by Adam Braver
And one of the girls says to her, “What does your husband think?” And she says, “What?” and we’re not sure if her what refers to whether she has a husband or whether she has a thing for him to think about. “About the pictures? About all the modeling you’ve been doing while he’s gone.” “I don’t worry him with those kinds of things,” she says. “He doesn’t need to be bothered with my troubles.” We know what that means. We know that this whole stinking moment has become just a placeholder for her. And we know that having no loyalty and being disloyal are two completely different things.
Later, a story circulated that her husband first caught wind of the modeling when he was looking over one of his shipmate’s shoulders at a magazine. And, without a doubt, there stood his wife. And he must have hoped it was only a hobby, one of those things that just happens, and not some new scheme of hers. Then, on a leave after Japan surrendered, he came home briefly before he was to ship out again, this time to Shanghai. He found his young bride was now a full-fledged model, using a new name, Marilyn Monroe, and talking of a possible film contract with Twentieth Century-Fox. His mother had tried to tell him. She hadn’t been happy watching her daughter-in-law rush out of the house on weekends and at all hours to pose in swimsuits for magazines. Nor did she appreciate how her daughter-in-law abdicated all responsibility for her bills in favor of buying clothes and accessories that she claimed were necessary for her latest line of work. And there are lots of stories, and lots of accounts, but it seems most convincing that her newfound sense of purpose didn’t match his. We can hear the argument now: “You’re not the girl I married.” “I am. I’ve just got something to focus on.” “And your husband isn’t enough? . . . Why are you being so bitchy?” “I’m sorry I’m not like your old beauty queen girlfriend.” We can hear it because we’ve heard some form of it a million times over. But what we can’t hear is what it means for her to be seen. And how she’s always believed that nobody ever sees her quite right, and that maybe now that will change. Not too long after she quit Radioplane, her photographs began showing up in magazines. Then she showed up in bit parts on the movie screen.
The funny thing is that one girl, Rita, always doubted that the she in the photos was the she who had worked here. We show Rita a picture in a magazine. Then point to the chair where she used to sit. “Right there,” we say, nodding. “She’s the one who sat right there.”
Rita squints her eyes, trying to remember. Put it all into place. Finally she shakes her head no. “That’s not the same girl,” she says. “You’re mixing it all up. You’re goofing her up with someone else.”
“No,” we say, “no.” We’re laughing a little. Partly at Rita’s insistence. And partly at a weird pride we’ve taken on. Most of us don’t really approve of what she’s done, especially considering the risk her husband faced in the South Pacific. We know opportunities come and go, and that there are proper moments in which to grab them, and perhaps what really threw us was how out of the blue it came, and how in retrospect it seems she was just lying in wait, always on call, for that one opportunity to change her life. So while her timing might be in question, we do quietly root for her. Why? Because despite all our higher grounds, she’s there and we’re still here.
Rita will not let up. She grabs the magazine out of our hands, flipping the pages quickly. (Now here’s an odd thing: despite the cavernous setting of the hangar, in which sounds are always in competition, and where whispers nearly always rise into shouts, we can hear every page turn, as though a giant bird is beating its wings above our heads.) “Here,” Rita says, “here.” She shoves the magazine in our faces. We look at the picture. There she is, posing on the beach. Sitting in front of the receding tide, in a two-piece bathing suit, her right hand pinching the top, as if holding it up. She doesn’t have that sad look anymore. She looks alive and almost carefree. The youth practically bursts out of her. It’s as if being seen by the lens has cured her. But maybe the tragedy to all this, at least from our perspective, is how much she looks as though she believes the sadness will be gone forever.
“It’s not even the right name,” Rita says. “A totally different name. A totally different person.”
“Okay,” we say. “Okay.” There’s no strength left to pursue the argument. But to some degree Rita is right. She is a totally different person.
