I don’t know if my eyes got big, or I gasped, or what, but she can tell I’ve noticed her jewelry. Her smile is shy and hesitant. Her eyes dart from me, to Vinnie, then back to me. She flicks the earring with the pencil eraser, making the stones flash as it swings from her lobe. “You like?”
Since we just met, I doubt she cares about my approval in particular, but approval in general must be important to her. I nod. “It’s beautiful. Gives your uniform a little extra zip.”
Her smile unfolds like a time delay shot of a blossoming flower. She shakes her head, setting both her earrings to dancing. “You know what they say, honey. Diamonds are a girl’s best friend.”
A shrill ding cuts the air and plates clatter as the cook sets them on the edge of the serving window. He leans out as far as he can, nearly laying one sideburn-covered jowl in a plate of chicken fried steak. “Norma Jeane, quit your cluckin’ and get over here. Your order’s up!”
“I’ll be right there,” she calls over her shoulder. She looks back at me and sighs. “Men. They’re impossible to please. But it sure is fun trying.” She gives an exaggerated wink before flouncing off toward the kitchen.
I stare at her as she walks away, trying to make sense out of what I’ve just heard. Norma Jeane? The earrings, her voice, her shape . . . all the pieces come together, forming one unfathomable conclusion. It’s impossible. It can’t be true, but at the same time, it all fits. It explains why she looks so familiar and why I feel like I know her.
Norma Jeane Mortenson, baptized as Norma Jeane Baker, married name Norma Jeane Dougherty.
More commonly known to the movie-going public as Marilyn Monroe.
A chill permeates my body. I reach for the Vanilla Coke, try to grab it, but my fingers have become stiff and clumsy, like fat tubes of raw, overstuffed sausage. I can’t bend them, and instead of gripping the glass, I push it over, spilling the contents across the counter. I watch as the liquid pours out. It moves slower than it should. More like molasses than soda.
Vinnie’s right there with a rag. He wipes it up, his movements so casual it’s as if he’d been waiting for me to knock over my drink.
I grab his wrist, stopping him in mid-wipe. “What’s happening?” The words come out of me, thick and weighted. “What is this place?”
My head spins. Without letting go of Vinnie, I lay my forehead down against the counter, letting the feel of the cool surface sink into my skin.
I need a minute.
Just a minute to collect myself.
I close my eyes. Just for a minute.
4
Nine years earlier
“Marilyn Monroe had it made.”
I lift my head and open my eyes, expecting to see Vinnie, but he’s not there. Neither is the diner. I’m not sitting on a stool anymore, either. I’m on a carpeted floor, knees drawn up to my chest, my back pressed into a corner. I look around, taking in the entertainment center on one wall, the tall bookcase beside it with shelves bowing under the weight of hundreds of DVDs and VHS tapes, the framed family photos on the walls, and it slowly dawns on me where I am.
It’s Aunt Bobbie’s apartment.
And if that’s not shocker enough, I realize that the person I heard talking is none other than a younger version of me.
There I am, sitting on the blue and white striped couch, stacking up empty bowls on the coffee table. I’m wearing baggy gray sweatpants and an oversized, faded t-shirt with a cartoon cat on the front. From my place on the floor, I wrinkle my nose. It’s hard to believe I ever dressed that way. And my hair. It’s pulled up into a high ponytail, but from the frizzy ends, I can tell this is during my “home perm” phase. What was I thinking?
Letting go of my knees I lean forward and raise my hand, just a little, hoping to get my own attention, but afraid at the same time. What will happen if past-me becomes aware of future-me? Will we rip a hole in the space-time continuum? Or will I just quietly lose my mind? But past-me is oblivious. When nothing happens, I become bolder, raising both hands and waving them frantically. Still no response.
It would appear I’m nothing more than an observer here, like Ebenezer Scrooge being forced to relive his history. But a look to my left and right reveals there’s no Ghost of Christmas Past along for the ride. I’m on my own.
Aunt Bobbie comes in from the kitchen and looks at the girl on the couch
“What did you say?”
