The Blonde

by Anna Godbersen

“Hey, baby,” he said after a while.

  She turned one pale, downy cheek to him and held his gaze, showing him how the fire left her eyes and was eclipsed by sadness. “I’ve already been treated pretty bad today,” she said, gesturing at her outfit. “Before you asked me to wear this.”

  “I’m sorry, baby,” he said. “Gotta take precautions.”

  “You weren’t so careful in California.” Her tone meant: I want to believe in you, but I know I shouldn’t.

  “That was before I was a presidential candidate.” His eyes had a hungry sheen, and his mouth was ticked up on one side as though this were all a little silly and he was sure that she would forget the insult soon and yield to him. “What if someone recognized you? A famous actress, coming up to Kennedy’s suite—that’d make headlines for sure.”

  She stared back at him, summoned emotion. She let her lids close for a long moment and pressed her lips together, before reaching for the doorknob. Holding on to the knob, she moved as though to leave. “I’m not just any actress, you know,” she said in a small, soft, brave voice.

  For the first time since she had entered, Kennedy glanced away from her, to the balding man, and he jerked his head in the direction of the bedroom doors. “Bill, give us some privacy, will you?”

  The man named Bill acknowledged this request by standing and taking a step in Marilyn’s direction. He wore an expression that Marilyn knew well and had learned to disregard. His face said: No matter how this man is about to treat you, we both know what you really are. She returned his gaze—trying not to show her real anger—and watched him retreat through the vast living room to the back of the suite.

  “I’ve had a hell of a day, too, baby.” Jack wasn’t grinning anymore—his hands were clasped in front of him, and in Bill’s absence his eyes became serious and attentive. “Whatever happened to you today, I wish I could undo it, but see—that’s the one thing I can’t do. So why don’t you come over here and try and forget it, and let’s see if I can’t make you feel better in the here and now?”

  “That’s a pretty pitch,” she mumbled. It was, too. If she’d heard that one in her own life she probably would have gone along with it, and she wondered that Arthur, who was so clever with words, had never said anything to her as simple and persuasive as that. But this was not her own life, and she could not make the mistake of letting him in too quickly again. Then he wouldn’t have to care, and he could put her away just as easily as before. He was a champion skirt-chaser—she had to remember that. Nothing he said was true, and nothing she said was true, either. All that mattered was that she stayed around long enough to get Alexei what he wanted.

  In front of the Waldorf she had been agitated, but now she was calm. Her hands were dry as the desert, and she wasn’t even dimly aware of her heart. Outwardly her demeanor was helpless, conflicted, but inside she was deathly cool.

  “Come on, baby,” he urged with a wink, “let’s not waste time. I have to go to Washington in the morning, and I’d give just about anything if you’d come over here and sit on my face.”

  “Huh,” she exhaled, the ghost of a sad, knowing smile briefly animating her mouth. “You see, Mr. Kennedy, the thing is … ,” she began again, in a careful, halting, girlish manner, letting her hair fall forward, so that it hung over half her face. “Well, I read the papers, so I know you had a big week, and I expect you want a little fun. And I think you deserve some fun. I do. But I know you already have a wife, and the last thing you need is to listen to any of my complaining, so …”

  “What?” His shoulders were gathered around his neck. He spoke briskly but didn’t seem impatient. He seemed to want to get at her problem so that he could solve it. “What is it?”

  “Well, it’s just that—” she glanced down, as though this were some agony for her to admit. “It’s just that I’m not your maid.”

  “Oh.” He laughed. “Of course you’re not. I’m sorry, that rigmarole was Bill’s idea. He’s here to protect me, is all. Take the damn thing off, if it bothers you so much.”

  “My own clothes are down in my room. I’ll just go and—”

  “Oh, come now, don’t go and leave me lonesome. I’ve sent the others to bed so I could be with you—”

  “The others?” Her eyes flickered to her left, where the suite receded into opulent shadow.

  “Just Bill, who you’ve met now, and my brother Bobby. He goes to sleep early of his own accord, because he’s a real Catholic, you see, and doesn’t approve of my hedonism.”

