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that he’d be willing to show us his more personal clothes. Was this an extension of his persona? Was this something he felt he needed to do with us?
    When Elvis was finished giving us a tour of his dressing area, he excused himself and, as he walked toward the front of the bathroom, called out for George to follow him.
    My sisters and I now found ourselves in the extraordinary position of standing alone in Elvis Presley’s closet, trying to process what had started out as an innocent evening at home. Elvis had been captivating, entertaining, funny, and gracious. We talked quietly, assuming the show was over and we’d be asked to leave when George reappeared.
    To my surprise, George came back and said, “Ginger, Elvis would like to see you for a minute.”
    What did Elvis want with me? I glanced uncertainly at Terry and Rosemary.
    “He’s waiting for you,” George urged, motioning me toward the front of the bathroom.
    Taking a few steps forward, I turned back to see George guiding my sisters out through the door by the dressing area. My anxiety roared back. My sisters and I had acted as a safety net for each other, but now I was on my own.
    When I stepped past the doorway of his bathroom, I saw Elvis seated on the side of his bed. He smiled and patted the red bedspread, motioning me to sit down next to him. Unsure of what he wanted, I nervously walked in and complied.
    “Did you notice I was paying more attention to you than to your sisters?” he asked with a faint smile.
    I briefly looked away.
    My heart began to pound. Was Elvis actually
hitting
on me? It went far beyond my wildest imaginings that he would single me out. I felt he had treated the three of us fairly equally, but when I thought back, I remembered his comment about me “burning a hole” through him, how he’d taken a sip from my glass of soda, and the way he’d placed his hands on my shoulders in the hallway. Was that what he meant?
    Not quite sure, I looked up at him and answered, “Yes.”
    He nodded. “When I like someone, I really like them a lot,” he said. “It’s not just a fling. I don’t like one-night stands.”
    “I don’t like one-night stands, either,” I replied, wanting him to be sure I wasn’t that kind of woman.
    Elvis regarded me silently for a moment, then gestured toward the window. “I’m not that street out there,” he said. “If you cut me, I bleed.”
    I couldn’t believe that Elvis, a charismatic, handsome superstar, was talking to me in this intimate way. The only thing I could think to say was, “I understand.”
    “Good,” he replied. He leaned over then and picked up a book lying with some others on the floor beside his bed. It was the
Book of Numbers
by Cheiro, the world-famous seer.
    “When’s your birthday?” Elvis asked, opening the book.
    “November thirteenth,” I replied.
    “You’re a number four,” he said, and began explaining that he reached the number by adding the one and three together. Picking up a pair of glasses from his night table, he put them on and began reading to me about the number four. He told me that fours are sensitive and had their feelings hurt easily. Fours were likely to feel lonely and isolated, with few real friends, but to the few friends they did have, they are very loyal.
    Elvis had my attention. I didn’t feel lonely, but I was shy, sensitive, and loyal to my friends. Elvis obviously was passionate about the subject of numerology and I found myself being drawn into it. Telling me January 8 was his birthday, which made him a number eight, he read on regarding that number. He said these people were often misunderstood and for this reason felt lonely. They usually “play some important role on life’s stage, but usually one which is fatalistic, or as the instrument of Fate for others.” He also said that eight people are either very successful or complete failures. They feel different from others and “seldom reap the reward for the good they may do while