“That Marilyn Monroe had it made.” I . . . she . . . oh, heck . . . Allie hands her aunt the bowls and tops them off with two empty soda cans.
Aunt Bobbie’s hand shakes, just a little, as she reaches for the trash. Then she looks over her armload, one eyebrow cocked. “How do you figure?”
Allie shrugs as she digs a few stray popcorn kernels out of the cracks between the couch cushions and wraps them in a napkin. “Guys thought curves were sexy back then.”
Laughter trails behind Aunt Bobbie as she heads into the kitchen. “Honey, guys will always think curves are sexy. The challenge for us women is having those curves in the right places.”
Allie picks up a few more used napkins, follows Aunt Bobbie into the kitchen, and tosses them in the trash can.
I’m starting to remember the details of this particular day. It was during the week I stayed with my aunt because my mother had just gotten married and was on her honeymoon. Again.
I watch Allie walk back into the living room. She scoops the remote off the coffee table and hits a button. The credits for Some Like It Hot disappear from the TV screen. In their place is a commercial for Slimfast. Image after image flashes by, “real people” morphing from pasty, flabby before to tan and tone after. As the chatty women talk about how easy the program is, and all the ways it changed their lives, almost microscopic print appears at the bottom of the screen: Results not typical.
Which had pretty much been my point all along.
Allie looks down at her torso and sucks in her gut. At the same time, she tries to push out her chest. Nostalgia and regret ripple through my mind. I know exactly what she’s feeling. I remember the thrill I felt when my flat chest was finally starting to blossom, and the irritation that my stomach never would be teen-model flat. It was as though my body was playing some ironic joke, and it caused me no end of frustration. Now, I want to tell the girl in front of me to slow down, not to worry about the outside so much. Enjoy being a kid while you can.
She pokes her stomach with one finger. “But how do you get the curves to go in the right places?”
Aunt Bobbie comes back in the room, wiping her hands on a paper towel. “Honey, you’re only fourteen. You should thank the good Lord you don’t have to worry about any of that yet.” She turns off the TV, pops out the DVD, and puts it back in its case. “If you ask me, curves are nothing but trouble. Look what they did to poor Norma Jeane.”
“What do you mean, poor? They made her famous.”
“They made her miserable.” She shoots the DVD case into an empty spot in the entertainment center, then turns back to Allie, shaking her head. “People saw her as an object, a sex kitten. They didn’t care about how smart she was, or how much pain she was in. They just took what they wanted.”
“But didn’t she use that to her advantage?” Allie flops down on the sofa, propping her bare feet on the coffee table. “I mean, she didn’t really have a career until she stopped being Norma Jeane and started being Marilyn.”
“That’s because they didn’t give her a choice. She did what she had to do to survive.” Aunt Bobbie’s eyelashes flutter like crazy, and for a second, it looks like she’s going to burst into tears. Instead, she takes a deep breath and shakes her head. “I know you think it’s important to be attractive, sexy even, but trust me . . . physical beauty is really a curse.”
Looking at my aunt now, with the perspective and distance of the last nine years, it strikes me that Aunt Bobbie has lived her life by that belief. A thick woman, I suspect her measurements are the same for bust, waist, and hips. She’s always bee
n neat and clean, but I’ve never seen her wear makeup or nail polish or do anything to her low-maintenance hair other than cover it with a scarf when the Santa Ana winds start blowing. She’s the exact opposite of the flashy celebrities she’s so in love with.
Still, underneath all the dowdiness I can see the possibility of who she could be: her wide smile, bright green eyes, expressive hands. She bears enough of a resemblance to my mother—who can only be described as gorgeous—for me to guess that Aunt Bobbie has worked pretty hard over the years to exorcise the curse of beauty. But why?
I’d wanted to ask her about it then. Not because I understood her as well as I do now, but because I couldn’t understand why anyone wouldn’t want to be beautiful if they could. But there was no way to ask that question without insulting her appearance. And I would never do anything to hurt my aunt. So I went at it from another direction. “Mom says the only thing a woman can control is her own body. She says it’s never too early to learn how to use it to get what you want.”
