Confinement

 

 

 

“Please, crowd in a bit so I can close the doors, folks. Nashville's a bit chilly these December mornings. Let's love our neighbor...that's it...thanks.” 

 

“Now y’all know Elvis surely did love his Cadillacs. Had twenty or more over the years and gave away lots of them to his friends. On that wall behind you, there's also a story about these two here...and about the red Ferrari he bought the same year he gave Priscilla her white Mercedes." 

 

The guide chirped on; Richard tried to shut her out. Dear God, if Presley had to listen to this, he’d OD all over again. And there’s Jennifer, drinking in every bloody word. Hands on her hips, back arched, navel poking through that juvenile T-shirt she'd insisted on yesterday. 

 

“Rickey, isn’t this wonderful", she giggled. "Almost as if he’s still alive? Don’t you feel it? Just a little bit? I know, I know, it’s silly but … oh, you’re such an old grump!” 

 

He looked down at her.  Mascara already a bit smudged, faint sour odor from skipping her shower to be first in line for the tour bus. But sparkling eyes.....

 

Spring semester, three years ago. Front row, American Authors 201. Professor Scott, you make Faulkner come alive. Sleek nylon, soft suede. Tutoring. Teasing. Drowning.

 

“Oh, Rick, the baby!  Here, give me your hand. Oh, for God's sake, they’re not looking. And who cares if they are?  Here, can't you feel him?”

 

“I do feel something, dear”.

* * *