by John Rechy
Lady Star breathed moments of suspense. “For example . . . the orphan!”
Behind her, the others joined in her tittering.
Clearly wanting to avoid controversy about homeless children, Tommy Bassich explained to his viewers: “In the short, outrageous existence of the Dead Movie Stars, there has never been allowed a candidate for—”
“They’re petitioners first,” Lady Star corrected in a high pitch of irritation.
“—for the two female stars they consider the epitome of tragedy and glamour—Verna La Maye and Marilyn Monroe. . . . You told me earlier, Lady Star—”
“—that we may be allowing petitioners for them very soon,” Lady Star interjected like an excited little girl. Then her colored lips parted, allowing breathed words: “If they qualify.”
Tommy Bassich spoke to his viewers, one to one: “The secret midnight initiations called auditions have begun to attract dozens of young—”
“Dozens and dozens,” Lady Star interjected loftily, “and most are rejected.”
Kirk whistled. “They’re gonna start getting some real sickos,” he predicted.
“Oh, turn them off,” Troja said.
Kirk did, just as Tommy Bassich was guiding his viewers into the next segment of “Life As It Is”: “The strange, exotic world of Buddhist—”
“There!” Troja had just brushed out Normalyn’s hair.
Standing, Normalyn saw the book Troja had used as her guide, a book of photographs titled simply Marilyn. The book was open to an early picture of the movie star. “Why the hell did you do that?” Normalyn backed away from the photograph.
“She made you look awfully pretty,” Kirk assured.
“Hon, you gonna act strange again?” Troja asked Normalyn. “Why don’t you just go look in the mirror and see—?”
“I don’t want to!”
Troja abandoned her and went to sit on the bed with Kirk. “Ungrateful,” she muttered to Normalyn.
Normalyn found herself in the bathroom before the full-length mirror. Another face had appeared on hers, drawn there by Troja. A familiar face she had seen in David Lange’s office, the young face of Norma Jeane. Staring at it, Normalyn wondered what it had been like for Norma Jeane when she first looked in her mirror and saw the face of Marilyn Monroe.
5
When Normalyn emerged from the bathroom, she had combed her hair and wiped off some of the makeup Troja had painted on her. At the last, she had left traces of the fascinating creation. On her way to her bedroom, she stopped, trying to force Troja to look at her, to know she still demanded an answer to her earlier question. When Troja refused to look at her, Normalyn went into her room and started making sounds as if she were packing again.
Troja understood her signals. She stood inside the room.
Normalyn closed the door behind her. “You did read the letter in my purse when you stole money from me.” She wanted to make her words as harsh as possible.
“Yes.”
This astonished Normalyn: She felt relieved! Someone else, finally, knew about the letter, and it was Troja, someone she could trust. . . . Then: “Does Kirk know, too?”
“What difference—!” Troja was about to react in anger to an implied doubt that focused on Kirk. “No,” she said, “just me.” Then she spoke words quickly: “You do resemble her, hon, you know; really—when she was young, your age.”
Fifteen
Mark Poe!
Normalyn awoke with that name on her mind. He was the man Mildred had raged against, had exiled from the studios; and he had been present during Mildred’s harsh declaration of war against the movie star when Enid had been there, too! That’s whom she had to locate! How? She’d just have to figure it out.
That same morning, Normalyn still felt relieved that Troja had seen the letter. She needed an ally. She could trust Troja; she could, she insisted . . . but only slowly, she revised . . . and Kirk maybe not at all.
Facing the bust of Valentino in De Longpre Park, Normalyn determined where she would start her hunt for Mark Poe: in the library only a few blocks away.
A few minutes later, in the periodicals room of the Hollywood Library, Normalyn roamed through microfilmed issues of the newspaper that had, proudly and prominently, carried Mildred Meadows’ spewings. She skimmed columns full of slaughtering innuendoes, deadly exclamations, and quotation marks twisting inference into accusation. Thank heaven, there were no Saturday or Sunday columns! Finally she located the item Mildred had gloated over, about “leftish bachelor Mark Poe,” the deadly disclaimer that he did not “want children.” But it contained no more than Mildred had bragged about, nothing to guide her further to him nor to anyone else.
