by Adam Braver
Across the room a noise rises, and she glances that way, and she sees a crowd of people pushing through the casino toward the bar, and leading the pack is Frank, and he walks like the grand marshal with a champagne glass as a baton, and she bows her head slowly, because she doesn’t want to be noticed, and that stool keeps blocking her way, and she tries to kick it to the side but instead flips it over, startling the people around it, who fan backward, and she doesn’t know where to go, only that she has to go somewhere other than here, and fast, and there’s Giancana’s threatening bellow that she better not just walk away, and from the other side of the floor a poof of laughter from Sinatra’s gaggle, and she resists the urge to look, because she can’t look: she can’t become involved. And it’s all at a standstill. Like a frequency that’s been jammed.
January–June 1962
January 1962: Henry Weinstein’s House, Hollywood
“Yes,” she says. She keeps saying yes, agreeing with ideas she doesn’t quite understand. It isn’t that she’s afraid to admit her ignorance to him; she just doesn’t want him to stop talking or, at least, to change course on her account. “Yes,” she says, nodding with a firm expression. “Yes. Yes. Yes.”
She’s coiled up delicately on the carpet, with her feet tucked under her thighs, a rapt and well-mannered schoolgirl. He sits on the couch, slightly out of place, adding a rustic edge to the finely polished Beverly Hills veneer. His feet, covered by old black boots, the leather scuffed and aged, heels nearly touching, rest by her side. Toes pointing in contradictory directions. Among this Hollywood gathering at Henry Weinstein’s residence, he might be mistaken for a character actor, or a displaced avuncular sort. But with Marilyn Monroe at his feet, holding his hand as they talk, her hair dyed to an albino white that matches his, there’s no doubt that the great poet, the eighty-four-year-old Carl Sandburg, is the wonder of the party.
She stays by his side for most of the evening. There’s something she needs from him. It presses. She’s not quite sure what it is yet. Or how to find it. And so she keeps trying at different topics and subjects, telling him about the books she’s reading, the ideas they bring up, and though none is quite right, it doesn’t make a difference because no matter what he says, and no matter what she can’t thoroughly understand, he is talking to her, and looking in her eyes, as though he understands, as though they’re the only two people in the room. The only two people left on earth.
She sips the last of her champagne. When she places the empty flute on the carpet, it falls over, weightless. One last drop trails toward the lip but doesn’t spill out. She asks a server for another, then smiles up at Mr. Sandburg, saying it’s best to get a little alcohol in her system now, as she finds trying to get to sleep from scratch just impossible. (Even though he’s said to call him Carl, as with Clark Gable, it’s hard to think of him in any way other than Mr. Sandburg.)
He says, “Well, gosh, I hope I’m not keeping you up past your bedtime. I always forget about manners.”
She laughs. “No. No,” she says. “A girl just needs to prepare herself, is all. That’s all I’m saying.”
“I once read about something called sleep debt. A wonderful term, don’t you think? Both lyrical and literal.” His voice has the melodious cadence of his western North Carolina home, but still preserved around the corners is the harder midwestern clip that blunts the ends of occasional words. “Some say it’s modern times that keep us building up the debt of unused sleep. Maybe cutting out a stage or two of the sleep cycle. The non-rapid-eye movement.” He says it as if it were a new political party.
“I am the modern girl. Or so they say.”
“That you are. But even the modern girl needs exercise. The best remedy for sleepless nights. Other than, perhaps, a steady, reliable companion.”
“Please don’t make me talk about that. I was just feeling good.”
“A good exercise routine will take you through the sleep phases. And a tired body makes for a sounder rest. Buy out your sleep debt with a little exercise, my darling. That’s the key.”
One of the servers, an older man of stern expression, hands her a fresh glass of champagne. He glances at the spent flute on its side; she tells him not to worry about it. To save his back from bending, she’ll wash the glass later. But he insists on taking it, leaning over to get the flute. She lifts her new glass up toward Mr. Sandburg. “To exercise,” she says. “And to a good night’s sleep.”
