Blue Like Elvis (2 page)

For your reading pleasure we’ve included
the prologue and first chapter of Diane Moody’s latest novel,
The Demise
– A Mystery
after the Author Page at the end of this book.

To Memphis

my
hospital,

my
co-workers,

my
church,

my
friends . . .

Thanks
for the memories.

An Important Message from the Author

Writing
Blue
Like Elvis
has been such a ride down memory lane for me. The story evolved
out of my own experience serving as a Hostess/Patient Representative at Baptist
Memorial Hospital in Memphis in the late ‘70s. The grand building that once
filled a block between Madison and Union Avenues no longer stands. The hospital
moved out to the east part of Memphis many years ago, but my memories in that
butterfly-shaped building will never be forgotten.

This was my first
“real” job. I was thrilled when I was hired and proud to wear those classy
uniforms as I served our patients at that great hospital. While our jobs were
part of the BMH chaplain department, we primarily served in a public relations
capacity, attending to the non-medical needs of patients and their families.
You will learn more about some of those responsibilities throughout the
chapters you’re about to read.

The majority of
the characters in my book are fictional. Some are based loosely on those I
worked with during my tenure there. But I could not write the story without
keeping a handful of real people playing their own roles in the spring and
summer of 1977. And as with Elvis, the words I put in their mouths are solely
mine and completely fictional.

And for those who are
die-hard Elvis fans, I ask a special favor. I have taken many creative
liberties while writing my story. Some of the dates and events are accurate,
but some I have chosen to change in order to flow more smoothly with my story
line. I simply ask that you allow me those small “adjustments” here and there and
accept them as nothing more than fictional license.

As I researched
the last couple years of Elvis’s life, I must admit I became more of a fan than
I’d ever been before. Elvis ignited a massive shift in the music culture of our
world, one that is still recognized today. Whether watching concert footage on
youtube, or listening to long play lists of his famous songs, or simply
studying books written about his life and the events surrounding his death—all
of these efforts helped me to better understand the exquisitely high price of
fame.

I hope you enjoy
reading
Blue Like Elvis
as much as I have enjoyed writing it.

~
Diane

Prologue

August 16, 1977

Memphis,
Tennessee

Ask anyone who was
there that day and they’ll tell you. The air literally crackled with
electricity. As if a nearby transformer had blown and all of us could feel the hairs
lift off our arms, our necks. The Union Avenue lobby of the hospital quickly
filled as employees rushed to see for themselves. Their questions, hushed but
urgent.

Is it true?
Please tell me it’s not true!

Surely it’s
just a rumor?

Elvis Presley . . .
our Elvis . . . dead?!

Word had spread
like a Tennessee wildfire throughout the hospital . . . an
ambulance carrying the King of Rock ‘n Roll was racing through the streets of
Memphis from Graceland to “his” hospital, flanked by police cars and motorcycle
cops.

Elvis? Dead?
How can that be?

I spotted Sandra
immediately and rushed to her side. She grabbed my hand in a death-lock grip.
We held our ground there by that expansive wall of windows overlooking the
Emergency Room bay. I couldn’t breathe, and except for an occasional whisper or
whimper, no one else seemed to be breathing either. Doctors, nurses,
bookkeepers, administrators. Gift shop clerks, cafeteria workers, visitors. Even
a patient or two—some in wheelchairs pushed by family members. And most of my
own coworkers . . .

We all stood
there. Waiting, hoping, praying.

We were Baptist
Memorial Hospital. Elvis’s hospital.
No, he didn’t own our wonderful
institution, though he probably could have. But we were so used to his visits,
with his entourage taking over part of Sixteen on the Union wing. We always
loved when he came to stay, sometimes for a week or two or three at a time. No
one had to announce his arrival. Then, like now, the electricity surged through
every corridor on every floor.

Elvis is here!
The King is in the house!

Only this time, as
we waited for him to arrive, we were shrouded in silent grief, fearing the worst.

