Misfit (20 page)

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.”

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.

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 London 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.

Four things the stand-in should know:

On the way to her dressing room, Marilyn passes her stand-in, Evelyn Moriarty, heading to the set, dressed in a replica costume of what Marilyn will soon be wearing for the rest of the day—a bronze suit, fur-lined along the collar, the cuffs, and the hem. Evelyn stops and kicks out her hip: “So what do you think of the suit?”

“That we look beautiful today.”

Crewmembers move by, clipboards pressed against their chests, in conversation. They nod at Marilyn but don't acknowledge Evelyn. She tugs on the material at her hip, working it between her thumb and forefinger. Marilyn sneers at their backs on Evelyn's behalf.

Seeing the suit on Evelyn makes Marilyn think she should borrow it for the evening. She mentions that to Evelyn, asking what she thinks, explaining it would be for a muscular dystrophy charity event taking place at Dodger Stadium. Even though the fund-raiser is at
a baseball park before a game, it seems like a serious event, one for which she should dress maturely. Joe will be escorting her. With Arthur gone, and now that she's back in California, he's been trying to reassume what he believes is his rightful place. She lets him have it, when it suits her; those times when she just needs to be around someone who believes she deserves better.

Evelyn says, “I'm sure you'd be stunning in it.”

“But
should
I wear it tonight? What do you think?”

“I don't think you'll look like a phony, if that's what you mean.” Evelyn glances up at the clock. “But I do think I'd better get out to the set. There's going to be a fit from Cukor if we get behind schedule today. And it'll probably come right at me, as long as I'm the one in this suit.”

“Perhaps we'll talk later? Catch up.”

“If the shoot ever finishes.”

“Evelyn?”

“Yes?”

“Maybe you want to leave the costume on? And then you can just go tonight as me?”

 

By the end of the day, once Cukor determines he has the perfect take, Marilyn changes into her capris and her black-and-white leopard-print shirt. Walking back out to the set, she feigns surprise at the birthday celebration (although she is surprised to see Henry Weinstein). The sheet cake is at the center of the table, with flashing sparklers running down the center. A
birthday card is displayed behind it, hastily drawn on a 14x16 sheet by one of the studio artists. It depicts a caricature of her, turned to the side, wearing only high heels and a towel, glancing out with a look of caught surprise, wide-eyed, with a lipsticked mouth open in a baby-faced
O
. At the top of the page, in a bold red cartoon script, it reads,
Happy Birthday (Suit)
. The cast and crew have signed it along the margins.

Evelyn leads the crew in “Happy Birthday” and then cuts the sheet cake into even squares. People stand while eating their pieces, never really settling. Once Weinstein leaves, the rest quickly follow suit, apologizing for needing to get home for dinner. Soon, it's just her and Evelyn. Each stands at an opposite end of the cake. Marilyn chases a pill down with a Dixie cup of water. She looks at Evelyn and shrugs. “Doctor's orders,” she says.

Evelyn begins cleaning. “I'm afraid I have to go myself,” she says. “It's an early call tomorrow. But I know you'll be lovely tonight at the stadium. Beautiful on your birthday.” She walks around the table, stacking up the dirty paper plates, smashing down the unfinished slices of cake.

Marilyn props up a sparkler, one that wasn't lit. “It's not too late, you know,” she says.

“Too late?”

“For you to go. Tonight.”

“You make me laugh.”

“Really. No one will know the difference.”

“You know that isn't so,” Evelyn says, dropping the
pile of dirty plates into the garbage can. “You tell Joe I said hello. And I'll see you tomorrow.” On her way out, she gathers up the spent plastic forks and throws them out as well, and one more time says, “You know that isn't so.”

Marilyn lights the sparkler, its sparks reflecting in her eyes. “I don't know,” she says to herself, lifting her arm to wave good-bye, but not looking back. In the shimmering glitter, she begins to see herself refracted, as though looking at another person altogether.

 

Four things Marilyn knows:

Marilyn doesn't want to be alone with the woman in the wheelchair to the left of the microphone. They've gathered in the infield, between the pitcher's mound and home plate. Behind them, a multiracial boys' choir in dark sweaters with gold crests is neatly lined up and kicking in place; a coterie of officials and notables take their places, along with the other special guest, LA Angels outfielder Albie Pearson. Joe's there also, but trying to keep a low profile, drawn more to the visiting Yankees than to the festivities surrounding the pregame appeal to raise funds for muscular dystrophy.

Wearing a white cardigan and a checkered shirt, the wheelchair woman sits where the organizers parked her. An attendant waits behind the chair, reflexively caressing the grooved rubber grips, ready to move her at a moment's notice. When the woman stares straight ahead, toward the backstop, she looks poised and confident, dark hair pushed up above the brow, her lips smartly made up and bright. But when she turns her head she reveals her rag-doll limbs. Her whole body appears to collapse, and her facial features turn malleable, forming expressions based on the position of her neck. She keeps trying to look at Marilyn, tilting her head back in a way that will keep a smile.