But Joe did get a gift of his own from that futile search in Marilyn’s house. It was a paper, folded once at its midpoint, and inserted amid the pages of her address book. Police had found it that morning. It was a letter to him. She must have started it Friday or Saturday, and when something interrupted her, she’d put it aside, tucked it away. Now it would be her last gift to him.
Dear Joe,
If I can only succeed in making you happy, I will have succeeded in the biggest and most difficult thing there is—that is, to make one person completely happy. Your happiness means my happiness, and
WHEN BERNIECE MIRACLE arrived on Monday, Joe quickly won her approval to make the funeral a strictly private affair. She and Joe, along with Inez Melson, Marilyn’s old business manager, issued a statement that they all signed.
“ . . . Last rites must of great necessity be as private as possible so that she can go to her final resting place in the quiet she always sought . . .”
Apart from Berniece, Inez, and Joe (who would bring along Joe Jr. and George Solotaire) there would be only two dozen mourners—mostly people who had served Marilyn—a maid, her housekeeper, her secretary, her driver, her masseur Ralph Roberts, her psychiatrist Ralph Greenson (and his family), her publicist, her lawyers, a couple of hairdressers, and her loyal makeup man, Allan “Whitey” Snyder.
Years before—after her appendectomy, when she was only twenty-five—Marilyn had made Whitey Snyder promise that whenever she died, he would do her makeup. She would look as beautiful, as much a star, as ever he had made her look in her films. So it was Whitey whom Joe called, early Tuesday morning, when Marilyn’s body had arrived at the Westwood Memorial Park.
“Whitey,” Joe said, “you promised. Will you do it, please? For her?”
Joe didn’t have to say any more. Whitey understood.
“I’ll be there, Joe.”
That afternoon, Whitey was there, to restore the world’s most beloved face—while his wife-to-be (Marilyn’s wardrobe assistant), Marjorie Plecher, tried to coax and pad Marilyn’s embalmed body back to its famous form. When they finished, late Tuesday, that face and form were once again Marilyn Monroe. With a wig that she’d worn for The Misfits, a chiffon scarf around her neck, a pale green Pucci dress that she loved—she lay in repose in the bronze casket that Joe had bought . . . and she was as beautiful as ever.
Joe sat and stared at the face of his girl as Whitey and Marjorie left the mortuary.
When they came back, Wednesday morning, to touch up their work, Joe was still there in the same seat. He had spent all night gazing at her face, and talking to her, praying for her, crying. That morning, he simply stared, bent slightly forward in his chair—toward her—his hands wrung together in his lap . . . until he had to leave, to get dressed.
The funeral was scheduled for one o’clock that afternoon—Wednesday, August 8, 1962—the day Joe and Marilyn would have been remarried.
Joe and Joe Jr. rode to the chapel at the Westwood Memorial Park in a mortuary limousine. Junior was in his Marine dress uniform, Joe in a charcoal gray suit. In the limo, Big Joe started crying again—and without a word, he reached out, took Junior’s hand—and held it all the way to the chapel. Joe Jr. would later say that was the closest he ever got to his dad.
Many in the crowd outside the gates were angry, as the hour of the funeral approached. Joe had excluded everyone in Hollywood—all the big wheels who wanted to say goodbye to Marilyn. People at the fence actually yelled at Berniece: “There are people that really loved her out here!” . . . “Aren’t you going to invite the Kennedys?” . . . Inez Melson recalled that Frank Sinatra, Ella Fitzgerald, and Sammy Davis, Jr., tried to bull their way in with their own security guards. They claimed they had permission to go to the chapel. But they were turned away . . . . Peter Lawford complained that his wife (the sister of the President) had flown across the country from Hyannis Port, only to be barred from her friend’s final rites. “It seems to be a concerted effort,” Lawford said, “to keep some of Marilyn’s old friends from attending.” Even the lawyer Mickey Rudin, who was invited, protested to DiMaggio that he was keeping out a lot of important people—studio heads, directors, stars—and what was Rudin supposed to tell them?
“Tell them,” Joe growled, “if it wasn’t for them, she’d still be here.”
In the chapel, a nondenominational minister from a neighborhood church conducted the service. The funeral director’s wife played the organ—one of Marilyn’s favorite songs, from The Wizard of Oz, “Over the Rainbow.” At Joe’s request, Lee Strasberg, Marilyn’s teacher, delivered the eulogy.