Don’t ask me why,
but just then I looked up at the clock on the wall—2:56. Then flashing lights
suddenly rounded the corner as a long line of emergency vehicles made the final
stretch to the ER entry. As the ambulance rolled into sight, I felt a tear slip
down my cheek, then another. I felt Sandra’s arm slip around my waist, pulling
me closer. I felt someone else’s arm drape over my shoulder. In moments, the
girls were all around us, drawing closer as the crowd behind us pushed for a
better view. I could hear Sandra’s whispered prayers in her native tongue. And
then I caught a whiff of Mrs. Baker’s familiar cologne and heard her utter, “Oh,
dear Lord . . .”

I knew it wasn’t
possible, but at that precise moment, the whole scene seemed to slip into slow
motion. The incessant flash of cameras created a surreal landscape of strange
strobe-like movements as people rushed across the lawn below us toward the ER.
The barrage of flashing red lights bounced off the medical building walls as
the wailing sirens echoed in that valley of concrete and glass.

And then the
sirens went silent . . . all of them, leaving an eerie,
foreboding hush in their wake.

Oh God, please
don’t let Elvis die . . .

Present Day

“Whoa. That must
have been bizarre,” the young man said, his eyes glazed as if he too was lost
in the same memory.

I blinked out of that
long ago scene, surprised by the sound of his voice. I cleared my throat,
reaching for my cup of hot tea. “Yes, well, it was a moment I’ll never forget.”

He reached for his
bottled water. “I can’t even imagine.”

I crossed my legs,
settling back against the throw pillow on my chintz-covered sofa. The early
morning sun filtered through the plantation shutters, drawing a series of lines
across the hardwood floor in my sun room. He’d arrived shortly after 7:30
coming straight from the airport, but I’d been up for hours. “Now, Mr.
Carouthers―”

“Please, call me
Chip. I insist.”

“Chip, then. Tell
me again, why is it you need to know all this? Why would the memories of an
almost sixty-year-old woman be of interest to you?”

“As I mentioned on
the phone, I’ve recently been hired by South Palms Hospital in Pasadena,
California as a public relations consultant for the hospital. I’ve been asked
to find some new and innovative programs for our hospital. As I told you, I
have family ties here in Memphis, and I remembered hearing about this patient
representative program—your
hostess
program—when one of my uncles worked
at Baptist. He was an obstetrician back in the day, and always talked so highly
of this program. I know it’s no longer a part of the hospital, but I wanted to
learn more about it with the intent of putting together a similar program for
South Palms.”

“Did you know the
original hospital structure is no longer standing?”

“Yes, ma’am. They
razed it several years ago, according to my research.”

“I cried that day.
We all did. It was like losing an old friend, watching that magnificent
building go down into a heap of dust.”

“I watched the
video of the demolition online.”

“Did you now,” I
mused, imagining such a thing like watching a reel of special effects in a
Spielberg movie. He had no idea what I’d experienced that day. Hearing the roar
of the blast, the great cloud of dust filling the air, and then the quiet,
somber silence when it was over. I looked up at him, a nice young man. Thirty,
or so. Well groomed. Polite. Attentive. And hanging on my every word. “And how
did you get my name?”

“My uncle is no
longer living but my aunt remembered you from her church. Dorothy Carouthers.
Do you remember her?”

“Oh, of course.
She used to sing in the choir. Soprano, as I recall. Beautiful voice. We worked
in the nursery together on occasion. Is she still living?”

“Yes, though she’s
in a retirement facility in Germantown now. She isn’t able to get to church
anymore, but she’s sharp as a tack. Which is how she remembered your name after
all these years.”

“My goodness, it
has been a long time. What—30, 35 years?”

“A long time,” he
echoed.

A long time indeed.
More than likely, he hadn’t even been born yet. “All right, so what exactly do
you need to know?”

