"Turn them on after I'm gone."

He let himself out. He slipped down the stairs and through the shrubs, thinking about what she had said until he was alongside the Marquis. The windows were down. Fontenot was hunched low behind the wheel like a ferret peering over a log. Here was Pike, ten feet away, and Fontenot didn't know. Pike hated him for it. Fontenot had seen Elvis come out of Lucy's apartment, and Pike hated him for having seen his friend in such pain. The empty moments that swirled around Pike filled with rage. Their growing weight became a tide. Pike could have killed Fontenot ten minutes ago, and thought about killing him now.

Pike moved closer to the Marquis. He touched the rear door. Fontenot didn't know. Pike slapped the roof, the sound as loud as a gunshot. Fontenot made a startled grunt as he jumped, and scrambled under his jacket for his gun.

Pike aimed at Fontenot's head. Fontenot went completely still when he saw Pike's gun. He relaxed a bit when he recognized Pike, but he was too scared to move.

"Jesus Christ, what are you doing?"

"Watching you."

Fontenot's face floated at the end of Pike's gun like a target balloon. Pike tried to speak, but the wave of heavy moments drowned his voice into a whisper and threatened to carry him away.

"I want to tell you something."

Fontenot glanced up and down the sidewalk like he expected to see someone else.

"You scared the shit out of me, you motherfucker. Where'd you come from? What in hell are you doin'?"

Pike emptied the moments as they washed over him. He fought the wave back.

"I want to tell you."

"What?"

The moments emptied. Pike had control. He lowered the gun.

Fontenot said, "What is it you wanna say, goddamnit?"

Pike didn't answer.

He melted into the darkness. A few minutes later he was once more in the rubber tree, and Fontenot still didn't know.

Pike thought about Lucy and Elvis. Cole had never told him very much, either, but you didn't need to ask if you looked closely. The worlds that people build for themselves are an open book to their lives – people build what they never had, but always wanted. Everyone was the same that way.

Pike waited. Pike watched. Pike was.

The empty moments rolled past.

Family Man

His name was Philip James Cole until he was six years old. Then his mother announced, smiling at him as if she were giving him the most wonderful gift in the world, "I'm going to change your name to Elvis. That's a much more special name than Philip and James, don't you think? From now on, you're Elvis."

Jimmie Cole, six years old, didn't know if his mother was playing a game. Maybe it was the uncertainty that made him so scared.

"I'm Jimmie."

"No, now you're Elvis. Elvis is just the finest name, don't you think, just the finest name in the world? I would've named you Elvis when you were born but I hadn't heard of it yet. Go ahead and say it. Elvis. Elvis."

His mother smiled expectantly. Jimmie shook his head.

"I don't like this game."

"Say it, Elvis. That's your new name. Isn't it exciting? We'll tell everyone tomorrow."

Jimmie started crying.

"I'm Jimmie."

She smiled at him with all the love in the world, cupped his face in her hands, and kissed his forehead with warm, sweet lips.

"No, you're Elvis. I'm going to call you Elvis from now on and so is everyone else."

She had been gone for twelve days. She did that sometimes, just up and left without saying a word because that was the way she was, a free spirit she called it, a crazy head case he had heard his grandfather say. She would vanish and her son would wake to find their apartment or trailer or wherever they were living that month empty. The boy would find his way to a neighbor where someone would call his grandfather or his mother's older sister and one of them would take him in until she returned. Every time she left he was angry with himself for having driven her away. Every day while she was gone he promised God he would be a better boy if only she'd come back.

"You'll be happy being an Elvis, Elvis, just wait and see."

That night, his grandfather, an older man with pallid skin who smelled like mothballs, waved his newspaper in frustration.

"You can't change the boy's name. He's six years old, for Christ's sake. He has a name."

"Of course I can change his name," his mother said brightly. "I'm his mother."

His grandfather stood, then sat again in a wide tattered chair. His grandfather was always angry and impatient.

"That's crazy, girl. What's wrong with you?"

His mother pulled and twisted her fingers.

"There is NOTHING wrong with me! Don't say that!"

His grandfather's hand flapped.

"What kind of mother runs off like you, gone for days without a word? Where do you come up with this crazy stuff like with this name? The boy has a name! You should get a job, for Christ's sake, I'm tired of paying your bills. You should go back to school."

His mother twisted her fingers so desperately that Jimmie thought she would pull them off.

"There is NOTHING NOTHING NOTHING wrong with me! Something's wrong with YOU!"

She ran out of the tiny house and Jimmie ran after her, terrified that he would never see her again. Later, at their apartment, she spent the evening working with a small oil paint kit she had bought at the TG &Y, painting a picture of a red bird.

Jimmie wanted her to be happy, so he said, "That's pretty, Mama."

"The colors aren't right. I can never make the colors right. Isn't that sad?"

Jimmie didn't sleep that night, fearful that she would leave.

The next day she acted as if nothing had happened. She brought Jimmie to school, marched him to the head of his first-grade class, and made the announcement.

"We want everyone to know that Jimmie has a new name. I want all of you to call him Elvis. Isn't that a really special name? Everyone, I want you to meet Elvis Cole."

Mrs. Pine, a kindly woman who was Jimmie's teacher, stared at Jimmie's mother with a strange expression. Some of the kids laughed. Carla Weedle, who was stupid, did exactly what she was told. "Hello, Elvis." All of the kids laughed. Jimmie bit his tongue so he would not cry.

His teacher said, "Mrs. Cole, may I speak with you, please?"

During lunch that day, a second-grader named Mark Toomis, who had a head shaped like a potato and four older brothers, made fun of him.

"What do you think you are, a rock and roll greaser? I think you're queer."

Mark Toomis pushed him down and everyone laughed.

Three months earlier, his mother disappeared in the middle of summer. Like every other time she went away, Jimmie woke to find her gone. Like all the other times, she did not leave a note or tell him that she was going; she just went. They were living in a converted garage apartment behind a big house then, but Jimmie was scared to ask the old people who lived in the house if they knew where his mother was; he had heard them yelling at her about the rent. Jimmie waited all day, hoping that his mom hadn't really left, but by dark he ran crying to the house.

That night, his Aunt Lynn, who spent a lot of time on the phone whispering to his grandfather, fed him peach pie, let him watch television, and snuggled him on the couch. She worked at a department store downtown and dated a man named Charles.

His Aunt Lynn said, "She loves you, Jimmie. She just has her problems."