“Don’t be cruel to a heart that’s true.” Elvis’s voice crooned out from the radio which was smack dab in the middle of the dashboard.

She looked over at him. He looks wounded, like a puppy that had been spanked with a rolled up newspaper, she thought.

Well, damn it, why is he such a … you know… a piece of work. Everything has to be his way. All she wanted to do was go to the party and stay more than an hour. But, no!  Restless Frankie, Mr. King of the castle, who must be in charge, insisted on leaving even before the cake was cut or the kid had a chance to open the stupid God- forsaken cheap gift she had to buy—a coloring book and crayons.  Her own nephew! First born kid in the whole family! Her God child. And her shiftless, lazy, can’t- hold- a- job- -husband insisted on leaving!

Why she might just write a letter to Elvis. He had been on the TV just last week- all handsome and country -boy charming. Those girls in the audience were screaming as if he was there buck naked, making love to them.

All right, maybe she had been cruel. Maybe she shouldn’t have yelled at him in front of her sister and the family. Maybe he has been down on his luck…but isn’t this kind of misery a form of cruelty? Don’t I deserve something better than this, she thought, as tears started burning in the corner of her eyes. She pressed a gloved finger- hard- to keep the tears from falling. She looked down at the white polka –dot print of her navy shirtwaist dress. It was a favorite, but it felt cruelly hot in the stifling car.

“Don’t be cruel…to a heart that’s true.” 

“Sing it Elvis, baby,” she whispered aloud.

He looked at her.

“Hey look, baby, I wasn’t trying to be cruel. I just, I just… It’s hard, you know. Your Dad keeps asking me when I’m gonna buy you a bungalow and how my job prospects are…I just can’t take it sometimes, Charlene!”

His hands gripped the steering wheel of the Chevy as they zipped along the asphalt under a canopy of oak trees dripping Spanish moss. The air was oppressive, the humidity was like a gigantic wet blanket, and it was only April. Florida is like that, all hot and humid way too soon, she thought. Sometimes even the weather seemed cruel.

“Don’t be cruel…to a heart that’s true.” 

“Com’n, honey, you’re the only one for me…you know that.” Frankie looked over at her and touched her dimpled chin with his calloused finger.

Charlene looked at him. “I don’t know, Frankie. Maybe this is just a huge mistake. Listen to the song, Frankie. He’s tellin’ the truth, don’t be cruel.”

“Oh, is that it? Now you’re taking advice from Elvis? “

The car screeched to a halt.

“Just get out Charlene. Get out. You have a heart of stone. You don’t give me a lick of credit for trying. You’re always accusing me of some dad- gum thing or another. And now I’m cruel?”

Charlene stepped out of the car onto the boiling sidewalk.

“I’ll just walk from here, Mister. And when I get home…”

As the car sped away, Charlene screamed, “You’re so mean, Frankie.”

Then she removed her toe- pinching high heeled shoes that she wore to please Frankie. Man, her feet hurt!  Talk about cruel. It was torture to wear those things. On impulse, she turned and headed back toward the birthday party. As she walked along, hoping for the blessed relief of shade, she began to compose a letter to Mr. Elvis Presley, in Memphis, Tennessee. She imagined writing these words: “Dear Mr. Elvis Presley, thank you for recording the song ‘Don’t Be Cruel.’  It has helped me to escape a cruel, cruel fate.”

She pulled a folded paper fan from her white patent leather pocket book, and as she cooled herself, a smug smile spread across her face.