“Marilyn Monroe was a legend,” he began. He was reading through tears at first.
“In her own lifetime she created a myth of what a poor girl from a deprived background could attain. For the entire world she became a symbol of the eternal feminine.
“But I have no words to describe the myth and the legend. Nor would she want us to do so. I did not know this Marilyn Monroe, nor did she.
“We, gathered here today, knew only Marilyn—a warm human being, impulsive and shy and lonely, sensitive and in fear of rejection, yet ever avid for life and reaching out for fulfillment . . . .”
Strasberg spoke for five minutes. His text was her talent—which, he assured them, “was not a mirage.”
“Now, it is all at an end,” he said.
“I cannot say goodbye. Marilyn never liked goodbyes, but in that peculiar way she had of turning things around so that they face reality—I will say au revoir. For the country to which she has gone, we must all someday visit.”
At the close the mourners stood, and most turned toward the door for the walk to the crypt where she would be entombed—about two hundred yards away. But Joe DiMaggio lingered until the others who wanted to say goodbye had passed by her coffin. And then, before the casket was closed, he bent over her and placed three roses in her hands. And sobbing aloud, with his last kiss, he told her: “I love you. I love you. I love you.”
HE STAYED IN L.A. for a couple of days. He didn’t really know where to go. Every place he thought of had too many memories. But still, he’d have to go somewhere—out of her town. He could never turn around without seeing her there, in the corner of his eye.
And the papers there were full of her—with more and more questions fueling the fever. Peter Lawford came forward as the “mystery caller”—he’d talked to Marilyn that Saturday night—and he quoted her last words to him (or maybe he wasn’t really quoting): “Say goodbye to Pat, say goodbye to the president, and say goodbye to yourself, because you’re a nice guy.” Then, she didn’t hang up, but simply dropped the phone. That put the press back on the suicide theory . . . . But then came news that the autopsy had found no residue of sleeping pills in Marilyn’s stomach. How could she have killed herself with bottlesful of pills—and there was nothing left of them in her system when she died? . . . And by the end of the week, the press got ahold of a fresh and evocative fact: Marilyn had ordered a thousand-dollar gown from her designer, Jean Louis . . . now, what the hell could she have been planning?
By that time, Joe had to get away. He and Harry Hall and their pal, Sugar Brown, were headed down to Mexico—where at least Joe wouldn’t understand the news. So that Friday, two days after the funeral, he stopped by the cemetery office, just once more, to look over the cards and leaf through hundreds of telegrams, and see the piles of flowers that had been delivered. Joe had already arranged for his own flower deliveries—roses for Marilyn’s crypt, twice a week—and forever. Just as Marilyn had asked, so many years ago.
When Joe was ready to leave, he wanted to stop by the crypt, to say goodbye or tell her he’d be back. But the cemetery gates were wide open, now, and fans had been streaming in—hundreds every day—and they’d kneel by her crypt, or feel her plaque, and leave notes or flowers. They were around her all the time. There were twenty or thirty of them over there now. Maybe that’s the way it would be from now on—she belonged to them, after all.
With an air of dejection, Joe told the cemetery manager, Guy Hackett: “Well, I guess I can say goodbye now.”
Hackett looked over toward Marilyn’s tomb, and told Joe: “Just wait a moment.”
Then he went to the fans, and explained that Mr. DiMaggio would like to have a moment with his—with Miss Monroe. And an extraordinary thing happened: all the faithful around Marilyn parted, and stepped back, as Joe DiMaggio approached.
Because they all knew, he was her worshipper. He was the one who had burned for her. He was the one who would come to her, to help her, to carry her, or bury her—to the very end.
So, in the end, she was his.
That first time, it surprised him, pleased him, and he was grateful. But in time, he would come to see this as his destiny and due. And he would hold on to Marilyn Monroe—as he would hold on to everything that was his—for the next forty years.
Because in death, he did possess her—as he never quite could in life.
BOOK IV
THE GREATEST LIVING . . .
* * *
1989–1998
AS AN A’S COACH, WITH GOVERNOR REAGAN.
THUMPING THE TUB FOR MR. COFFEE.
