Elvis Takes a Back Seat by Leanna Ellis

mouth.
    â€œCigarettes?”
    â€œOr …” Rae pauses, “weed. Isn’t that what kids call pot nowadays?”
    â€œMarijuana?” I stare at my aunt. What did she know of drugs? I sense somehow she does. Maybe because Mother told me Rae lived a bohemian life, I conjure up wild parties in my own mind.
    I remember walking through a shopping mall with my mother. A group of teenagers grabbed our attention with their boisterous laughter. They leaned against a metal railing near the food court, laughing and cutting up. Mother sniffed derisively, “Drugs.” But I’m not sure Mother would have known a weed if she’d met one or even knew that young kids were often more likely to try crack than marijuana. But then I never would have guessed she’d ever tasted hard liquor.
    The question running around my mind now is, does Ivy know anything about drugs? I think of her suitcase in my trunk. Could I—should I—search it? After all, I’m responsible for Ivy. Would that be responsible or just nosy?
    I wish I could call this trip off, turn around, and go home. I pray it’s short. Which is saying something. I can’t remember the last time I prayed. Probably when Stu was sick … but those prayers went unanswered. Praying feels more like making a wish on the first star of the evening or a hay bale. But I figure I need all the help I can get. Once we find Elvis’s owner—and I don’t bother thinking we won’t— then I can turn my questions, doubts, and concerns over to Ivy’s father, where those things belong.

Chapter Six
Suspicious Minds
    I lean close to Ivy as we pile back into the Cadillac and sniff her. She jerks around and glares at me. “What are you doing?”
    â€œNothing.” My face feels like I just pressed a curling iron to it. “The pine trees must be getting to me. I feel like I’m going to sneeze.”
    I didn’t smell smoke on Ivy. Only citrus hair products. So much for theories of smoking and drugs.
    An hour later we stop—again!—at Cracker Barrel in Arkadelphia. As Ivy zips past the souvenirs to the restroom, I wonder again what’s going on.
    â€œIn the restroom again,” Rae whispers, as if I hadn’t noticed. I pick up different lotions and lip balms while we wait for a table.
    We amble around looking at frog T-shirts and quilts before my name is called. With Ivy still in the restroom, Rae and I settle at a table. I stare at the menu and try to decidebetween fried catfish and salad. Nothing actually sounds good. Nothing has since Stu. But I’ve learned to eat a few bites anyway, swallowing automatically.
    I glance out the window next to our table, past the rocking chairs lined up along the porch to the parking lot. Along the side of the restaurant sits the Cadillac, its top securely in place and Elvis still strapped in the back seat.
    Feeling Rae staring at me, I shift my thoughts back to her speculations. “Ivy might have a weak bladder. Or an infection.”
    â€œI don’t think so.”
    â€œMaybe the hilly roads made her feel ill. When I was a kid, I got carsick.”
    â€œIt’s not that hilly and the road is straight.”
    â€œWell, I can’t follow her into the restroom every time she says she has to pee.”
    â€œI didn’t say you should.” Rae sips her water, then wipes the condensation off the glass with a paper napkin.
    â€œI’m not the parental type,” I say, wondering why I’m searching for excuses.
    â€œYou have a woman’s heart. It’s enough.”
    I wish she wouldn’t say that. What does a woman’s heart have to do with it? Obviously mine isn’t masculine. But as a kid I felt closer to my father than my mother, so does gender really matter?
    â€œLet’s just eat and get back on the road.” I glance at my watch again, a present from Stu. “Leather,” he’d said, handing me a