  Although his hedonism had been on plentiful display already, she was surprised to hear him acknowledge it with words.

  “There’s a robe in the bathroom.” He pointed to the door and—when she hesitated—added: “It’ll cover you more than those clothes you were wearing when you walked in.”

  Each breath she took, as she hesitated some seconds more, worked its way dramatically through her chest, and when she finally let her eyes rise from the ground to meet his, she saw that he was grinning, and she grinned back.

  “In this bathroom over here?” She was still smiling as she began to walk—slowly, for his benefit—across the Persian carpet. Watching her, his mouth fell slightly open and the focus of his eyes became fixed.

  “Yes. That bathroom over there.”

  She traveled across the room with exquisite languor, but that was just for show—once she was out of his sight, she moved purposefully. The large mirror over the sink was illuminated by a row of lightbulbs, just like in a dressing room in the movies, and she was grateful for them as she checked the work the girl had done earlier that evening. The girl wasn’t as good as her usual makeup man, but she’d been available on short notice. She’d blown Marilyn’s hair out into high, golden waves and painted her mouth red and drawn wet black lines on her eyelids, and it had all held, so perhaps she wasn’t quite the ninny Marilyn had originally taken her for. When Marilyn was satisfied with her appearance, she leveled her gaze and reminded herself that she was not to give in to any lousy little passions. That was what Yves was for, and the others like him, of which there were plenty, and she could go out searching for that tomorrow if she wanted.

  “Hey, baby!”

  “Yes?” she called back, rolling her eyes in the mirror.

  “Come on, don’t make a man wait like this.”

  Grabbing the robe, she strode back into the living room and found that Jack had rearranged himself, propping his head on the couch’s armrest and stretching his legs across its cushions. “But honey, you’ve waited all year practically. Won’t kill you to wait a few minutes longer, will it?”

  “Might.” He grinned at her. “I’ve been campaigning so much I’ve forgotten how to be alone, and anyway, if you think time has made it any easier to be without that ass, there’s a thing or two I ought to explain to you.”

  “Poor Jack,” she breathed.

  “Hurry up and put that robe on.”

  “I’ll just be a second.”

  “Don’t go.”

  “What about them?” Playfully, she indicated the bedroom doors where the men who traveled with Kennedy rested, or listened, or perhaps spoke quietly to their wives over long distance. Did Jack get a charge, knowing they were there and might walk in at any moment, or was he merely accustomed to attendants?

  “Never mind them.”

  “Okay.” She drew her bottom lip under her top teeth. “Okay, but no peeking.”

  Obediently he brought his hands to cover his face above his mouth, which remained in an amused configuration as she undid one strained button and then another. She dropped the shirt and was bending forward to roll down her stockings when she noticed that his index and middle fingers had parted. He didn’t hide his peeping—and she didn’t pretend she didn’t know—as she rolled down her stockings and turned to unzip the tight black skirt. Before shimmying out of it, she brought the oversized white cotton robe over her shoulders and glanced back at him.

  “Naughty,” she admonished.

  “
Me?” He laughed. “That’s a bit of the pot calling the kettle black, isn’t it?”

  “I’m not black,” she deadpanned, eyebrows innocently aloft.

  “No,” he admitted. “But you are what my people would call a very dirty girl,” he went on, grinning at his put-on brogue.

  Her lips made a small, surprised diamond. “Irish, huh?”

  “My people were. Enough games, now. Bring that body over here, and grab that champagne, too, while you’re at it.”

  She kicked the skirt off and, taking the champagne bottle by the neck, went tiptoeing over to the couch. He didn’t make room for her, or move to touch her, and as she stood over him it occurred to her that he might be the one holding out. She swigged from the champagne bottle and handed it over. Watching her, he swigged, too, but remained still. They passed the bottle back and forth a few more times before he put it down on the floor and took her waist. With sure hands he arranged her so that she was on top of him, her thighs parted over his hips.

  “So tell me,” she whispered. “Tell me what happened to you today that wore you down so bad.”

