Baby, Let's Play House_ Elvis Presley and the Women Who Loved Him - Alanna Nash [295]
But on this particular night, he was not in such a fine mood. Elvis sat around telling stories, going through the kidnapping threat in detail, laughing, boasting, and then in an abrupt mood change, he got surly with Joyce in front of everyone when she mentioned going to see Engelbert Humperdinck. To make up for it, he came over and picked up her hand and led her to one of the seating areas in the living room. She noticed his leg quivering.
“Happens sometimes, baby. When I’m winding down after a show, you know? It’s a back and forth thing. Part of the highs and lows . . . the cycles of having to get myself up to do the show, then coming back down again after.”
But the tremor became more obvious, and then she noticed he was speaking much faster. He got up quickly and signaled the guys to start clearing the suite.
Suddenly she felt his arms around her, and his mouth was at her ear. “I need you to be with me tonight, honey. Please go to my room. I promise I’ll be right there.”
Joyce felt a hot, shaky rush of emotion—she wasn’t sure she wanted to do this—and then rose and led Karen into the bedroom to tell her privately that she wouldn’t be going back to the hotel with her. But before they finished, Elvis jerked open the door. “Well, did you tell her?” His voice was harsh, and he bored a hole right through her. Karen hastily made her exit.
When he got inside, he was even more brusque: “You staying or what?” Joyce felt as if she’d been slapped in the face.
“What?”
“You’re standing there like you got one foot out the door.”
His eyes were cold now, and she could hardly believe he was the same person. He had changed so rapidly, it scared her.
“What’ve we got here, darling, a failure to communicate?” He shook his head at her. “I’m just using plain, simple English.”
It went back and forth, not getting any better, and then he pulled open a dresser drawer and barked, “If you’re gonna stay, then stay! And get this on and get into that bed!” Then he stormed into the bathroom.
Joyce stood there stunned, the black silk pajama top he had flung at her still hanging from her shoulder. She could barely think straight. But then as she looked around at the suite, overblown and gaudy, she knew there was really only one thing to do. She brushed the flimsy top off and stepped on it on her way to the front door, slamming it so hard that the security guard jumped up and reached for his holster.
So much for reconciliation! She hoped Elvis would come racing after her and apologize, but he didn’t. The Muzak mocked her as she rode the elevator down, but as she walked out to the street, at least she had one consolation: She had walked out on Elvis Presley.
Joyce hadn’t even gotten on the plane to Washington when Elvis searched for the scrap of paper with Barbara Leigh’s phone number. He couldn’t get her out of his mind. Tall, with dark hazel eyes and high, Indian cheekbones, she not only had the smoldering brunette sensuality that Elvis loved, but she was also a southerner who had come up hard.
Born Barbara Kish in Ringgold, Georgia, she spent her early years in a children’s home before marrying, moving to Chattanooga, Tennessee, and having her son, Gerry. When the marriage collapsed, she fought her way to Los Angeles, where she didn’t know a soul. Elvis felt at home with southern women, and he had talked with her long enough that first night to see that wounded streak in her. That appealed to him, too, and Barbara could tell that it had.
“I do believe he liked my vulnerability, as my image might have been something more sexy and alluring. In reality I was just a country girl struggling to survive and accept what life brought me, both good and bad.”
The next evening, as she was walking into her apartment in Hancock Park, the phone was ringing. She and James had driven from the airport to a beach party in Malibu, and she was late getting home. She knew it was Elvis.
“I’ve been