Sandburg asks her to put the champagne down for a minute. He rises from the couch. Lifts her by the elbows. They stand inches from each other. The green in his eyes might swallow her. He says, “One can’t do what one doesn’t know how to do.”
At a glance, they seem an oddly familiar sight. He’s dressed all in black, with a tie so dark and flat against his chest that it’s barely distinguishable. In the way that some aging women begin to take on the hardened faces of old men, his features, conversely, have taken on a feminine softness. Although still in good shape, his body has filled out, shoulders pushed up past the neck, his torso and legs grown more solid. It’s as though a certain gravitas has mutated the physical form, drawing him closer to the ground. Meanwhile, Marilyn is ever aware that her body is changing. She no longer has a sassy innocence and youthful hubris. This is not the same woman who pushed snuggly against DiMaggio in New York doorways, blushing in the novelty of her newly created world. Nor is she Miller’s apprentice intellectual weaving among the East Coast literati. Her dress, which now falls just below the knee, is conservatively colored tan, with a subversive gabardine weave that makes her shine when it catches the light. It connotes a sophistication achieved only with a certain maturity, yet it still manages to reveal a body holding on to its youth. She came into the party wearing dark glasses, but midway through she replaced them with a dark scarf over her head, like a babushka. A necessity to be partially covered, as though having all her head exposed leaves her vulnerable. Maybe it’s the weariness in her eyes. Or how easily her body turns limp when she sits down. But the similarity between Sandburg and Marilyn is not in their appearance, or difference of appearance. It’s in the way they look at each other. As though they exist in a world that’s familiar only to them. Where the weight of age is not a factor, where the body and the mind do not battle for dominance, and where confessions are not secrets.
Standing with her in the corner of the room, he takes her hands, then drops them. “Now I want you to follow me,” he says. “Just do as I do.”
She smiles at him. Anticipating.
“You need to take in a deep breath,” he says. His voice weakens with the inhalation. “And then put your arms out while you gently squat.”
“Gently squat,” she repeats.
“With your arms out.”
“With my arms out.”
The guests at the party stop to watch. Sandburg and Marilyn don’t notice. She follows his lead. Out of sync. Up and down. Down and up. Like alternating pistons. “Feel your legs stretch,” he says, as he rises.
She crouches; her hemline creeps halfway up her thighs. “Oh, it burns,” she says. “But in the good way.” She stretches her arms out, trying to keep her balance.
“You’re pushing the blood all through you. Reminding your body of the life it has, and its need for rest and replenishment. That knowledge alone should be enough for your body to know it has to go to sleep. You just need to remind it to listen.”
She laughs. “I don’t know about that. A stiff drink does just fine.”
A group of party guests encircles them, smiling, as though cheering someone on in the last stage of a superhuman feat. One woman joins in, trying to time her squats between Sandburg’s and Marilyn’s. Mr. Weinstein, in the corner, puts on a bossa nova record. Some clap their hands, sloshing gin and ice over the lips of their tumblers. More guests join the exercise routine, dropping up and down with the beat.
As Mr. Sandburg rises, Marilyn drapes her arms over his shoulders. Other than hearing the rhythm of the song, she’s un
aware of what’s going on around her. And while she’s tempted to collapse into him, instead she leads him in a dance toward the center of the living room.
From afar Sandburg appears to move with grace, an effortless sway of the hips, guided by the smooth lead of the shoulders. His steps look light, almost skating. But in fact his moves are unsure and awkward. His body struggles for a center balance, and he doesn’t really move into the dance as much as he falls into it. Yet he looks completely at ease. Seeing himself as Astaire, Nijinsky, and Chaplin rolled into one. The illusion is only possible because of Marilyn. In her arms he gets to appropriate her grace. And with each beat, each movement, he begins to understand living a life of the body, beyond just nourishing it. Existing almost entirely free from the calculus of intellect.
“You could lull me to sleep,” she says, resting her head on his shoulder.
“The last role for an old man.”