  “Oh, I don’t have any complaints, really. Just had to talk to a lot of bores over a bad banquet dinner is all, but I’m glad to be in New York. Do you know what a man has to do to win a West Virginia primary?”

  “No.” Her eyes widened. “What?”

  “Well, it isn’t cheap, I’ll tell you that.”

  “No?” She smiled sweetly. “Does it cost more than it costs to get me for a picture?”

  “Nobody in pictures would ever ask you to eat the slop I’ve been obliged to eat in the diners of West Virginia this week, and I think they’d cry if they saw a woman like you in person. But I will say this: There are some greedy sheriffs down there who would put your studio bosses to shame.”

  Her eyes sparkled. “How greedy?”

  “Aw, never mind that, baby.” His hands were just as firm at her waist, and he looked up at her with the same intensity as when he’d been trying to draw her away from the door. “I’ve talked politics plenty with the boys. Why don’t you tell me what had you running out of the house wearing sunglasses so late at night?”

  “Oh.” She laughed and tossed her hair. “Who cares about that?”

  “I care. Otherwise you wouldn’t be on top of me right now.” His mouth opened as he lifted a finger to trace the triangular opening of her robe. Her mouth opened, too, and her eyelids sank, as he reached under the robe and took hold of her ribs. Now she could feel him breathing, too, and the quickening where her panties grazed his tuxedo pants, and she was glad of that piece of lace between them. With a sudden push, his hand was underneath her bra, and breath escaped her lips.

  “Not yet,” she whispered hoarsely. She opened her eyes and looked at him. “Not yet, okay?”

  “Not yet,” he repeated, confidently, as though that had always been his intention. Was he saving face, pretending that he hadn’t been trying to lay her quick and hustle her out? He seemed almost genuine, but then it didn’t matter, so long as she held his attention. Meanwhile his hand traveled down her side, his fingertips gliding along her skin, before he took her by the waist again, this time under the robe, loosening the belt. His eyes shone with a quality she might have mistaken for wonder, if she wasn’t vigilant to interpret every gesture as carnal. “Not yet. I want to look at you awhile, and anyway, we’ve got all night.”

  Morning spilled through high, leaded windows, and Marilyn draped her arm across her eyelids to protect them. She had just been asleep, so asleep that she was hazy on her current location, which was a surprise. She hadn’t slept that deep in a long while. Yesterday—she was fairly certain—she’d woken up in Los Angeles, but today … Today a little drool had escaped the corner of her mouth, and her face was sealed to a pillow made of leather. Squinting, she lifted her head and arched a brow at the white cotton robe covering her naked body. She pressed the palms of her feet against the opposite armrest of the couch, and made a fist to welcome the day’s first wave of dread.

  There was no one on the couch with her.

  “Good morning.”

  “Oh!” she exclaimed, sitting up and drawing the robe over her chest. The coffee table was still a mess of newspapers, beer cans, an empty champagne bottle, china plates dotted with sandwich crumbs, although the scene was now completed by her own black lace bra, draped across the wreckage, as though she had slept in the fanciest fraternity house ever. Beyond all that, facing away from her and holding a coffee cup, was the balding man who had delivered the maid’s uniform. “Where’s Jack?”

  “Left, half an hour ago, for LaGuardia.”

  Shit, she mouthed.

  “I had them bring your clothes up,” he went on matter-of-factly, indicating the side table by the front door without turning. “There’s coffee if you want it.”

  “I thought you were taking extra precautions, now that Senator Kennedy is a presidential candidate.”

  “The staff at the Carlyle”—Bill paused to slurp his coffee—“are very understanding of Senator Kennedy’s demanding schedule, and incomparably discreet when it comes to his R and R.”

  Keeping an eye on him, to make sure he didn’t see, she felt under her robe and discovered her panties were still in place. The last thing she remembered was being very drowsy and full of bubbles and resting her head against Kennedy’s shoulder as he listed the names of his many siblings, and told her how they had driven around West Virginia, shaking hands at churches and diners and coal mines. In dreamland she’d had eight siblings, every one of them with Russian names that ended in –vich and –skaya. If she had her panties on, then perhaps she’d held out too much, and this time Kennedy had left disappointed and without any intention of seeing her again.