“I’m interested in
the program. What you did, your responsibilities as a hostess/patient
representative. Even the minutest detail. Everything. But I must say, after
hearing what you just shared with me about the day Elvis died, I’d love to hear
all
your memories. Even those that might not specifically relate to your
job. In other words, tell me everything. Tell me what it was like to be a part
of that great hospital.”

I set my teacup
and saucer back on the coffee table then took a deep breath and closed my eyes.
“What was it like? Well, I suppose the best place to start is at the very
beginning.” I paused, resting against the needlepoint pillows again as my mind
drifted back to long forgotten memories.

“I can still smell
the new upholstery in my brand new Cadillac Seville—a graduation gift from
Daddy. Midnight Blue with a tan landau roof, tan leather seats, fully loaded.
And Rick Dees on the radio that bright April morning . . .”

Chapter 1

April 5, 1977

The wild antics of
the radio DJ made me smile as I took a left onto Poplar Avenue and started my
first official commute downtown. I’d just moved into town over the weekend
after landing my new job at Baptist Memorial Hospital. I was born here in
Memphis but hadn’t lived here since I was ten. Strange how much you
don’t
remember about a place you lived that long; then again, I hadn’t even hit
puberty when we moved. When Dad was offered the Cadillac dealership in
Birmingham, off we went. Roll Tide roll.

So even though I’d
written “Memphis” as my birthplace on hundreds of documents and forms over my 23
years, I really didn’t remember much of anything about this sprawling eclectic
town on the banks of the Mississippi. Still, I was excited to be back. After
all, my name is Shelby—as in Shelby County, Tennessee, home to Memphis.

Okay, wait. You
should probably know my name isn’t really Shelby. It’s just what everyone calls
me. My given name is Rayce Catherine Colter. Hence, the need for a nickname. I
mean, we lived in the Deep South and my parents named me Rayce? To this day
they swear the “race-related” similarity never crossed their minds, what with
the unique spelling and all.  But after a handful of unexpected encounters with
my black kindergarten teacher, parents of my classmates, and even the nurse at
our pediatrician’s office, Mom started calling me
Shelby
and it stuck.
Dad preferred RC, my initials, which led to no end of taunting from my big brother
Jimmy. But I’ll save those lovely tales for later.

I’d graduated from
Samford University back in June of the previous year, but hadn’t found my dream
job yet. Not that I have anything against Taco Barn or the photo desk at
Walgreens, but I had this crazy notion that a college education would open
doors for more than fast food or drug store establishments. My sociology degree
had sufficiently equipped me with plenty of analytical reasoning for the
socio-economic dynamics thriving in 1976, and yet the kind of job I yearned for
had eluded me much longer than I’d hoped.

That was, until I
made a trip up to Memphis to visit my former roommate from college. Rachel had
married the summer before our senior year then moved to Memphis after we all
graduated. Her husband Rich had been accepted into the UT Dental School here,
and Rachel quickly secured a job at Baptist Hospital in the heart of the
medical community near downtown Memphis. She was an accounting whiz, and
apparently the world’s largest private hospital needed lots of help with all
those numbers. Anyway, she loved her job and loved working at this renowned
private hospital.

I’m sure you can
see where this is going.

But let me back up
and tell you the rest of my story. Rachel may have had ulterior motives that
weekend she invited me to come up and visit, but the real reason I made the
trek to west Tennessee that second week of March had nothing to do with
employment.

“Rachel, I
have
to get out of here. I can’t handle this right now.”

“Is it your mom?
Your dad? Who’s giving you trouble, Shelby?”

“No, they’re fine.
They’re actually relieved I had a change of heart before the invitations went
out. I mean, they dished out a boatload of money for everything, and naturally,
we can’t get refunds on most of it. But they’re being so great about the financial
stuff. I mean, they never really liked Will―”

“Oh, sure they
did.”

“No, Rachel. They
pretended
to like him because they didn’t want to disappoint me.”

