Misfit (3 page)

 

She always sits in the same places, be it her workstation or the same chair in the break room for lunch, and it's hard to tell if it's out of habit, insolence, or indifference. She would blend with all the others if it weren't for her seeming dedication to not being noticed and heard. The rest of us girls are always carrying on, fighting for attention with our stories, and worries, and gossip. She carries herself best with the older women, the ones whose husbands left career jobs to go fight, who seem as though they've seen it all before and have lost the energy to fight to establish any presence. But a sadness coats her face as a kind of dull foundation. She can't be more than nineteen; her face looks like it's still forming, her shoulders slim and fragile, her body only recently burst, and when she talks it's easy to forget what she's saying; instead you study her face, trying
to see what she'll look like when she's old, and the funny thing is that it's impossible to tell, like trying to imagine the finish cracking on smooth porcelain. She gives off the feeling of someone who's lived this life before. Knows what it's like to be in a world of displaced women. And how it's navigated. It's the mechanical-ness of the work that soothes her, she says. And sometimes we can catch a glimpse of her, staring straight across the hangar, her hands stretching and tightening a parachute's fabric before she glances down to inspect it, and we can see what she's envisioning: a room all cozy and yellow-lighted from a setting sun; she sits on a dark brown couch in front of a fireplace, a book on her lap, and a nerve up her back so calm and at ease that she wouldn't even flinch if the book dropped off her lap and slammed on the floor.

She'll answer questions, but she doesn't say much about herself. Her husband of a couple years left his job at Lockheed a year ago, driven by his calling for the uniform. He enlisted as a merchant marine, first working as a physical fitness instructor and then deployed to the South Pacific by ship when the war began. His being a merchant marine initially gave her some sense of ease. After all, their role is just to transport troops and supplies. And she says that so naively, as though he's not actually moving through a war zone in the South Pacific. “Isn't it basically the navy?” a gal to the left says to her, but she shakes her head and repeats, “It's the merchant marines,” and she doesn't say it
with any sense of pride, just as a matter of fact. We never intend to be cruel in here, just practical, because it seems that a practical outlook will make whatever might happen easier to bear. We've seen it before. We know how it works. A girl on her right says, “Wouldn't the Japs go after his ship just the same as they would any other?” “Especially,” another interjects, “if it's carrying supplies. They'd want to cut it off. I imagine it would be the first target. It's what they do with lifelines.” Again, we're not trying to be cruel. Only being practical. But she's not listening. She's drifting away, while her hands stay at work. Eyes sailing away from us. Going off into that room of hers.

Sometimes she puts on like she really misses him. Other times it's hard to tell. One time she said she was fed to him. We never knew what she meant,
fed
. A couple of us local to Van Nuys knew his name; he was a big football star in high school. But that's about all we knew. Another time she told a story about a camping trip up in the mountains at Big Bear, and she told it like it was one of those things she really missed—we've all got our own, the one memory that really sums up how much we miss our husbands—but after she told it, and her eyes were all watery, some of us swore she told it like she was never there. Like the way people try to place themselves inside a magazine ad or movie, wishing it were their life.

 

Once, she said she'd had a miscarriage just before he left. Another time, she said she wished they'd tried to
get pregnant, so they would've at least had their life in motion when he returned. She talks with such sincerity. Even when her stories don't always match.

 

She says that after work, when she gets home to her mother-in-law's house, supper is always waiting for her, and they sit on the couch, eating, looking at two photos of him; one is his senior portrait and the other is a military portrait. They just sit there quietly, and neither of them bothers to make conversation. Like a cross between watching a movie and visiting a grave site. We ask if she ever goes to her own folks' house. She replies with an authority in her voice we've never heard before (or at least never noticed): her mama's often occupied and her daddy's an important man in the movies. We ask who he is. Do we know him? And she raises a funny little smile, almost impish, and says, “Now, ladies, if I told you who he is, then you'd never treat me the same again.”

