From the novella Mother Asphodel by Edward C Patterson, a different stroke in the pool of gay literature. Previously, the opening of the novella was posted. But this time a different interesting slice involving Elvis Presley.
"“Clothes don’t make
the queen. The queen makes the queen.”
It’s Santa Saturday in
Mother Asphodel, a novella, bubbles with the secrets of a raging entertainer, who has rubbed elbows with the famous. Still, time knows no friends and Mother cleaves to life’s ornery path on a bleak wintry evening when hope is as sparse as bread crumbs thrown to the birds. The possibilities are endless on the road least taken - a kaleidoscope glimpsed only by those who take it.
“I was just rambling, dear - reflecting on the word gay. Just when did they give us that name?”
“I
think we took it when no one was looking.”
Mother Asphodel
CreateSpace Independent Publishing Platform (November 8, 2014)
ISBN-10: 1503148947
ISBN-13: 978-1503148949?:
Excerpt:
Chapter Four
Chapter Four
The Comforts of Home
Brooks MacDonald drove a
Buick — a 1990 beige beauty, now thick with snow, except the wipers which did
double duty. But the heater worked and Mother Asphodel found much comfort in
that. The bridge over the Delaware
“Where am I going?”
Brooks asked, squinting through the heavy veil of wintry flakes.
“Just a block passed Lambertville
Station, my dear. Not too fast or you’ll miss it.”
“Don’t worry. We won’t
be going fast.”
The landmark restaurant,
closed like the rest of the town, was on the right side.
“Make a left at the
light,” Mother said, “and you can’t miss it.”
“The light, the left or
your place?”
“All of it.”
Brooks tugged the wheel,
the Buick seemingly having a mind of its own.
“Yikes, we’re spinning.”
Brooks turned away from the spin and the car shuffled back onto the right of way. “It’s bad out. Now,
how much farther?”
“Just there,” Mother
said. “The yellow house. I’m on the second floor. See my balcony?”
“I can barely see the house.
Is there a driveway?”
“Afraid not. I don’t
drive anymore and my landlady’s in Florida
“What does that have to
do with anything?”
“Just thought I’d say.
You can park anywhere.”
Brooks maneuvered to the
curb, which probably would have been occupied had the landlady not been in Florida
“I wish I were
in Florida California
“Do tell,” Mother said,
blandly. “That’s good enough. I can make it from here.”
“Glad you can,”
Brook said. “Let me help you out and up.”
“You’ve done plenty
already, my dear.”
“Nonsense.”
Brooks opened the door
and hoisted her feet over the snow mound. She opened the back door and clutched
the shopping cart, navigating it through the space onto the street. She hadn’t
changed into street clothes, so her wig was acting up and her false lashes
whipped the snow flakes.
“Now wait,” she told
Mother. “I’ll help you over this mess.”
But Mother was already
out, slipping and sliding like Sonja Henie on a bad day. She would have fallen
if Brooks hadn’t caught
her. Together, with the help of friend shopping cart, they managed
to make it to the front porch and through the door.
“More stairs,” Brooks
declared.
“I can manage.”
“No, no. You go up. I’ll
tug your trap to the top.”
“You’re so kind. Not
like those other bitches.”
“You can’t blame them,
my dear. Wasn’t there a time when you climbed to the top of the tree and clawed
at anything that threatened your grasp at the tiara?”
“I’m still at the top.”
“If you say so. I wish I
were at the top now. Are you sure you’re on the second floor and not in the
family circle?”
“You’re so droll.”
“Like Santa Claus?”
“No. You know what I . .
. oh, here we are.”
Mother flipped the light
switch, the sudden beam startling Brooks, who almost let the cart go back to
the bottom.
“You could have given me
some warning.”
“Well, the lock’s tricky
and . . .” Mother fiddled with a key. “I never get the right one on the first
try, but . . . oh, here we go.”
Mother pushed the
apartment door open. Brooks found the change delightful — a blast of aroma — rose.
“Is that Rose of Attar?”
Brooks asked.
“Serge Lutens Sa
Majestè La Rose,” Mother said.
“I’m impressed.”
“Only the best. Down to
my last bottle and I’m afraid Santa can’t afford to bring me more.”
“Shame.”
“My Stumpy kept me in
constant supply, but . . .”
“Stumpy?”
“My ex.”
“Sorry.”
“Don’t be. He passed,
and not on my watch. But he did leave me this lease and memories galore.”
Suddenly, Brooks was effused in warm amber lights, the lamps on the same switch and each covered with a shade and a silk scarf. The living room — more a parlor by design, was cozy, especially with the snow beckoning from the street. Built-in shelves held a considerable library and on every table, and there were a half dozen, set framed pictures and mementos from life — a long life, no doubt.