1951: Norwalk State Hospital, Norwalk, CA
The halls of Norwalk State Hospital: flat and dull, with floors that are mopped clean on the hour, and swept in between, looking like they’ve never been walked on, other than the black scuff marks that a loosely dragged mop head can’t scrub out. There’s always whispered talk among the staff. Whispers. (Always whispers.) The kind in which plans are made. After a while the whispering has the sound of conspiracy. In essence, all the patients are the same, because crazy is the same. It’s just different shapes and sizes. There’s a little fat man, mostly bald but crowned by an even ring of hair, and he likes to twirl in the middle of the floor, with his shirttails arranged so that his belly hangs out, shifting and tumbling, not sucked in for anyone anymore. And when the mood hits him right, and the watch is lax, his clothes start to come off piece by piece, and soon he’s just a naked blob, spinning in circles, occasionally slapping down on his prick, which has hardened out of reflex, hitting it like it is a lever that will make him spin faster. Meanwhile, the talkers and the mumblers sit in the corners. They hold court with themselves, muttering invectives and regrets, the spite aimed at whomever looks at them, except for the pretty nurse’s aides (although eventually they too will be implicated). The talkers and mumblers usually are old, committed so long ago they believe they have always been in Norwalk State Hospital. No memories of ever being children. (As if one could just appear in a state hospital.) They exist in a relative hush. Noise is the sound of disorder. Expressions are a sign of failure. But dig under that quiet, or at least get somewhere beneath it, and you’ll hear something deafening. Like one of those whistles that only a dog hears, that drops it to its belly, unable to continue on.
Think about that.
Marilyn thinks about it every time she visits her mother.
Especially when she leaves. Falling down across the backseat of the town car. Hands cupped over her ears. Trying to silence the devastating pitch.
Maybe they ought to have their own wing at Norwalk State Hospital.
The Baker-Grainger Ward.
The Grainger-Baker Center.
It could be dedicated to the two women who raised her: her mother, Gladys Baker, and her grandmother, Delia Grainger.
Gladys must have known what this was like, walking through hospital corridors that smelled somewhere between stale and sterile, afraid to see her mother, because who would want to see her mother that way (especially when her mother was in fact that way). It was 1927 and all the world was talking about floods in Mississippi, and Sacco and Vanzetti being executed, and bombings in Bath Township, Michigan, and Charles Lindbergh. Gladys wanted to tell Delia about a new picture called The Jazz Singer, a talkie that was supposed to change every way people thought about the pictures. She wanted to tell her that. Because at least she had the movies with her mother. That one place where they could dissolve away together. But when she saw Delia sitting on the edge of her bed, grimacing and bending her fingers back one by one, Gladys was tempted to leave. Turn and walk away from her mother forever. She saw the rage (or at least the memory of the rage, which, in and of itself, was as real as the rage). It floated around her mother, seducing her. It was the same rage that had smashed glasses and plates against the floor. That verbally assaulted. That had kept anybody from ever coming over to the house. That hit Gladys’s baby daughter, and, according to the little girl, also had tried to smother her with a pillow when a directive wasn’t understood. That’s what Gladys saw. She had to look away, terrified she’d also see the potential in herself. And while she hadn’t ever physically lashed out at her daughter, Gladys had sometimes gazed at her and, for no reason, broken
into a jag of tears.
Standing outside her mother’s room at Norwalk, Gladys wanted so badly not to be related to Delia. Wanted it all to be a mistake. A clerical error. In the room, she sat down on the bed beside her mother. Out of instinct and habit, Gladys held her elbows akimbo, pointed outward as potential defenders. Delia grunted, then started coughing, bringing something up in her throat. When she was done she swallowed, yanked on her fingers, and tapped her foot twice on the floor.
Gladys stared into the hallway, unable to bring herself to look at her mother. And in a shaky voice that could not steady itself to normal, Gladys started talking about The Jazz Singer. Treated her mother as though she were listening. Going over all the minutiae, telling her about Al Jolson, May McAvoy, and making pretend plans for them to go downtown and see it together. When she was done, Gladys stood, saying it was time to go. She leaned forward as though about to kiss her mother’s cheek, but stopped short, not wanting to get too close. Delia was like a fragile curio; the slightest touch might explode her into a thousand pieces.