The smile slips from Aunt Bobbie’s mouth and she gives her head another shake. “My sister is one of the smartest people I know, but that’s surely the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.”
Even though I agreed with her, I remember feeling like I should at least try to stick up for my mother. After all, that’s what a good daughter would do.
“Well, she must be doing something right or else she wouldn’t keep snagging husbands.”
Aunt Bobbie snorts. “If that’s so, then why isn’t she able to hold on to any of them?”
Good question. A better question might be why she chose those particular husbands in the first place, but that wasn’t any of my business, which had become painfully clear after the few times I’d tried to talk to my mother about it.
The whole reason I was with Aunt Bobbie that week was because mom and hubby number five, which made him stepdad number four, were in Mexico on their honeymoon. At that point in my life, I shouldn’t have had any more expectations. But Ethan had seemed different than the others. I found myself hoping he’d stick around for a while, even though I knew the chances were slim.
How I wish I could drag the younger version of myself away by the arm and tell her a thing or two about expectations. And fashion.
“What do you want to do now, Aunt Bobbie?”
My aunt taps her temple, then with a snap of her fingers she turns, making an awkward dash for the hall closet. “I know! I found a great board game at the thrift store last week. It’s brand new. Whoever donated it hadn’t even taken off the plastic.” The rest of her words are muffled as she digs for her new found treasure. When she comes back into the living room, she holds out a gray box. “See. Trivial Pursuit. Silver Screen Edition!”
As Aunt Bobbie sets up the game, I see it again. That tell-tale tremor in her hand. But the young version of me doesn’t notice. She’s picking at the fuzz pills on the arm of the sofa, absorbed in her own troubles.
She’s wondering what mom and Ethan are doing right now.
She’s wondering how long this one will last.
In my corner on the floor, I wrap my arms tight around my legs, drawing them back to my chest, drop my forehead on my knees, and squeeze my eyes shut. Why should I have to relive the past if I’m unable to change it? My chest is tight, and it’s becoming harder to breathe.
Run, Allie. Run to someone you trust. Save yourself.
Even if I could make the words leave my throat, she wouldn’t hear me. And if she heard me, she wouldn’t believe it. She has no idea what’s coming, and there’s no way I can protect her.
5
Vinnie’s Diner
“Allie?”
Vinnie’s voice cuts through my haze, pulling me back to the present. Or what I assume is the present. I raise my head, slowly, and look around. I’m back on the red vinyl stool, my arms crossed on the cool Formica counter top. I have returned to the diner.
I open my mouth to speak, but no sound comes out. My throat is so dry and scratchy, my tongue is literally stuck behind my teeth, unable to form words. Vinnie lowers his chin, his forehead creased with concern. He pushes a glass of water toward me but instead of taking a drink, I grab his wrist again, almost toppling the glass before he can save it.
I swallow once, twice. I force my mouth to work. “Where am I?”
He covers my hand with his, gives it a reassuring squeeze, then peels my fingers off him. “You’re in my diner, remember? Are you sure you’re feeling okay?”
I wave away his concern and grab the glass, gulping the water down until my throat no longer feels like the bottom of an old, dry terrarium.
“That waitress.” I point to the woman who is now on the other side of the room and has three plates balanced across the length of one arm. “Your cook called her Norma Jeane.”
“Of course he did. It’s her name.” Vinnie laughs and shakes his head. “She’s really something. Have you ever seen anyone carry so many plates at one time and not make a mess out of any of them?”
My eyes dart from Vinnie, to the waitress, and back again. He can’t be so oblivious. Doesn’t he see it?
“But . . . she’s . . . I mean, look at her. She looks like . . .” I cover my face with my hands. This can’t be happening. She can’t be who I think she is. It’s not possible. What am I supposed to say to him? Hey Vinnie, did you know you’ve got a dead movie star working in your diner? It’s too stupid. The dream, or hallucination, or whatever it was I just experienced, is making my mind jump to bizarre conclusions.