IN THE SAN FRANCISCO EARTHQUAKE, OCTOBER 1989.
CHAPTER 17
YOU’D THINK—WHEN THE LAND STARTS TO SHUDDER and roar, and splits apart to swallow bridges and cars . . . when the rocks of the earth smash together, heaving houses like toddlers’ toys . . . you’d think all the people would be the same. An earthquake must send a shudder through every helpless heart. What is any man in the face of ineluctable tectonic force? You’d have to think—when every man must fear, with a wakening reptile-brain jolt of panic . . . that must overwhelm, at least for the moment, our small distinctions of self and style.
And people did think so—or at least said so—when the avid news crews of the western world started filming, after the San Francisco earthquake in October 1989. The city was packed with crews already, for the Bay Bridge World Series—the Giants against the local rival Oakland A’s—first time in history, the town was in its glory . . . and then, just as Game Three was to start, the quake hit and the newsies jumped to it. Almost instantly, there were horrific aerial shots of highways crumpled, whole blocks afire; there were death counts, pleas and pronouncements from the mayor, the governor; live shots of firemen, police, emergency room personnel; but mostly interviews—scores of witnesses, victims, helpers, neighbors . . . and all, or mostly all, expressing the same oddly ennobling thought: they had run out to the street, all the citizens together; they had fled with, huddled among, and clung to perfect strangers; and now everybody was helping everybody, because . . . they were all in the same boat.
But they didn’t know Joe DiMaggio—though he was a neighbor, too. They might have seen him, that famous, dapper seventy-four-year-old who took his walks on the Marina streets. They knew his house. They probably thought they knew him, or knew things about him:
A very quiet gentleman . . .
So private since he’d left baseball!
And doesn’t he still send roses to Marilyn Monroe’s grave? . . .
They couldn’t have known much. Joe had seen to that. No one really knew what it meant to have spent a half-century being precisely and distinctly DiMaggio—what we required Joe DiMaggio to be. No one knew, as he did, what it cost to live the hero’s life. And no one knew, as he did, precisely what it was worth.
If the neighbors had known, they would have understood: DiMaggio had his own boat—his alone. No matter the emergency, he’d steer his own course—for him alone. They would have known—even in an earthquake—DiMaggio would have his own destiny, apparently blessed from above.
TO UNDERSTAND you had to see him, first, where he sat as the quake struck—to be precise, on the field of Candlestick Park, in one of the special seats installed for the Series in front of the normal box seat railing. This was appropriate because, if he’d been sitting in the stands—anywhere in the stands—he would have been in company with sixty-two thousand others in the stands. Or, more likely, he would not have come. To put DiMaggio among fans would have ignored his standing in the Great Game—to be precise, as Baseball’s Greatest Living Player—which was the epithet he insisted upon, when he was publicly introduced. (But this was better: Joe had the Greatest Living Player’s seat, and he wasn’t introduced.)
He was sitting next to the Oakland A’s dugout, which was proper because he was, as ever, an American Leaguer. Besides, the A’s were one of his teams, the only big league club he’d worked for—apart from the Yankees, of course. In ’68 and ’69 he’d served as a coach (with vice president’s rank) for Charlie Finley’s Oakland A’s. It was a not-quite-ready-for-prime-time ball club—and looked even worse in Kelly green uniforms. But DiMaggio needed two more years of employment to qualify for baseball’s maximum pension (which pension he began to receive some five years later, and which he never touched, but piled up in a satisfying stack). Even thereafter, through the 1980s, the A’s would call DiMaggio for special events, to come to their park, to be introduced, to be cheered by the fans as he threw out the first pitch—for a decent fee. More than decent, actually, because the A’s did not cavil when DiMaggio asked for transcontinental first-class airfare back and forth from New York or Miami—when Joe was actually in San Francisco, which was a twenty-dollar cab ride . . . or would have been, if Joe hadn’t brought along some pal, who’d ride him to Oakland for free.
He was sitting in company with Bobby Brown, third baseman for the Yanks in the 1940s, when Joe was the eminence in the old Bronx clubhouse. Normally, DiMag would not have sat with another player—he still wouldn’t be “part of the gang.” (He wouldn’t even go to Cooperstown, where the players who gathered could be described as his peers.) But Bobby Brown was an exception. He had become a successful cardiologist, and now served as president of the American League. You could say he and Joe were friends. And Joe had his seat at Dr. Brown’s invitation—Bobby gave him the ticket.