Gladys walked the hallway, cataloging it the way she always did, trying to lodge the details of the hospital deep into her memory. One day her own mind would give in. It was part of her heritage. And when it did she’d want to know how Norwalk operated. So she sopped it up. Tried to store up as much as she could. Hoping that when she eventually needed it, the setup would make a little bit of sense.
Maybe a wing would not be enough.
Maybe the whole hospital. On a movie star’s earnings it was possible. Maybe even an obligation. After all, it was a question of legacy. At least three generations deep.
It’s supposed to be cheery in Norwalk. That’s their word, cheery. It is a part of the overall therapeutic treatment, based on the belief that a positive environment makes for a positive mind. In the crowded hospital, the rules are all enumerated, as are the patients. How else could order possibly be kept? The nurses and hospital staff follow their training and, unless circumstances dictate otherwise, always speak in positive terms. Only the doctors avoid this routine. Crouched over their steel clipboards, listening for facts and scratching out orders, they have little time for such theatrics. They are the orchestrators. The composers. It’s not their job to perform. In accordance with the emphasis on positivity, some patients are encouraged to take day trips with their families. Getting out and interacting with the world can create a feeling of normalcy. And so Marilyn takes her mother to lunch. They sit on a deck of a restaurant in Whittier. Gladys is hunched, hiding her face as though she’s being watched. Having hardly spoken, she suddenly glances around and busts out: You have to get me out of there. She doesn’t look at her daughter; it isn’t clear she even knows who she is. Throughout lunch she only picks at the fried potatoes, saying, You seem like a nice enough lady, and I know you won’t take me back. When they finish, and the car is driving back toward the hospital, her mother goes completely silent, only the occasional shifting, or a throat clearing and a grunt. Gladys squints and balls her fists as though she might explode, then stares out the window, watching the city go by, frame by frame, as if gawking at somebody else’s memory. It’s only when the car pulls into the long driveway that Gladys says, I figured you weren’t the type I could ever trust. And as they walk toward the nurses’ station, Marilyn keeps her head low, afraid that any eye contact might reduce her to tears. The nursing assistant comes over from behind the desk, a big black woman, and takes Gladys’s hand, and with a large smile, she speaks with the enthusiasm of a waiting parent: “Oh, Mrs. Baker, don’t you look lovely and refreshed. It is so good to have you home!”
March 8, 1952: Villa Nova Restaurant, Los Angeles
The cab arrives at the Villa Nova about fifteen minutes late, but Joe still feels prompt. He walks under the canopy and through the heavy wood door, shutting out the roar of Sunset Boulevard. As he strolls behind the maître d’, he senses eyes being cast in his direction. It would be easier if they kept their stares to themselves. A little privacy is all he’s hoped for since he retired last season. Making his way straight for the back table, he keeps his head low, his eyes focused on the floor. Someone says, “Hey Joe,” but he doesn’t look up, only purses his lips into a smile and keeps moving; he’s been anticipating this night for weeks. He just hates that it has to be so public.
The dinner was arranged by a studio publicist named David March, who ran a photo shoot featuring Marilyn and another ballplayer, Philadelphia A’s left fielder Gus Zernial. Joe had phoned March, saying that as long as he was brokering meetings between Marilyn and baseball players, then he wanted in, too. He knew March would comply—people like him always wanted Joe on their side. March expressed concern that Marilyn might not accept, she was funny about doing things on her own terms, and not to take it personal. Try, Joe told him. It took a few back-and-forths. A little negotiating. But March finally sold it to Marilyn as a combination blind date/double date. It was best that way, he told Joe. She wasn’t much interested in sports.
March and his date are seated all the way in the back, in one of the red leather booths. She twists her whole torso when she turns to greet Joe. He thinks it makes her look phony. Like she thinks she’s some kind of sophisticate, so proper. Even her bright red lipstick bugs him. A little much for what is basically a high-priced spaghetti joint.
