by John Rechy
The Star Informer co-publisher, Bernard Safonsky, lauded Lange as “a great writer who perhaps became too preoccupied with one single story.” Safonsky added, “Who knows that he wasn’t right?”
Lange was born in New Haven, Wisconsin. He is survived by a sister, Mrs. Helena Blair, of New Haven. A private nondenominational memorial and burial are planned for Lange in his hometown, according to Mrs. Blair.
Book Review editor Charles Nelson described Lange as “an impeccable writer of keen intelligence and highest principles.”
Fifty-Three
Los Angeles Tribune May 29, 1980
David Lange Suicide
POSTSCRIPT TO MARILYN LEGEND
FROM ‘A WITNESS’
By Irene Mallick
LOS ANGELES—The suicide of famed journalist David Lange was discovered Thursday night by Teresa de Pilar, 64. (See accompanying news story.) Miss de Pilar is remembered by observers of “Old Hollywood” as a figure who was privy to Hollywood “secrets” because of her association with Alberta Holland, once known as a “counselor” to movie stars.
The Tribune solicited an interview with Miss de Pilar, who refused until she was informed that her report to the police had been made public. Miss de Pilar agreed to “only a brief and dignified interview.”
The reporter met Miss de Pilar at the hotel where she was staying. She presently resides in Phoenix, Arizona. A slight woman who still speaks with the accent of her native Spain, Miss de Pilar, during the entire interview, continued to fashion artificial flowers—“my beloved hobby”—while she talked.
According to Miss de Pilar, she was to keep an appointment with David Lange “to meet a young woman who had been identified as the daughter of Marilyn Monroe” and, presumably, of Robert Kennedy. Miss de Pilar was to be shown by the young woman in question a letter “written by Marilyn Monroe on the eve of her death” and given to Miss de Pilar to deliver to the movie star’s “life-long, intimate friend.” Without that letter, Miss de Pilar claimed, no definite authentication would be possible.
When the young woman did not turn up, Miss de Pilar says she “assumed certain wishes” and left. It was on her way out that she heard the gunshot that took David Lange’s life. Miss de Pilar stated without further clarification, “David Lange was a complex man pursued by the past.”
Asked why she finally was discussing matters kept secret for years, Miss de Pilar clarified, “Because it gives me the perfect opportunity to inform the young woman in question of certain matters I was not able to convey, and it allows me to assure her that I will accept her wishes not to reveal herself. She has done everything that she had to do.”
Miss de Pilar claimed she had returned to Los Angeles because of “these matters which are now ended with the sad suicide” and also to tend, earlier, to details concerning the death of her long-time friend, Alberta Holland. However, it is well known that Holland died in 1962 in Switzerland. Holland was sentenced to a year in prison for contempt when she refused to provide to the House Committee on Un-American Activities names of “fellow travelers” during the so-called Hollywood “witch hunts.”
Miss de Pilar said that eventually she would return to “my beloved Spain, to die in peace, knowing that I’ve done everything I had to do.”
Informed of Miss de Pilar’s statements, Bernard Safonsky, copublisher with Lange of The Star Informer tabloid, said, “David Lange was always interviewing people who claimed knowledge about Marilyn Monroe’s ‘secret last days.’ It’s possible that he finally found his answers.”
Part Four
The Angel
One
The small cemetery is almost hidden in the midst of one of the busiest sections of Los Angeles. Perhaps two blocks square, it reclines away from noisy streets, tall buildings, a parking lot, a movie-theater complex.
Its grounds are always green. Although most of the monuments in the memorial park are plain marble blocks, here and there a more elaborate one rises assertively. A gravel driveway loops about the grounds, past a green-vined chapel. At the far end of the cemetery is the Mausoleum of Memories. There, wall crypts shelter the remains of the dead.
Normalyn saw it immediately. Troja stood with her before the simple vault.
MARILYN MONROE
1926 – 1962
Troja wore a subdued gray dress, subdued makeup. Once again she was the imposing woman Normalyn had first met, even grander now because, just earlier, she had told Normalyn her age. She was twenty-three. A full life had been crowded into her few years.
Normalyn wore a pretty lemony dress. She did not want to mourn. She had been to Enid’s grave in Gibson less than two months ago. Now she had come to end that journey in another cemetery.
Normalyn had decided to visit the memorial park that morning, soon after Troja had mutely shown her the news story about David Lange’s death.
“So sad,” Normalyn said quietly. She would always feel sorrow for that driven man.
“Then you are her daughter,” Troja formed the words that had kept astonishing her silently.
Yes, Normalyn accepted—but she added to herself; I’m their daughter, hers and Enid’s. She knew she would love Enid more than ever now, the woman who had raised her, loved her. Enid’s anger had been resentment at war with love, she understood. She hadn’t lied to Stanley about the death of their child, a terrible aching void she had to fill—and she had answered the movie star’s plea that her daughter be protected. Enid’s letter was true. Yet it had left Normalyn mysteries to solve that would give her strength, allow her to find her own life. Enid, too, would always be her mother.
It had been a morning of sadness wafted by a curious sense of exhilaration uniting Normalyn and Troja closely. There was the lingering awareness of the violent suicide—and other memories stirred—but at the last David Lange had turned against his own obsession, chosen his own serenity. Troja’s engagement at the new club had been extended definitely only for another weekend because she was still being“considered” along with another singer. But she was becoming used to “being herself.” For Normalyn, the excitement of again seeing Michael was brushed with apprehension, but she was sure she wanted to see him, and would see him.
Within that limbo of feelings, Normalyn had decided she would visit the memorial park. Troja quickly agreed to go with her.
At an outdoor flower shop on the way, Normalyn bought three white roses, a breath of gold at the edges.
As they entered the cemetery, she was aware of a monument in the near distance, on the soft green grass, a monument on which a statue— . . .
She turned away from it, avoiding it.
Now before the vault of Marilyn Monroe, Normalyn placed a rose in an urn beside it. For Enid. She placed another. “For you,” she told Troja.
Troja closed her eyes for a moment.
Placing the third rose in the urn—from herself—Normalyn said aloud, “Rest in peace, mother.” Then she and Troja walked away from the plain plaque, the flowers.
It was a warm, hazy day. The sun spread thinly over a sky hinting of blue. The cemetery looked peaceful, all the lives it contained at rest. The two women walked along the road to the gate.
Again Normalyn avoided the stone figure mounted on a distant grave.
“Now your new life begins,” Troja said.
“And your new one already has,” Normalyn said.
“Yes,” Troja asserted. She held out her hand. “See? It’s steady.”
It was steady, Normalyn saw. Almost, almost, almost steady.
There was in the air the scent of fresh grass, abandoning spring, bringing summer. Normalyn felt elated! Then that feeling linked, unwelcome, with another. She stopped on the gravel road. Troja waited with her.
“Troja—”
“Hon?”
“I’m afraid,” Normalyn said.
Troja sighed. “Of course you are, hon, cause everybody is when— . . . cause living is— . . . cause—” She stopped forced words. “Because you know you have
to be brave, hon—that’s why you’re afraid.” She faced Normalyn in recognition of fear and courage. “And you will be brave. Know why? Because you have to be.”
“Yes,” Normalyn said, and she allowed her eyes to roam over the calm green lawn of burial in search of the stone figure she had avoided earlier—because it had reminded her of the abandoned angel in the playground of the home, its wings clasped. Now she faced the figure mounted on a white stone.
It was the statue of another angel.
Within shifting shadows of sun-lit trees, its wings seemed to Normalyn to be just about to open to begin its daring flight.