“Your abode is wondrous,
my dear,” Brooks remarked.
“I like it,” Mother
said, shedding her coat and flopping out of the loose galoshes. “Can I fix you
a cup of tea?”
“I’d love a cup of tea.”
“Chamomile?”
“Chamomile tea
is my favorite.”
Mother retreated into the kitchen.
“You know it’s just chamomile.”
“That’s fine.”
Brooks brushed the
velvet chairs with her hand, and then dared to shove the shopping cart into a
spare corner.
“I mean,” Mother said,
her head popping back into the parlor, “it’s not chamomile tea.
Chamomile is tea. The tea plant is the camellia, which, by the
way, is one of my favorite blooms if it didn’t have such a reputation — La
Traviata and all that. So if you say chamomile tea, you’re
actually saying tea tea.” She laughed. “You wouldn’t want to be
embarrassed in upper crust company now, would you?”
Brooks grinned. This old
‘ne had rapacious charm and, like her own tastes, insisted upon strict forms
when it came to hostessing.
“I appreciate it,”
Brooks said absently, touring the bric-a-brac. “You have such nice things and
so many books and photographs.”
“Ghosts,” Mother said.
“Soon I shall join them.”
“Nonsense.”
Brooks glanced at the
bookshelf. Many classics and some not so classic. One gilded spine caught her
eye. She couldn’t help herself, pulling it out and glancing at the first page. Poetry
for Ordinary Folk by John Dwight Fellowes. Brooks had
never heard of the man, but since she loved poetry, she made a note to ask for
a copy the next time she was in a book store. She set the volume on a table
beside a picture of a young man in uniform — a handsome lad. There were several
framed photos of this soldier in old fashioned poses. Then one caught her
attention. She picked it up. The same young man was sitting on a footlocker
beside another soldier — beside . . .
“Is that the King?” she
muttered.
“Excuse me, dear?”
Mother replied, returning with two cups on an unsteady tray.
“Is this a photograph of
Elvis . . . Elvis
Presley?”
“Oh, yes,” Mother said.
“It’s one of my treasures. Did you want an amaretto cookie with your chamomile?”
“Yes, please, but what
do you mean: this is Elvis? I know Elvis was in the army, but . . .”
Mother set the tea down
on the coffee table.
“It was years ago. He’s
gone now, you know. 1977, I believe, the poor man passed. He played so well and
was so very handsome. Please, sit.”
“But how . . .”
Mother clumped onto the sofa out of breath. She reached for a cookie tin and fished out four amaretto biscuits, placing them at the edge of the bone china tea cup saucers — two each.
“I don’t understand,”
she replied. “How what?”
“How did you get this
photograph? It must be worth a fortune.”
“Oh, it’s only worth
something to me. It provokes a great memory.”
A memory? “You met him back then?”
“Of course. I was there,
you see. It was 1958 — November 26th, 1958 to be exact — in Grafenwöhr , Germany
“You were
there?”
“Yes.” Mother Asphodel
reached for the picture. “I am there. Here in fact.”
She tapped the young
handsome soldier’s image, the subject in other photos.
“That’s you?” Brooks
grabbed the picture and looked from Mother Asphodel to the soldier and back
again. “You were so young.”
“Just twenty.”
“You were in the army?”
“Drafted. Yes — got my
valentine from Uncle Sam and was stationed in Deutschland.”
“Well, you are full of
surprises, Mother.”
“Yes, that’s Elvis
posing with PFC John Fellowes — that is — me.”
Brooks was aghast.
John Fellowes — John
Dwight Fellowes. Well, Kissme Asphodel.
Chapter Five
Blue Suede Memories
“Now, trust me, Brooks,”
Mother Asphodel said, retrieving the picture frame and setting it beside the
tea cup. “Elvis was not supposed to be in the barracks that night, but, just
like tonight, the weather prohibited travel.”
“I mean to leave after
this cup of tea, dear,” Brooks said, cocking her head. “I enjoy your company
and your place is homey. Indeed, these mementos are begging for my attention,
but I have my own place and . . .”
“Don’t be foolish,”
Mother said. “We barely made it across that damn bridge. The hilly pilly
between here and wherever you hail from surely will be hazardous. So, you’ll
miss church tomorrow morning.”
Brooks grinned.
“With a name like Simon
Geldfarb, I’m not much of a churchgoer.”
“That settles it. There
are plenty of biscuits and I have a spare room and all sorts of bed clothing.
You can choose the most
stylish.”
Simon Geldfarb lifted
the cup to his lips and sipped.
“We’ll see.”
“As I was saying,
Simone. You don’t mind me calling you Simone?”
“I could get used to it,
although no one has ever called me that.”
“Does your boyfriend
call you Brooks?”