Stop. Think. There has to be some kind of reasonable explanation. Could she be a celebrity impersonator? It’s possible, especially considering how close we are to Las Vegas. But based on what little experience I’ve had with female impersonators, I don’t think so. Most of them are men, and the waitress I’m looking at can’t possibly be a man in drag. There’s not enough makeup or prosthetics in the world to create a getup that convincing. Besides, I’ve never seen anybody impersonate the pre-Marilyn Norma Jeane before.
Even if my wild thoughts are wrong and she turns out to be just another impersonator, why would she be waiting tables in character? Is she simply part of the diner’s entertainment theme? But if that’s the case, wouldn’t she want to look more like the Marilyn everyone’s familiar with? And wouldn’t Vinnie have acknowledged that?
I’ve got to get out of here. At the very least I need to make contact with somebody outside of the looking glass I’ve fallen into. “I need my phone.”
Vinnie takes a box of paper wrapped straws from beneath the counter and starts dropping them into a glass jar. “What you need to do is sit and relax. You still look a bit pale.”
One of my hands balls up into a fist while the fingers of the other nervously play the counter top as if they are sliding over piano keys. “You don’t understand. If I don’t check in with the contest officials, they’ll think I’m a no-show. I’ll be disqualified.”
“Contest?” Vinnie glances at me briefly, his look only mildly interested. He’s much more fascinated by the straws he’s fiddling with.
“Yes, a trivia contest. It’s why I’m going to Las Vegas.”
Vinnie makes a sound in his throat, but says nothing else. It’s a good thing there’s no silverware on the counter, because I’m frustrated enough to throw it at him. Or worse. He doesn’t understand how important this is. There’s more at stake than just winning a contest. I need that money. Aunt Bobbie needs that money.
A hand rests firmly on my shoulder. I jump and spin around on the stool, accidentally jabbing my knee into the man sitting next to me.
“Sorry,” I mumble.
The man turns slightly, brushing his hand across a white pant leg, his mouth curving up beneath a fat, gray walrus mustache. “No need for apologies. As I don’t believe in accidents, then surely Providence meant for the collision of our limbs. In time, when the pain has subsided and the bruises have dissipated, all will become clear.”
He turns back to his coffee, an
d I stare at the back of his white suit jacket. Who’s this guy, a Mark Twain impersonator? If so, it’s a first for me.
“Excuse me.”
Now what? Is Frank Sinatra going to croon me a song? I look up at the fellow in front of me. He’s tall with weathered skin and a shadow of stubble dusting his cheeks. His brown hair curls up at the ends, against his neck and around his ears, making it look like he’s gone a few weeks too long without a trim. His eyes are chocolate-milk brown and the corners crinkle up when he smiles at me.
My heart jumps a little. I look at him more closely, try to place him. But nothing comes to mind. In his long-sleeved, denim work shirt and clean but slightly wrinkled Dockers, there’s nothing special about him. He looks like any other average guy you might pass on the street. I relax as I realize that I’ve never seen this man before in my life. Thank God. I don’t think I could have taken another famous person look-alike.
He puts his hand back on my shoulder. “Since you’re going to be here for a while, I’ll get your things out of the car for you.”
Now we’re getting somewhere. “Thank you.”
It’s not until he walks out the door that what he said hits me. “What did he mean I’m going to be here for a while?”
I spin back around on the stool and look for Vinnie. The straw holder is completely full, but he’s not behind the counter anymore. I reach for my glass of water, which is right where I left it. My stomach growls. When was the last time I ate? Oh yeah, I’d picked up a bag of overpriced nacho cheese Doritos when I gassed up in Victorville. What’s left of them must be strewn in broken, bright orange bits all over the highway.
My stomach rumbles again. As if on cue, the beefy cook pushes his way through the swinging kitchen door and sets a plate of food in front of me with a clunk.
He leans his elbows on the counter and lets his head bob up and down, back and forth, like one of those tacky bobble headed dogs some folks put on their dashboards. “You’ve got to keep up your strength, little darlin’. I didn’t know what you were hungry for, so I fixed you up my personal favorite.”
Vinnie's Diner Page 3