Normalyn went back through the columns of pertinent years, wanting periodically to abandon the search through this mire, wanting—
Rehnquist!
She recognized that name, a woman’s. Mildred had implied some connection between her and Mark Poe. No, Normalyn remembered the name from somewhere else, and the reference here tied it to another name. She read the column written in 1960:
Hollywood Today
with MILDRED MEADOWS
NASH McHUGH AND LORNA REHNQUIST:
A Happy Ending?
HOLLYWOOD—The film capital is abuzz with unconfirmed reports that Nash McHugh, dashing star dreamt of by millions of American women, avoided honorable service in the Army of his country. Cloudy details refer to a “temporary nervous disorder” as the reason for his non-participation in the noble conflict to support democratic principles upheld by Hollywood.
A possible recurrence of the “nervous disorder” is feared—silently—by loyal high executives at 20th Century-Fox, where Nash is scheduled to star in the multi-million dollar epic Captains at Sea. Insiders suggest, however, that Nash may merely be reacting—“probably only temporarily”—to persisting reports that his “close friend”—a stage actor with leftish connections—has been exhibiting “a very strong desire” to “help” vagrant teenage boys and children.
Is that why relatives of this minor actor are fighting him in court proceedings for the family home in Palm Springs, to keep it from becoming a “boys’ camp”?
The good news in Hollywood is that those closest to Nash insist his patriotism is intact, and he is straight as an arrow in his personal life, relaxing in his own home in Palm Springs, with house guest Lorna Rehnquist. Executives at 20th report that Nash “just can’t wait” to marry the beauteous, popular socialite, whose father is—
“Sick, so goddamned sick!” Normalyn said aloud in the quiet library.
“Shhh!” The librarian’s pen was poised to tap again—and with added firmness.
There was no doubt that the “leftish” actor not named in this warning column was Mark Poe. Mildred had boasted that she had “frightened” Mark Poe’s lover into marriage to the “Rehnquist heiress.” Normalyn remembered that now, but there was another association she could not recall. Well, she had located Mark Poe in Palm Springs! . . . Years ago. She had discovered an essential name connected to him! . . . Obviously an acquired movie name—and suddenly Mark Poe’s sounded like one, too. But there had been a family home! . . . Contested and probably lost. Normalyn felt frustrated, depressed. But there was one more column she had to locate: Mildred’s last.
Written on a Friday—and just as Mildred had told her—the column announced the “sad news” that Marilyn Monroe had once again “miscarried”—after a “sweet attempt at reconciliation” with “the most loving” of her husbands. And yet, the thought returned constantly to Normalyn, years later the old woman still wondered whether the demanded abortion she claimed to have seen had actually occurred!
The Monday edition of the newspaper featured a boldfaced boxed announcement on its front page:
Popular Hollywood columnist Mildred Meadows announced today that she will no longer write her internationally syndicated column, “Hollywood Today,” avidly read by millions of fans. It will be missed by them—and other fans, t
he newspapers who were proud to have brought it to the world.
When she left the Hollywood library, it did not help Normalyn’s spirits that even the day could not make up its mind. There was an interval of sun, two of gloom. Everywhere, blossoms of jacaranda trees were scattering into only faintly colored dust on the streets; their branches were sparsely leafed while other trees became lush, green.
2
Choosing another telephone booth this time, Normalyn dialed Information.
No, the Palm Springs operator told her, there was no listing under the name of Mark Poe. No, no one by the name of Poe. Nash McHugh? Normalyn offered his name only to extend the connection. No, the operator informed her, there was no listing under that name either, nor under M-a-c-Hugh.
And so that was that.
Missing him, she called Mayor Hughes. He made her promise she was “fine, just fine” and that she would turn to him if she needed anything—“anything, honey.” Afterward, she missed him more . . . and now the sky had turned entirely gray.
