University of Northern Iowa

Nashville ElegyAuthor(s): Kathy DavisSource: The North American Review, Vol. 290, No. 5 (Sep. - Oct., 2005), p. 40Published by: University of Northern IowaStable URL: http://www.jstor.org/stable/25127445 .

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N A R

"Nice and tight." "Come here, please."

He made his way from the study to the bedroom and stood in the doorway.

She was wearing that special lotion of hers again?he could smell it from the doorway. It made him want to go to her. He

had bought it for her on Valentine's Day a few years ago. The lotion had been part of a set. It came with shower gel, bath

bubbles, bath salts and some sort of loofah. He used to let her

shower first just so he could linger in the scent she left behind.

The gel had been finished off quickly. The lotion should have

been as well, but somehow she always managed to squeeze one

more drop out, refusing to give up without a fight. That lotion made her smell like part garden, part Heaven.

"Are you coming to bed?" his wife asked. He stood like a bridegroom in the door, staring at her, seeing

her for perhaps the first time since they'd lost their little girl, seeing her face and the beauty of it in the soft down of her cheeks.

"Not yet," he said. He knew how it would be if he walked fully into that room. She would be there, sitting up in the middle of the

bed on the left side, her dark hair rumpled against the headboard.

In a white nightgown, her face scrubbed clean but not glowing. Her knees would make a tent under the sheets and if he got in, she

would shock him with her cold feet. If he came in the room, she

would hold out her arms and once again it would be a struggle not

to go to her and let her help him make a way to be more than he

had become. But he knew that if he let her hold him in her arms

that he might never want her to let go again, never rise from the

bed and teach another participle, never leave the sanctity of her.

Then what would become of his Latin, his students' translations

of Somnium Scipionis lying faceup on the floor of his study? "More work?"

"Cicero?a stack of papers?they're waiting for me."

"I'm waiting for you."

"I need to finish them."

She patted the empty side of the bed and held her arms out

to him again.

"I promised to hand them back tomorrow."

He swallowed, wondering why he felt as if he were in one of

those dreams everyone had where they fell endlessly.

"Honey, I can't," he said.

"Yes, you can." Her eyes were leveled on him; she was waiting

for him to decide.

He took a step towards her and stopped just within the door

way. During the nights with her asleep beside him, he clung to

the idea of maples and pines, of students who should have kept him too busy to think of anything but the next day's lesson. But

there were these unbearable moments that seemed longer than

they could possibly be; they seemed to come from nowhere and

hold him captive. "I don't know what to do."

"Come here," she said. "I'll show you." Could it be that sim

ple? Her arms, her eyes said yes. It would be the first time, since

the school year began, that he didn't grade translations late into

the night. He could let them wait. They would be there tomor

row, but this night might never come again. D

KATHY DAVIS

Nashville Elegy

Shards everywhere, that night I pulled too close to the plate

glass of the abandoned gas station. Run, someone

yelled. Nashville?

it's all practiced outlaw swagger,

booze, cigarettes and weed. And even

the cooks work out the bars

of a sure hitparade song flipping

omelets. The August Elvis

died I was waiting tables and flying Elvides exploded onto tarmac

lip-synching "Hound Dog." Blue

suede shoes, thousands

in the rain, walked toward Grace

land, carrying the studded cloak of Dionysus. "That's Alright

Mama" rose in black

vinyl behind the rays of Sun, and each night, somewhere, the pelvis

gyrated on those Louisiana hayrides

while Elvis left the building. Dry cleaners wiped sweat from Vegas

jumpsuits, mended Mylar. TCB rings tapped steering wheels, hungry

for a beat. Elvisoids made creeds,

catalogued some movies, held one mirror up

to another and multiplied. Couples got married by a wig,

shades and jumpsuit, slept in pink Cadillac beds. We ordered Elvis-a-grams, ate bologna sandwiches, boarded tours

to the funeral. And one night

Elvis was Black. Afro slicked

back and shiny, he told me he was sorry about my Aunt Betty,

who died that August too.

40 NORTH AMERICAN REVIEW September-October 2005

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