Of course, DiMaggio got tickets, too—all the baseball tickets he wanted, any game he wanted—All-Star games, playoff games, World Series . . . but he sold those. Like all his SuperBowl tickets: Joe could make a stack with the tickets he got from the NFL, from the clubs, from companies or the rich guys who owned them. Joe gave them to Ben Langella, who was a banker in a suburb south of San Francisco—and Ben would turn those tickets into cash. Ben took care of a lot of little things for Joe, and the Clipper would come to Langella’s savings-and-loan, down near the airport, almost every day to give Ben some new job. Or he’d ask: “How you doin’ with the tickets?” And Ben would say: “Good, Joe. Eighteen thousand dollars. I got ’em all sold.” Joe would say, “Not so fast. I can get more.” Tickets were a fat five figures for DiMaggio every year. And you couldn’t say Joe wasn’t grateful. Ben Langella had a seat on the Candlestick field, too—same row as Joe.
That was still how Joe paid off: his company was currency, sufficient to any cost. Now, in Joe’s seventy-fifth year, that had become his modus operandi—as close as he came to an article of faith. One time, at Joe’s house, a pal and business associate was needling DiMag about the money he’d made for him, checks he’d written to him, all the stuff he’d paid for—and what had Joe ever paid? Joe turned his poker face on him, and replied: “You’re here, aren’t you?” . . . In the old days there had been occasional moments when it pleased Joe to give away that currency—especially to people who didn’t ask, or weren’t in position to expect anything—like kids, or guys minding their own business in a bar or a restaurant. Joe would hang around, and even talk, so he wouldn’t be alone—unless they asked for something, or called attention to themselves with Joe . . . then he’d get his back up and walk out. But lately, the marketplace kept pushing the value of Joe’s company higher. By 1989, he was commanding forty to fifty thousand dollars a day for autograph shows and memorabilia sales. And for the most part, he’d stopped doing anything for free. As for friendship—well, the old
pals he’d hung around with for fun were gone. New pals were in the business of taking care of Joe, somehow.
That day, in the special seats at Candlestick, there was Sam Spear, the PR guy at Bay Meadows Race Track, where Joe would spend some days. Sam would make sure Joe was comfortable in the press box or the Directors’ Room, with a table to himself, so he could look at his mail or think about placing a two-dollar bet, and none of the fans could get near him. That was how Sam earned his World Series ticket—and, of course, he called himself Joe’s pal. But DiMaggio had his doubts about Spear: he was getting to be like all the rest—presumptuous about the palship. (And Joe’s doubts were borne out within a couple of months, when Sam threw a birthday party for Joe at the track. It was up in the Directors’ Room; Sam had the place full—must have cost him a bundle—but Joe didn’t like the crowd Sam invited. Then Sam put up on the big tote board that Joe D. was at the track, celebrating his birthday . . . DiMaggio threw a twenty on his table and walked out.)
Ben Langella had met Joe at the track, too. That was more than ten years ago, in the press box—Joe was going through his brown paper sack of mail. Someone told Joe that Ben ran a bank in Millbrae, and Joe got an idea. He turned to Ben: “Do you have anyone at your bank who could type some letters for me?” Ben smiled sweetly. “I can type, Joe.” Joe was at the bank, nine A.M. the next day. Ben had been writing Joe’s letters ever since. And Joe had been good for Ben. People came to Ben’s office of Continental Savings Bank just to see DiMaggio napping in the armchair near Ben’s desk. When Joe was in a good mood, Langella would slip him three or four balls to sign—Ben would hand those out to good customers. Langella got his branch up to $130 million in deposits that way . . . and that didn’t count Joe’s money in there. You couldn’t really count on Joe’s money. He favored hundred-dollar bills, in safe deposit boxes—like an old Papa who’d tuck cash in the mattress. Joe stuffed so many hundreds in his box that Ben told him, “Joe, don’t put any more in there. We’ll have to get ’em out with dynamite.” (Like most jokes in those days, Joe didn’t get it—or didn’t choose to get it: “No,” he said. “There’s room for more.”)
Joe DiMaggio: The Hero's Life (Touchstone Book) Page 53