“No,” she whispers, then lifts her head. “No. You misunderstand me.”
People dance around them. Some whirl in circles alone, cocktails in hand. Others face each other.
Mr. Sandburg asks, “I don’t understand?” and she says, “No. You don’t understand.”
He rests one hand on her shoulder. The other on her hip. “In that case,” he says, “perhaps you can help me understand.”
“I don’t mean to be insulting.”
“That could only be if I heard it that way.”
“It’s just rare to be at peace with someone at peace with himself. That’s all I’m saying. And when you feel that peace . . . Well, you know what I’m saying.”
“That it just lulls you.”
“But I’m always so tired . . . Tired. Not sleepy. I just want a good night’s sleep, so I can wake up and start all over again.”
He follows her around in a box step, pulling her in. She fits against his body. Almost as though she might’ve come from it. And she tells him she can’t picture it. That all her life she’s been able to close her eyes and see herself at another point in the future. She’s been able to imagine everything that has come to be. But she can’t see herself growing old. She just draws a blank. And isn’t that where wisdom comes from? It’s just that for the first time in her life she can’t picture the future. Or picture how to make it. As Sandburg pauses, thinking before he talks, Weinstein dances up to them, his feet moving in place, and asks Sandburg and Marilyn, “May I?”
Sandburg backs away, saying he assumes Weinstein isn’t asking for his hand. Then he nods to her it’s okay and mouths, “Just keep dancing.” He falls back onto the couch. Reaches for Marilyn’s half-filled glass and sips it down in one gulp. He’s tired, and his legs are sore, and he’s slightly winded. And as he watches Marilyn dancing across the living room in the arms of Mr. Weinstein, a smile on her face as though the cameras have started rolling, Sandburg is envious of her youth. But also slightly saddened. What he has always valued, what has always allowed him to look in the mirror and see himself without the wear that shows in photographs, is the idea that there’s still something to imagine. Even though, if pressed, he could never quite tell you what he hopes for, or expects to find, still, it’s the possibility that there’s something to slow down for, to reach for. And now, looking at her as she shimmies in performance for Mr. Weinstein, it’s as though she’s become that chicken in the slaughterhouse whose body still runs at full speed long after it’s been decapitated.
Marilyn dances away from Weinstein and slumps down next to Sandburg. She drops her head on the couch back, rolling it onto his shoulder. With one arm lifted, she stretches her hand out, waiting for a glass of champagne to materialize. “You’d think that by now I’d be tuckered toward sleep,” she says. “Especially after our routine.”
“Let me suggest one thing,” Sandburg says, staring up at the ceiling.
“Just one?”
He doesn’t reply. He closes his eyes. “Let me suggest you build a ladder.”
“A ladder.” She speaks dreamily, her head sinking a little heavier against him. But her skin buzzes. Electricity skims off her.
“With a lot of rungs. Enough that you can’t ever imagine not being able to climb.”
“But a long way to fall.” She makes herself laugh.
“Well, there’s always that possibility.”
The champagne finally appears in her hand. She lifts it for yet another toast. “Tell me more things I don’t know,” she says. “Tell me all the things I should know. The things I’ll need to know. Will you?”
“Yes,” he says. “Yes, yes.”
May 1962: Twentieth Century-Fox Studio Back Lot, Los Angeles
You arrive on the set of Something’s Got to Give ready to shoot the swimming pool scene. In an attempt to win back her husband from his new wife, your character, Ellen Arden, will dive into a courtyard swimming pool at night. When Nick looks out from the balcony, she’ll call up, “Come on in, the water’s so refreshing, after you’ve done . . . Oh, you know!” Nick, in a panic, will implore her to hurry out of the pool before his new wife catches wind of what’s going on. Ellen will gladly oblige, lifting her naked body out of the water and onto the ledge.