So that the day would not be a complete disaster, Normalyn went to a drugstore and bought three books: Crime and Punishment because it had been on Miss Stowe’s list, with an asterisk; A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man because she was sure it would apply to women as well; and Gone with the Wind because that was the only book Enid had ever mentioned. No, it was the romantic movie Enid had loved.
3
Kirk had been waiting for Normalyn to walk in.
“He’s got a secret he wants you to share, hon,” Troja said excitedly. “Don’t know what, myself.”
Kirk was unusually nervous, cracking his knuckles. “Ready?” He actually smiled happily. He made Troja and Normalyn sit down with him and face the television screen. Then from under his bed he brought out a film cassette. Before any image appeared on the screen, Kirk fast-forwarded to an exact place. Then he punched the “play” button. “Look!” His voice was alive.
In an arena, six hugely muscular youngmen in brief gladiator costumes are fighting six sinister men who brandish lethal iron-spiked balls on heavy chains. The handsomest and most muscular leads the other youngmen to victory. Now he is being awarded a laurel-leafed crown by an admiring emperor. The triumphant gladiator says: “For the glory of Rome, sire!” The gladiator—
—was Kirk, young, so much younger. Normalyn recognized in the glorious exultant youngman on the screen the fading reflection of the man watching him, his image now only a smear over the television screen.
“I made it in Italy,” Kirk said. “Son of Hercules movie.” The voice had survived. “Didn’t even know they’d released it till I saw it at the video store.” He prepared to replay the segment. Instead, he yanked it out. “Just shit they’re putting out on cassettes now, that’s all,” his defeated voice said. He reached for a fresh packet of cocaine and snorted twice into each nostril.
Troja took the packet from him and snorted, too.
Normalyn retreated into her room, away from these moments between Troja and Kirk. In her bedroom—even its neatness bothered her today—she tried to read A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, but she broke into tears before she had finished the third page.
4
Kirk’s book of exposes! That’s where she had first heard about Lorna Rehnquist and Nash McHugh. And Kirk had said he’d met Nash once. Normalyn remembered that at dinner. Troja had just returned from an audition—or a “date.” Normalyn preferred not to know.
Idly, Normalyn looked through Troja’s movie books; she was making sure she wouldn’t be questioned about what she was doing. She found the book she was looking for: The Best of Confidential: The Greatest Scandals! She sat on the floor, very, very casually, leaning on one elbow and browsing through the book. She located the story. She said aloud, “I wonder what became of Nash McHugh.” She realized at that moment that Kirk would have no idea, that he had probably just been bragging when he’d claimed that earlier day to have met him, that—
“Nash? He stopped making movies after all the scandal,” Kirk said.
“Nash McHugh sounds like a made-up name.” She tried to make her words sound aloof, an unconcerned observation.
Ambushed, Normalyn was thankful that Kirk merely went on to tell her, “Yeah, that’s a made-up name—like all of Wilson’s boys, that agent. He named Tab, Guy, Kip, Nash—”
“What was his real name?” Normalyn held her breath and avoided Troja’s pursuing stare.
“Robert Kunitz,” Kirk remembered easily. “Made himself over in the same gym I worked out in. I went to a party at his house once, years ago, in Palm Springs; that’s when I met Wilson.” Immediately he was moody.
It was night, but Normalyn did not care. She walked to the telephone booth at the gas station. She was glad it was still open, people milling there. As soon as she called the Palm Springs Information number, she felt defeated. She had grasped at anything, anything. But when the operator answered, she automatically spoke the name she had rehearsed: “Robert Kunitz, please.”
Normalyn closed her eyes wearily. It was only because she was too tired that she didn’t hang up before the inevitable words could come again: I’m sorry but—
“Please hold the line for the number,” the operator said.
Had she really located Robert Kunitz? But would he know where Mark Poe was? Would he even want to remember after the poison that had separated them? What if his wife answered? Still, Normalyn dialed, excited, terrified.
“The Elms,” a youthful female voice answered.
“What?” Normalyn’s finger almost pushed down the cradle of the telephone.
“The Elms Arts School,” the voice repeated. “If it’s about a scholarship, please call between—”
“No, it’s a personal call, and it’s very important. I’m trying to locate Nash McHugh—” The wrong name!