March stands, shakes Joe’s hand, and offers a seat. Joe stares at the table, wondering where Marilyn is and where she will sit, but says nothing; instead he scoots into the left side of the booth, in front of March’s half-filled water glass, staying near the end.
March says, “She’s not here yet.”
“I can see that,” Joe says. “I can tell.”
March keeps watch for Marilyn down the narrow restaurant corridor, peering toward the front door between waiters with plates of steaming pasta. She’s nearly an hour and a half late. The candles on the tables have since been lit; the room has an evening glow. He’s run out of excuses. All he can do is order a second round of martinis for the table. But Joe doesn’t partake; martinis seem pretentious. Plus he prefers a clear head for when she comes. He wants to be at his best. He requests a refill of water, after which he takes a teaspoon and fishes out the ice cubes, drops them onto his red linen napkin, and then, folding it in half, watches the cloth darken.
Excusing himself, March declares he’s going to check up front to see if she called. He bumps the table as he stands. Joe’s water sloshes near the rim. “It’s probably just . . .” March says. “You know how easily the business can throw off a schedule. Especially in a production.”
Joe doesn’t say a thing, keenly aware of how uncomfortable his silence makes his companions.
“Just give me a few moments,” March says. And he walks through the core of the Villa Nova, visible only by the flickering candles.
A few minutes after being left alone with Joe, the date turns to him, as if the quiet kills her. “You don’t still play ball, do you?”
He shakes his head.
“I didn’t think so, but I thought it was recent. It was recent, right? David says you have a TV show, on CBS. A baseball show?”
“NBC.”
“Oh,” she says, “NBC.”
He squeezes the napkin, making what’s left of the ice completely melt.
She says she has a friend who worked at NBC, and she wonders if Joe knows her, although she can’t remember the exact division, and he tries to keep from yawning while she rattles off names of industry people that don’t mean a thing. Finally, she stops. After peering around the restaurant, she leans in, gripping the stem of her glass. “It’s a little rude, don’t you think,” she says, “to keep people waiting so long. Between you and me, I don’t know how long I’m good for.”
Joe doesn’t reply. He’s willing to wait it out all night.
Once she enters, there is no question how her presence changes the room. Like a giant exhalation. Dressed in black, she commands the attention of the Villa Nova, strolling with slow purpose
until she reaches the table. It’s as though the whole restaurant has brightened, the candles’ flames standing taller. There is something light about her, at once ghostly and cartoonish. Without saying anything, she puts her palms flat on the tabletop and leans forward, as though exhausted, looking for a drink. He’s struck by how young she looks, almost like a little girl playing dress-up. And he watches as she slowly takes off her coat and pauses, letting the restaurant see how tightly the fabric of her dress clenches her chest, instinctively annoyed at her showboating but forgiving it as a vulnerability. “Sorry for being late,” she says, but offers no excuses other than needing a little extra time for her yoga. “And you didn’t even order me a drink yet? Shame on you, David.” She edges herself around the table, just about falling back into her seat on the bench, as March calls the waiter over. “I guess this is my spot,” she says, smiling at Joe; then she makes a comment about the placement of the center polka dot on his tie, in a tone that comes out somewhere between bravado and awkwardness.
March formally introduces them, reiterating, Joe DiMaggio. From the New York Yankees. She cocks her head, trying to recall why she knows his name. “Of course,” she says, “of course.” She confesses she really doesn’t know much about baseball, as though saying that absolves her from having to have any conversation with him. And for a moment the table has a perfect silence.
The waiter arrives with a bottle of champagne and four glasses. “Thank goodness,” she says, breaking the quiet. She turns to March and begins talking shop about the film she’s negotiating. And as she prattles on about the movie business, Joe senses himself falling behind. As useless as March’s date. So he tries to regain his focus. Breathe. Put all the distractions and chatter out of his mind.