“No. Simon. Never
anything but Simon.” Simone blushed, her eyes
batting back a tear.
“You must miss him.”
“I do, but you were
telling me about Elvis and how you met him.”
“Was I? Oh, yes. That
dear boy. I was a mere chit then too and sat in my nicely pressed fatigue
apparel. We all blossomed with lavender aroma.”
“Lavender,” Simone
sighed.
“Yes. We walked in a
manly blush of lavender and starch. But Elvis came to Thanksgiving dinner not
to entertain us, because he was training at Grafenwöhr — the Tank corps, you
know. I was clerical, of course, but the weather was awful and Elvis . . .
well, Elvis got stuck.”
Mother closed her eyes,
and then sipped her tea mechanically. The chill of the Bavarian forests rippled
through her old heart. She recalled the dinner — double helpings of turkey and
dressing and cranberry sauce. She was shy then — the diffident PFC Fellowes,
who laughed when everyone laughed and listened when everyone listened. He was
fond of playing backgammon in the early evenings with his buddy Carl Lewis. He
liked Carl — not liked — loved. But even though kisses were
exchanged in the shadows at off times, and hands were held in the quiet
remoteness behind the motor pool, this was not a safe zone for such activity.
Such activity meant a prison sentence — Mannheim
Sweet pine aroma blended
with the lavender and, in the barracks, a famous man, whom the women of America
Love
me tender,
love me sweet,
never let me go.
You have made my life complete,
and I love you so.
love me sweet,
never let me go.
You have made my life complete,
and I love you so.
Yes, complete. That’s
what he longed to be, and in the promise of things to come, complete would
be denied him. His parents expected him to return a better man,
seek out a woman and make babies for their grandparental laps. They knew he was
a sissy boy. They fully expected him to run when the draft caught him in its
clutches. But he went and trained and muddled through and got by. Then this
overseas gig — how proud they were of their son Johnny, over near the iron
curtain making the world safe for democracy and the family he’d come home and
raise, complete with a dog kennel and a split level house. But Johnny saw a
different abode — a smaller affair, somewhere in Bohemian climes with perhaps a
PFC Lewis at hand or any of a dozen other candidates. He saw tea-cups and petit
fours, not split levels and dog kennels.
Love me tender,
love me true,
all my dreams fulfilled.
For my darlin’ I love you,
and I always will.
Yes, Elvis was there,
guitar over knee, smile radiating in the dim light and it seamed he sang
directly to PFC Fellowes. Be my beau, it said, but John knew it was
all sham. This yokel was sweet and sugary and meant for a Tammy or a Gloria,
never a John. This was a stroke to thank fellow troops for the warmth and
comfort of their barracks and no more.
Love me tender,
love me long,
take me to your heart.
For it’s there that I belong,
and we'll never part.
And yet the man, a
mama’s boy at heart, had a gift — a sweet and enduring gift that melted winter’s
rough and smoothed the hours. John was mesmerized, not by the man, but by the
magic — the filigree of sound that drew the usually raucous barracks to
silence. He could hear nothing else but this carol to love’s endurance — to a
memory long in the lingering.
Love me tender,
love me dear,
tell me you are mine.
I'll be yours through all the years,
till the end of time.
“Till the end of time.”
Mother said, opening her eyes, glancing at the photograph. “Yes, my dear. He
finished the song, and then turned to me.”
“Just you?”
“Yes, as if he had sung
the song to me and me alone, which he certainly had not, but such was the
compass of the man. Whoever sat within range of his voice felt his personal
touch. It was show, of course, and I learned much from it when I took to the
stage myself. But he turned to me and said: I’m sure you’d like a
picture with me to give to the wife and children.”
“He didn’t.”
“He did, and I was so
dumbfounded, I couldn’t tell him there was no wife and certainly no children,
and not likely to be because I had other ideas along those lines. Elvis
grinned, and I felt a warm rush. I was worried that I’d sit on his lap and give
him one, smack on the lips. But I was shy then — a wallflower boy just learning
the ropes.”
“I know the feeling, I
do.”
“Well, his cameraman
posed me like you see me there and flash! Pop! — there you have it.” She held
it up. “A picture for the wife and children.”
“Delicious. And what a
memory.”
“You only know the half
of it, my dear. Yes, the half of it.”
Mother sighed, set the
picture down. Simone reached back grabbing the golden spine book.
“And I suppose this
little gem was penned by you.”
“Oh, that,” Mother said.
“That probably shouldn’t have seen the light of day, but Allen insisted.”
“Allen?”
“Yes. Allen Ginsberg. We
were an item, you know.”
Simone’s jaw dropped.
To read another excerpt from MotherAsphodel, see the entry for 11/17/2014
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