Free Last Ride to Graceland by Kim Wright

working, but I glance at it anyway. No telling what time it is, but the sun is fully up and I have the feeling I’ve slept a long time.
    Since he gave me a half-assed answer, I figure he deserves the same. I dig out the Styrofoam cup and hand it to him out the window. “I was looking for the Juicy Lucy based on this cup.”
    He rolls the cup over in his hand. Small hands for a man, Ithink irrelevantly. “This cup is from the Rookery.”
    â€œOh shit. That’s my milkshake cup from last night. Here . . .” I dig around. I’m going to have to get another bag. Start keeping my trash separate from Honey’s. I hand him the Juicy Lucy cup and he falls silent, studying it deeply, like I’ve handed him something surprising, and of great value.
    â€œThis was my mother’s old car,” I say. “She died recently, and I found it. Everything in it was something she touched and used when she was young and I feel like—” Here I break off, for there is no logical thing to say next. My mother may have died recently, if you call seven months ago recently, but the car is old, so why wouldn’t I have known about it for years? And it is so obviously not an average person’s car. Even if you know nothing about Elvis, even if you don’t stop to Google the words Stutz Blackhawk , anybody can see this is an extraordinary vehicle with a story to match. So I stop babbling and just sit helplessly, staring up at the man’s aviator shades, which reflect me back, doubled, to myself. They’re cop sunglasses, even though I don’t get the feeling he’s a cop.
    â€œI named my dog Lucy,” I finally say, even though I know that doesn’t shed any light on anything.
    He bends down and leans in the window. Takes it all in, from the map to the guitar and the waders and the dog and the empty Stella bottle.
    â€œLooks like you’re on the run from something,” he says.
    â€œNo,” I say. “I’m on the run to something. This is a . . . it’s a voyage of discovery.”
    To my great surprise, he laughs. “Who was your mother?”
    â€œShe was a backup singer for Elvis,” I say. “Traveled withhim the last year he toured, right before he died, and that’s how I think she first came here. Her name was Laura Berry, but the people on the tour called her Honey.”
    At this he reacts. Gets upset, or at least I think he’s upset. It’s hard to tell with those big, ridiculous aviator shades on, but he jerks his head back so fast that he hits it on the top of the window frame. “You’re Honey’s daughter?” He’s the second man to ask me this in as many days and I’d never thought that being my mother’s daughter was quite such a celebrity-making event, but evidently there was more to Laura Berry Ainsworth than her husband and child ever knew, because this man is gaping at me in sheer disbelief. He pulls off his glasses and he’s older than I would have first guessed. Late fifties, maybe even early sixties, and something in him looks familiar.
    â€œI’ve seen your face,” I say.
    â€œDoubt it. Doubt it very seriously, as a matter of fact. You from around here?”
    â€œCan I get out and stretch? Let the dog pee?”
    â€œSuit yourself.”
    I scramble out of the car, Lucy right behind me. He doesn’t have his leash hooked to his collar and for a moment I panic, even though I’m still not sure I want a dog, much less this particular dog. But for some reason, Lucy decides he likes this man, standing up on his hind legs and doing a little dance of joy in front of him, and I snap the leash on.
    â€œThis dog’s a boy,” the man says, and then he spits. “Why’d you name him Lucy?”
    â€œHe sort of named himself.”
    The man studies me with solemn eyes, and in that precisemoment I know where I’ve seen him. On a billboard,