Advertisement
Close friends and relatives bid their private farewells to Elvis Presley at the eighteen-room-mansion he called Graceland.
Police and private guards sealed off the estate, which had been visited by an estimated 75,000 fans on August 17th, the day before the funeral. Out front, a steady stream of traffic moved along Elvis Presley Boulevard, while those closest to him moved through the mansion.
Earlier that afternoon I'd been talking with some other people who were waiting to pay their respects and their mood had been quiet and restrained. Now, as they wandered around in the dark, they seemed looser, no longer afraid of losing their place in line.
Winslow "Buddy" Chapman, the director of police who looked like the advance man from Nashville, invited me into the house where a scarlet carpeted hall led into a large room filled with gold and white folding chairs. At the far end of the room was the gleaming copper coffin that contained the body of Elvis Presley. His face seemed swollen and his sideburns reached his chin.
"He doesn't look anything like himself," the woman beside me said softly. "He just doesn't look anything like himself . . ."
A couple in their late twenties stand beside the casket. The woman was sobbing. The man had his arm around her. Behind the coffin, an arch led to another room where a clear glass statue of a nude woman stood high off the floor, twirling slowly, adorned by glass beads that leaked like water. Potted plastic palms surrounded the coffin and on the wall was a painting of a skyline on black velveteen.
The plantation-style mansion was large and ornate. The entrance to the dining room was framed by floor-to-ceiling scarlet drapes tied with gold tassels. There was a massive mahogany dining table in the center of the room, rounded by huge chairs upholstered in scarlet satin woven with gold thread and tiny rhinestones.
Priscilla Beaulieu Presley entered from a side hall. Her auburn hair was pulled away from her face and hung loose in the back. She wore little makeup and appeared calm. She and Elvis (who were divorced in 1973) had been married for six years. Their nine-year-old daughter, Lisa Marie, had been staying with her father when he died.
"Would you like a Coke or 7-Up?" Priscilla offered an she walked into the living room, which was paneled in mahogany end decorated with fur-covered African shields and spears.
The former Mrs. Presley seemed to be putting everyone at ease as she moved around the room greeting old friends. She had received the news of her ex-husband's death while lunching with her sister Michele in Los Angeles and had to wait almost five hours before she could contact the crew of Elvis' private four-engine jet, the Lisa Marie. She came back to Memphis with her father, a retired Air Force colonel, her mother and her sister. She was the only person in the room dressed in black.
"Would you like to meet Mr. Presley?" asked Priscilla as she led the way to a small bedroom where Vernon Presley, the singer's sixty-one-year-old father, was sitting on a couch with his second wife, Dee. He looked like an elder, white-haired version of his son. He introduced Elvis' Uncle Vester, Aunt Delta and Aunt Nash. Minnie Presley, Elvis' eighty-two-year-old grandmother, was resting in a corner chair. They were all staring at a local ten o'clock news show about the day's events and the crowds that had been outside all day long. Nobody spoke.
At the front door, Charlie Hodge, Elvis' rhythm guitarist, was standing near the guest book. He was a small man with dark, styled hair. He was wearing a blue leisure suit and a gold pendant with the initials "TCB" above a lightning bolt. The pendant was a private joke between Elvis and the members of the "Memphis Mafia." It stood for "Taking Care of Business -- with a flash."
"It's really hard to believe," he said. "I went to the dentist with him on Monday night around 9:30. We were getting ready for the tour and we talked about the songs we'd use. But we never did rehearse. We just used to make it up right on the stage." His eyes filled with tears and his voice choked. "I haven't really had any sleep. I've been with Elvis all day. Just this afternoon I shaved his sideburns. It was the least I could do."
Outside the front door were hundreds of wreaths; some spelled "Elvis" in flowers, others were shaped like crowns, broken hearts, hound dogs and blue suede shoes.
[From Issue 248 — September 22, 1977]