  “I don’t let just anybody see these,” she considered saying, as she removed the robe to hook her bra, but was stalled by the fact that, in his current position, he couldn’t actually see them. Anyway, it would be simpler to dress and leave. She had pulled on the white sweater and was smoothing the navy pencil skirt over her hips when Bill turned.

  “Ready?” He placed his coffee cup on the polished walnut dining table and put his arms over his chest.

  She bent to step into her tan pumps without acknowledging him, and paused a while longer to brush her hair out with her fingers before meeting his eye. He didn’t flinch at her gaze, and she didn’t flinch either, as she crossed the room with head held high. Amidst the abandoned sandwiches were several beer cans, and she took an unopened one, loudly cracked the lid, and swigged. Holding his gaze she swished the liquid over her teeth and tongue before spitting it into his coffee cup. “Ready,” she announced with an angelic smile.

  She was halfway to the front door when he said: “Not that way, little lady.”

  Swiveling in his direction, she showed him the face she gave bellboys when they were too starstruck to do their jobs properly. After a silence, she put a hand on her cocked hip. “Which way, then?”

  “Allow me.” He made a flourish that might have been sarcastic, or might have been chivalrous, and strode past her, grabbed her bag, and headed for the rear of the apartment, gesturing for her to follow. They moved down a long hall, off which were the rooms where Bill and Jack’s brother had slept. At the end was a metal door that required some force on Bill’s part to heave open, and then, all of a sudden, they were out of the plush part of the Carlyle and in a small, windowless room. Bill pressed a button on the wall, and her heart jumped when she heard a mechanical screech and the floor dropped. “Private elevator,” he said with a grin.

  “How nice for you.”

  “Necessary precautions, sweetheart.”

  “Sure.” She kept her expression placid and dewy as they sank through the stories of the hotel, and when the elevator came to a noisy halt, on what must have been the first floor, she kept her relief to herself. Bill smiled and, from his jacket pocket, produced a pair of sunglasses just like the ones she’d broken the night before. They emerged into
a large and busy kitchen, frenetic enough that nobody noticed as the big man in the fine suit advanced through the commotion with one arm sheltering the blonde behind sunglasses. They made their way to a dimly lit hall, down a long tunnel, up a narrow staircase, and through another door.

  “Good morning, Louis!” Bill called as he ushered her onward. This room was dimly lit, too, but in a way she liked. The man Bill had addressed was pushing a mop across worn floorboards, and he took a while to glance up. He was an old black man with a stooped back, and he exhibited no surprise at this intrusion. The place smelled like spilled beer and rotting fruit, and by the time she saw the letters painted on the transom over the front door she realized that it was the Joy Tavern, where she used to like a beer by herself after analysis. Louis did not reply, but she was too happy to be out on the sidewalk, where people strolled in the cool morning, to worry about that.

  A taxi was coming down the avenue, and she stepped off the curb with her arm raised. When the car swerved in her direction, she took her bag from Bill.

  “The California primary’s in less than a month.” Now unburdened, he paused to light a cigarette and exhale. “Can the senator count on your vote?”

  “Why not,” she murmured, gazing uptown.

  “With that and the Democratic National Convention being in Los Angeles this year, he’ll be spending a lot of time out in Hollywood.” Bill took another drag of his cigarette and removed a card from his breast pocket, which he tucked into her tote bag. “If you leave a message at that number, he’ll get back to you soon as he can. That’s how you reach him. And he wanted me to tell you thanks.”

  She glanced at the spot where the card had disappeared into her bag and up at him blankly.

  Then, with affected solicitousness, he said: “Miss Monroe, it’s been a real honor to meet you,” and opened the taxi door for her. While she made herself comfortable in the backseat, he leaned in the driver’s window and handed him a bill. “Take the lady wherever she wants.”

  She was glad of this, not because she cared whether he paid for her ride, but because it meant he missed the smile that darted across her face.