“You mean Mr. Kunitz.” The girl almost laughed. “He’s not here right now, but his associate is. Hold on.”
A buzzing. An extension was lifted. “Mark Poe,” the new voice answered.
Normalyn hung up. She started to run back to the house, stopped, turned around, walked three blocks to another booth. She waited until a car that had slowed had moved on. She dialed Palm Springs again. “We were disconnected,” she told the girl who answered and connected her again.
“Hello!”
“Mr. Poe, I’m sorry I hung up.” Normalyn rushed the only words she could think to speak. “I’ve been in Los Angeles only a few weeks—from Texas—” She stopped because she was out of breath and could not think what else to say to this man.
Moments elapsed. The man was silent.
Normalyn gasped more words. “Enid Morgan died, a short time ago.” She closed her eyes, she saw Enid’s gravestone. The despised winds would have ended; there would be new trees.
“Who are you?’ the man said.
“I don’t know any more! Please help me find out!” When she heard the sudden doubt she had finally spoken, she revised instantly: “I’m Enid Morgan’s daughter. I have to see you.”
“Let me have a number where I can reach you. I may call you back tomorrow,” he said.
She gave him her telephone number, Troja’s.
“And so Enid died in spring, just as she said she would,” Mark Poe said, to himself, quietly.
There was a man who loved me and could not love me, Enid’s voice said to Normalyn.
Sixteen
That very night—when Troja was back from a “date,” so depressed and tired that she hugged and kissed Kirk and went wordlessly to bathe—the telephone rang. For her, Kirk told Normalyn.
It would be Ted Gonzales. She looked at the telephone lying on the kitchen counter for her to answer. Did she want to talk to him? She tried to picture him as he had lingered near the statue of the Unknown Texas Hero. Then she would be able to speak to him—yes, if she remembered him with his cowboy hat shading the saddened angular face—
“Hello—” Her greeting was tentative; the memory she had
managed to evoke might yet rush into a harsh one and—
It was Mark Poe!
Yes, he told her, he would see her. Could she come to Palm Springs . . . “as early as Sunday—to talk, just to talk?”
2
“Where you going?”
“To Palm Springs.” Normalyn hugged an overnight bag she had tried to conceal with her purse. The bus schedules to the resort city were so complicated she had decided to go prepared to spend the night in a hotel if necessary. If so, she would call Troja from there, to obviate the very questions that were now being asked.
“Gonna walk?” Troja reacted to Normalyn’s secretiveness.
“No—I have an interview.” Normalyn spoke the only words she could think of. “For a job—not a secretary’s job, it’s . . . it’s—”
Until a few minutes before, they had all been watching The Big Sleep on Kirk’s VCR. Normalyn had tried to follow it—and couldn’t—until she would make her planned, unobtrusive exit.
“It’s Sunday, hon.” Troja frowned at Normalyn. “Not making sense, hon.”
“As much sense as that damn movie makes.” Normalyn transferred her irritation.
Kirk laughed. “It doesn’t make sense, that’s why I like it.”
“Here,” Normalyn said to Troja. “I’ll pay you for three days’ rent.” She still paid by the day, sometimes two days. Now she wanted to assert she was not intending to move out—and to stop the questioning.
“This ain’t what I’m concerned about,” Troja said indignantly, but she took the money. She nodded Normalyn back into her room. “You’re going there to look for that actor guy you were asking about, and it’s about that letter, isn’t it, hon? You acted real strange all last night. Don’t have to make up stories.”
Again, Normalyn was relieved.
She was even more relieved when Kirk suggested they might drive her there. While Normalyn had her “interview,” he and Troja would “hang around a favorite city.” Troja was ecstatic. But at the last moment, just as Normalyn had expected, Kirk lost his enthusiasm, deciding he had to work out, felt wired. He wouldn’t listen to Troja’s protests that she wouldn’t go either. “It’s good for you to stay away from the goddamn telephone, sweetheart.” He couldn’t even say Duke’s name. When the two women were leaving, Kirk was lifting weights. Troja blew him a sad kiss.
