there with their husbands and kids. Louise had made chicken and seven-layer salad and brownies, and there was plenty to drink, too. I went to work on some wine and also took responsibility for the music. I played Willie Nelson’s Stardust album, because I remembered Junior had liked it, and because I did, too. Louise got me alone about an hour into it and pointed out toward the porch, where a lone person stood all bundled up smoking a cigarette. “What am I supposed to do now?” she said. “We all knew this was coming. It has to be a bit of a relief.” I didn’t quite know what she was driving at. “Not about Junior—that is a relief.” She pointed again. “I mean about him. About Clay.” I sipped some more wine. It was good stuff—better than I’d buy for myself. I get the Mediterranean red, which is cheap but drinkable . “A man who’ll step outside for a cigarette in this weather has to really love to smoke,” I said. “I might join him.” “I don’t think he has any plans,” she said. “Neither of them did. And now that Junior is gone, I’m afraid Clay’s just going to stay.” IOWA W INTE R I O W A W I N T E R 59 All along, I’d done my best not to think too hard about Clay and Junior. They’d met at a support group—I knew that. Coffee, cookies, a musty room in the basement of some school. The spring before, with Junior’s health deteriorating fast, he’d moved back into the house, and Clay had come along. They looked the same—skinny and getting skinnier, big, hollowed-out eyes. Going through the same hell, it was easier to have each other there. I don’t believe they were being boyfriends together, exactly—they were both too weak. Mostly, they watched tv, drank sodas and smoked cigarettes, counted out each other’s pills. It was a good thing that Clay was around, particularly those last months, since it took some of the burden off Louise. But now I could see the problem. “Can’t he go home to his people?” “His people don’t want him. They disowned him a long time ago.” “Maybe he should have thought about that when he decided to embrace an alternate lifestyle.” “I can’t go through it all again. You don’t know how bad it was. With your own son, that’s one thing. A person can do it. But I’m really afraid. You know how you read about old people, and when their spouse dies, they just suddenly lose their own desire to live?” She looked at me. Our problems were different. I had drunk myself out of this marriage ten years ago, but it didn’t mean we weren’t in love. “You think he’s going to die now?” “I don’t think it, I know it. And I won’t have it happen here. There’s only so much a person can do.” “What do you want from me?” I said. “Tell him he has to leave.” I looked out at the figure on the porch. It was cold enough to freeze birds right out of the air, and he was calmly finishing his cigarette. A person in the process of moving right beyond his body. “Me?” “Please, Lenny?” she said. 60 I O W A W I N T E R The twins, Kayla and Kaylin, ran past us giggling, each of them clutching a ham sandwich. “Those girls sure can eat,” I said. “Maddy might want to think about putting them on a diet.” I used...