Rachel was silent.
Even without seeing her, I knew she was twirling a strand of her long blonde
hair, her blue eyes staring off into space as she mulled over the entire doomed
relationship in her mind. “Could’ve fooled me.”

“Yeah, well, they
didn’t fool me. And in my heart of hearts, I knew all their concerns were
valid. While I found the whole notion of being a Navy wife extremely romantic,
they knew I’d be miserable on my own in San Diego, so far from everyone I know
and love.”

“Seems like I
brought that up a time or two myself . . . that and the fact he had
no interest in sharing your faith.”

“I know, I know. 
But no, it’s not Mom and Dad. It’s me. It’s Birmingham. It’s driving by the
church where we were supposed to get married. It’s having to explain a thousand
times a day why I’m not getting married.”

“I’m so sorry,
Shelby. Hey, come see me! Throw your stuff in a bag, get in your car, and come
stay with me for a few days. Rich is leaving for a seminar in Knoxville. He’ll
be gone for a week. It’ll be great! I can take a few days off. We can talk, we
can shop, we can get manicures—c’mon, say you’ll come!”

And so it was I
headed to Memphis for a visit with my sweet friend. And we did, in fact, talk
and shop and get manicures. We even shopped for some baby clothes, a first for
me. Rachel was five months pregnant at that point with Cooper Christopher
Bauer. She was the cutest pregnant thing you ever saw. Thankfully, she was past
the morning sickness stage and positively glowing.

I had to admit I
was ready to begin a new life. I fell in love with Memphis, and Rachel helped
me get an interview to work at Baptist where she worked. No, not in the
accounting department. I’m horrible with numbers.

Rachel told me
about a unique program at Baptist. Turns out the hospital president, Dr.
William Grieve, had pioneered the program patterned after that of stewardesses.
Apparently, the highly-esteemed Dr. Grieve loved to fly and he especially loved
those classy young women who waited on him on board. Now, I mean that in the
good sense of the word. He was a true Southern gentleman who loved the Lord. It
would never have crossed his mind to view these young women with anything but
pure respect. He appreciated their professionalism, their attention to detail,
their friendly manners, and their genuine desire to help everyone aboard feel
relaxed and comfortable—even if flight conditions deteriorated or became
perilous.

I’m told Dr.
Grieve returned from a trip to New York City with the idea for a cutting-edge
hospital program that would be yet another revolutionary concept in hospital
care. He dubbed it the
Hostess Program,
though they would later be
called
Patient Representatives.
I suppose that sounded more professional
and less like a hospital version of Welcome Wagon. These young women would be
carefully selected from good families with good reputations. A college degree
was mandatory. They would be part of the chaplain department, and as such, each
hostess was required to be a member in good standing at a local Southern
Baptist Church. They would be provided uniforms, much like those the
stewardesses wore—impeccable suits designed to set them apart from other
hospital employees. Each hostess would be assigned a floor of the hospital and
be responsible for visiting all of her patients every day, offering a warm
smile, an outstretched hand, and an offer to run errands or to simply be a
listening ear. If the patient was so inclined, she would gladly pray for them.

It seemed like a
dream job, and I couldn’t wait for the interview Rachel set up for me. I met
with Virginia Baker, the head of the hostess department, and by the end of our
meeting, she offered me the job. I’m sure the fact that Rachel and Rich were
members of the church where her husband served on staff might have influenced
her decision to hire me. But I like to think it was an answer to prayer.

A flutter of
butterflies drifted through my stomach as I drove closer to the hospital. I
uttered a brief prayer for a sense of calm on this, my first day. Then that
funny DJ on the radio caught my attention again.

“Rick Dees in the
A.M.!” It was a jingle I’d grown fond of, even in the few short days I’d been
in Memphis. Dees was a local disc jockey who possessed a truly bizarre sense of
humor. He made me laugh out loud—something I’d forgotten to do the last few
months. His silly parodies and wild impersonations always put a smile on my
face. Perfect for a morning like this.