At the shoot you slip into a body stocking. Skin-tight and flesh-colored. You were never asked. It was just assumed that a bodysuit made the most sense for a woman your age. You pull at it. Pat your hands against your legs. Over your stomach. Hesitating. Finally, you tell your director, George Cukor, to clear the set, pare it down to the essential crew. He looks at you, unsure. “What,” you say, “you don’t think Marilyn Monroe would ever shoot a nude scene in a body stocking, do you? Really.”
“Marilyn.” His voice turns somewhat shaky. He clears his throat, trying to regain his composure.
“Now please clear the area. This is between me and the camera.”
You strip down to a pair of flesh-colored panties. At the sight of your body, the breath leaks out of the room. Since the gallbladder surgery last year, your figure has slimmed and almost reshaped into one that is stronger and more sculpted. You slide into the pool, weightless. Gliding before the camera, you feel the water wash over your skin. Running up and over your legs, down your back, and collaring your neck. You swish back and forth. Swimming from one end of the pool to the other. And when you speak your lines, you find your voice is a contradiction of confidence and vulnerability. And you want to keep talking because you’re intrigued by it. After the take, one of the crew stands over the pool holding out an oversized white towel embossed with the studio logo. You shake your head. Staying in the water, you shimmy out of your underwear, tossing them up to the poolside, where they land with a wet thud. Backing up to the wall, you brace your hands and push up and out of the pool. While you sit on the ledge, your feet scooping at the water, your head turned, looking over your shoulder, photographers snap pictures. As they shoot, you palm your hands along your thighs, feeling your own skin as though it’s something entirely new, with a sensuality that belongs to someone else. Every few inches you touch a spot that feels tired and familiar, but you move your hands away quickly. You’re about to turn thirty-six. And your body can feel new. Different. Like one that doesn’t belong to Marilyn Monroe anymore.
June 1, 1962: Twentieth Century-Fox Studio Back Lot, Los Angeles
The cast and crew plan the surprise party for three o’clock, giving themselves time to throw it together between takes. Marilyn surprises everyone by arriving at the soundstage for the 9:30 AM call, prompt and alert. No one’s expected her to show up on time on her birthday. Cukor sees his opportunity to get through the day’s scene and possibly get Something’s Got to Give back on track (or at least keep it from getting any further behind). He declares that before anyone goes home they’ll complete the day’s planned shooting schedule. The party is rescheduled for six o’clock.
Overseas, the ongoing, bloated production of Cleopatra has been bleeding Twentieth. Already ten times over budget, and nowhere near being completed, the filming is now being relocated from L
ondon to Rome. And that means new everything, practically starting from scratch. A real debacle that threatens bankruptcy for the studio. Getting Marilyn Monroe out of that New York attitude and back into a romantic comedy (especially casting her against Dean Martin) seemed like the perfect solution for a quick infusion of cash into Twentieth’s crumbling accounts. Pressure for a fast turnaround of Something’s Got to Give has been coming down on the producer, Henry Weinstein, who, in turn, channels it down to Cukor. But, as with The Misfits, Marilyn Monroe has put the whole production behind schedule. Never there. Sometimes sick. Sometimes exhausted. Sometimes both. And when she does come in, her face is heavy-eyed and bloated. Sometimes she can barely talk above a whisper. You wouldn’t even know she’s Marilyn Monroe.
Cukor rides her hard. He just about hit the roof when she jetted out to New York two weeks ago to wish Kennedy a happy birthday and then called in sick to the set. Now he threatens. Hopes a little intimidation will put her on track before the studio cuts her off. A little dose of reality. And while most of the threats are empty, the jabs about her age do seem to get to her. He drills at her about pushing forty in Hollywood. Says she’s lucky to still be cast as a lead, with younger beauties like Elizabeth Taylor out there. She could be playing mothers in barely credited supporting roles. She’s getting leads only because her past reputation still carries weight with the box office; but reputations are an easily changing currency in Hollywood. Keep up this shit and there isn’t a producer out there who will touch her.
Throughout the day, nobody says a word about Marilyn’s birthday. Maybe it’s to avoid spoiling the surprise party, or maybe it’s because they remember that for some people birthdays aren’t always a happy thing to remember.