 

Ronald Reagan, now
Captain
Ronald Reagan, is assigned to the army air force's First Motion Picture Unit in Culver City. He produces training films for the army air force. One of his duties is to build enthusiasm for the war effort through promoting the solidarity of sacrifice among those back home. The war is everybody's responsibility. In a sense, we're all soldiers. To this end, Captain Reagan wants stories of ordinary Americans hard at work. Reginald Denny, his old acting friend,
suggests the Radioplane Company, where pretty young girls stretch canvas over miniature airplane fuselages. Dainty and ordinary, yet just as committed as their brothers and boyfriends and husbands and fathers stationed in Europe. That kind of story is sure to raise morale. And so Captain Reagan arranges for a spread in
Yank
magazine. And when the army photographer, a young private, shows up for the shoot at midmorning, we're all sitting just a little bit straighter, patting our hair down, and rolling on an extra layer of lipstick.

Except for her.

She doesn't fuss. There is nothing out of the ordinary in her behavior. In fact, she barely even looks up when the private walks through, squinting while he sets up the shot in his head, squatting and taking in all the different angles. While we sway right to left with each of the private's movements like stalks in the breeze, she just keeps her hands on task, today screwing propellers onto the little bodies.

We've never thought of her as pretty. Not striking in any standout way. Her face is sweet and her smile is warm enough. But she's not someone you'd pick out of a crowd. Or even remember from one day to the next.

The private says we should just ignore him, pretend he's not here. Act natural. Then he proceeds to move up and down the production line, taking pictures of us from various angles. We're not supposed to pose, but we do find ways to lift our chins, or turn in slight profile, and even sneak in a tempting expression.
Those of us farther down the line glance out of the corners of our eyes, seeing how far away he is, rehearsing our poses in our heads. But she just continues to work. Never looking up. Just one more propeller on one more fuselage.

Then something curious happens. The private snaps a photo of her. And then he snaps another. Not only does he stop moving down the line, it's as though he's been walled off. He drops his bag to the floor and kicks it forward; his legs go into a horseback-riding stance, and he brings the camera up to his face with both hands and starts clicking. One picture after the next.

And she still doesn't look up. It's hard to say if she's that oblivious, or if she's that natural. But he doesn't stop.

Finally, after what seems long enough, he puts down the camera. We all begin our mental rehearsals again. He walks up to her, trying to talk in a hushed voice, but it's just noisy enough in this hangar that everybody has to talk loudly to be heard, and therefore we can always hear every conversation. He tells her he has some ideas for a different kind of photo. He says he can't get over how comfortable she is in front of the camera. And then he asks if she has a sweater, and she says she does, and he says to get it, but she says she's on her shift, and he says what about during lunch, that should be soon, and she keeps screwing on the propellers, head down, lifting her eyes only when she talks,
and she says she supposes that would be okay, if he thinks it's best. And he says great, and steps backward, nearly tripping over his bag, and in that moment we have to wonder if we haven't all been had.

She returns to her seat after lunch. Still wearing the sweater. She called him Shutterbug when he left, and she said
sure
, and we didn't know what
sure
meant, until he said he'd be certain to get more film and then take care of finding the location. But what is most striking, or perhaps most memorable, is how different she looks since she's returned. It's like her bones have settled into something more solid. Her walk is poised. The men who work here stop and take notice like something around her is all sexed up. The little girl has gone out of her face, leaving a womanly confidence that is at once stunning, alluring, and a little frightening. And when she sits, it seems as though she's still standing. As if she's grown a little larger. There's never a moment when she acts as though she's no longer one of us, but we get the feeling that she's no longer one of us.

But oddest of all is how we can't keep from staring at her.

 

You wouldn't know she'd ever had a husband. Since that day she modeled for the private, she never talks about him anymore. Never gives an update. Nothing about the merchant marines, or her opinion about the war. It's not as though her fidelity is in question. It's more like you get the feeling that she never was
married. Never part of a family or anything else. Just materialized. As though she's existed out of nowhere.

She tells us she's been posing for the private regularly, and that one weekend he drove her out to the Mojave Desert for a session. And he told her she's a natural, and apparently he's even managed to get some interest in her portfolio, and there's talk of some money for a specific job, and the private predicts that once the
Yank
spread runs she can leave this lousy job. And then she pauses. Stares down at the floor, then looks up, slowly scanning all our faces. For a moment she looks like her old self. “I didn't mean
lousy
,” she says. “It's just an expression. You know that.” After she spits that out, her posture straightens, and she's back to her new self. We tell her it's okay. But what we don't say is that we know she did mean
lousy
. We know exactly what she meant.

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.