“Good morning, it’s
ten before eight on this beautiful spring day here in the Home of the Blues . . .
Wait! What’s this I hear? Who’s that knocking at the door?”

A door squeaked
open. “Hu-hu-hullo?” Dees mimicked in his Elvis-mode.

Rick responded, “Why
looky here, it’s the Big E himself! Ladies and gentlemen, welcome my good
friend, the King, Elvis Presley!” Raucous canned applause filled the radio
waves.

“Why, thank you. Thu-thu-thu-thank
you very much. I just stopped by for a juh-juh-juh jel-ly donut and a geetar
strangggg. You happen to have those here, Rickuh-Rickuh-Rickuhdees?”

It seems dear “Elvis”
felt the need to launch into song with every sentence. I couldn’t help
laughing.

“No, nossir, Big
E. I don’t. You and me, Elvis, we’re like burgers ‘n fries, milk ‘n cookies, pork
rinds and Cheez Its, know what I mean? We’re tight. If I had ‘em, they’d be
yours. But no can do this morning, Big E. No donuts, no stranggggs.”

The sound of a
door slamming broke a brief silence. The King had evidently left the building.

“See?” Rick
continued. “We’re tight. Like brothers. So while Elvis goes’n hunts him some
juh-juh-juh jel-ly donuts, let’s play us “A Little Less Conversation.”

“Sorry, Rick,” I
said out loud, “but I can’t handle any Elvis today.” I switched the station, finding
some Crosby, Stills, and Nash singing “Just a Song Before I Go.” Much better.

You’d think as a
native Memphis belle, I’d love Elvis. I don’t know why, but he just never did
much for me. Granted, his music was a little before my time. I was born in 1953.
By the time I was a teenager and started listening to music, he was already 30
years old.
Old.
My mother played his songs day and night, but I was much
more interested in the Beatles, the Herman’s Hermits, and Paul Revere and the
Raiders.

That and the whole
Cadillac thing. I mentioned my dad was a Cadillac dealer. Before he got his
first dealership in Birmingham, he worked at Brentwood Cadillac in Memphis. I
was much too young to know it at the time, but the story goes that a young,
relatively unknown Elvis strolled into the showroom one day and wanted to know
about one of the convertibles on the floor. The salesman thought he was just a
hood, so basically ignored his questions and refused to let him test drive the
DeVille. Dad saw what was happening and made sure he picked up the slack of his
stupid colleague. He had no idea who the kid with the jet black hair was, but
he knew a customer when he saw one. Elvis bought twelve Cadillacs that day, and
Dad became his go-to guy for all his Caddies. And oh, how Elvis loved buying
Cadillacs. The longer, the flashier, the better.

And even though
Dad was known throughout Memphis for being Elvis’s Cadillac connection, I still
didn’t get what all the fuss was about Elvis. Maybe I was just too young.

Crosby, Stills and
Nash finished their beautiful harmonies just as I pulled into the gated parking
lot in the shadow of Baptist Memorial Hospital. The largest private hospital in
the world, BMH stood as a proud landmark, its massive stone butterfly shape
spanning from Madison Avenue to Union in midtown Memphis. I took one last look
in the rearview mirror, making sure I looked okay. I was pleased to see my hair
shine in the morning sunlight, always a good thing for a brunette. The emerald
blouse I’d chosen to wear seemed to really bring out the green in my hazel eyes
today. Even my mascara looked good for a change, always a challenge for me. I
dashed another swipe of gloss on my lips, grabbed my purse, and stepped out of
my car.

I was proud to
make that walk from the parking lot to my new place of employment, and proud to
finally put some of my training to work. As I entered the building from Union Avenue,
I tried once again to steel my nerves. I loved knowing I was going to be a part
of this great institution and one of its nearly five-thousand employees.

My first real
grown-up job. Time to do this!