by John Rechy
Moved, she stood up.
Now what would she do?
Now where would she go?
3
She went to the public library and easily located the newspaper item:
Los Angeles Tribune October 17, 1962
“STAR-COUNSELOR” HOLLAND DEAD IN SWITZERLAND
SWITZERLAND—Alberta Holland, known in Hollywood as “Counselor to the Stars” and for her strongly worded refusal to testify before the House Un-American Activities Committee, is dead, according to her long-time secretary, Teresa de Pilar. Miss Holland, who left the United States without public announcement earlier this year, was 59 years old when she died in her home in Switzerland as a result of unidentified “physical complications.”
In accordance with Miss Holland’s wishes, she was cremated in private and with no commemorative ceremony planned, Miss de Pilar informed reporters.
Miss Holland won national exposure when she refused to furnish the names of other members of organizations reputed to have “extreme left-wing connections.” The Committee investigating “subversive activities” in the film colony devoted special attention to Miss Holland’s support of Popular Front groups during the Spanish Civil War. At the time, Miss Holland was accused of granting “personal asylum” to Miss de Pilar, reputedly exiled for insurgent activities by dictator Francisco Franco himself.
Cited for contempt of Congress, Miss Holland was sentenced to one year in prison. On her release, she wrote her memoirs and continued in her capacity as “counselor.” In the short period of her life abroad, she became reclusive, shunning all publicity.
During her career as “counselor,” Miss Holland was reputed to have advised, during crises, many of Hollywood’s most famous stars, including Ingrid Bergman, Tyrone Power, Lana Turner, Zachary Scott, Vivien Leigh, Montgomery Clift, and Greta Garbo. Miss Holland was reportedly a close confidante of Marilyn Monroe.
Miss Holland left no known survivors, according to Miss de Pilar, who will remain in Europe, “as near to my native Spain as possible so that when the reign of the tyrant Franco is ended, I may return to my country, along with the paintings of Pablo Picasso.”
It seemed clear to Normalyn that everything about the alleged death of Alberta Holland was ambiguous, all information attributed to only one person, the loyal woman she had protected in exile.
Normalyn located Alberta Holland’s autobiography, My Life. The markedly restrained account documented her birth in Evansville, Indiana, into a wealthy family “crushed by the Depression”; her family-nourished “social consciousness,” stirred further at the New School for Social Research in New York; her wistful but brief marriage to a professor of anthropology at Yale. Clearly protective of the movie stars she came to cherish and counsel, she was anecdotal about them, at times deliberately vague: “Tyrone Power had problems he turned to me about before he married the beautiful Annabella. Soon after, I received an angered note from Errol Flynn, then in Cannes.”
The major part of the book derided—with acid humor—“the Un-Americans,” the committee she had confronted with her famous “suggestion that they copulate themselves.” The book contained nothing about Mildred Meadows:—only one reference to “a tiny female dinosaur, a newspaper columnist of inexhaustible stupidity and meanness.” A chapter called “Into the 60’s” professed her “joy and belief’ that the election of John F. Kennedy would usher the country into a period of “social renewal,” to which, she added, “I dedicate myself profoundly.”
About Marilyn Monroe—“a very special woman, a favorite human being, a star of great inner and outer beauty”—she wrote with clear affection of their meeting at a fund-raiser for orphaned children, of having once had “a cherished tea” with her, of finding her a “most extraordinary, caring, and talented person.” The book was finished before the death of the movie star and ended with these words: “Having been jailed for my beliefs, I now hold them dearer. I hope, even as I begin my stumble toward death, always to speak out, never to flee from a struggle I consider to be just.”
Normalyn studied the one photograph included of Alberta Holland “in her latter years,” the time of the book. In her mind, she tried—then, squinting, managed!—to draw onto the formidable woman the smooth features of Miss Bertha.
When she left the library, Normalyn knew she must return to Long Beach—at exactly the right time, with information she was sure now Miss Bertha had required—
Come back when you’re ready, dearheart, the dozing voice reminded.
She had some information now—from Mildred Meadows, from Mark Poe. From David Lange? Yes, but every time she tried to recall exactly what she had learned from him, it all blurred. Well, she would see him again, and this time nothing would thwart her directness. . . . Of course, when she finally returned to Long Beach, she would also see Jim.
Stopping at every public telephone along the way, Normalyn telephoned David Lange at the newspaper and at his private office until she reached him. He agreed immediately to see her.
4
A breathtaking corridor of palmtrees opened ahead into the Hollywood Hills. Normalyn paused to admire it. She had moved away from Gibson.
She delayed entering the building where David Lange would be expecting her. This time he would not budge her resolve to confront him directly. She would devise an unassailable strategy! Certainly he would ask her questions about her encounter with Mildred Meadows—that was at least in part why he had sent her there. She would have to answer—carefully, of course—in order then to question him—yes!—in keeping, she would remind him slyly, with their agreement to trust each other “step by step.”
Enjoying a wonderful sudden breeze that rustled only the tops of the palmtrees, she refined her strategy. She could easily anticipate some of the questions he would definitely ask: “Did Mildred tell you who wrote those letters?” Sounding amused, she would answer, “I don’t think the poor old soul really knows herself, David.” Then would be her turn! She would ask— . . . What first? Yes! “David!” She would pronounce the name peremptorily, so he would understand her resolve: “David! Why did you turn away from the men you claimed to admire—the Kennedys—and to Mildred, who detested them?” . . . Perhaps she should be cautious with that question. She might not be ready for certain answers. She dismissed the question further because Mildred hadn’t claimed David had joined her as an ally against the brothers, only that he came to believe her. No matter, there were many other questions. What was important was that she was prepared to get answers!
“Normalyn.”
David Lange stood up immediately when she paused at the door of his dusky office. Leading her in, he held her arm so gently that she did not wince at the delicate touch.
She sat in the elegant chair before his desk, facing him. The crystal sphere like a large flawless marble, the pad of white paper on the brown leather backing, the cylindrical container, the books, the reflected light, the photographs—Norma Jeane, the glittering almost-star, the fleeing woman, and finally the great movie star in her last and most beautiful glowing—and the disturbing painting of shattered colors—everything was in its exact place, ensuring, again, a sense of unbroken, undefined continuity between each of her meetings with David Lange.
He said, “I worry that you’ll continue to distrust me, that you won’t come back, or that you’ll become so desperate to know, quickly, that you’ll turn to people who may harm you, create the situation that would devour your life.”
She heard a sad accusation in his voice, as if she had violated his trust, creating the need to re-establish his loyalty to her. What was she here to challenge? . . . She was being lulled again by his emphatic expression of caring! She was here for a purpose, she reminded herself. She had prepared a clever strategy, to use his inevitable questions to her advantage. Feeling strong, confident, her resolve intact, she waited for his first question. And waited.
But he asked none.
“I assume you’ve decided to take the next step,” he s
aid.
She crossed her arms over her chest, demanding he ask his first question so that she could confound him with her strategy.
He tore a sheet of notepaper from the leather backing on his desk, with care, assuring the paper would sever neatly. As he handed it to her, he said, “He, too, has another piece of the truth we’re trying to locate, Normalyn. I believe you’ll recognize the name.”
He was putting her in touch with someone else then, a “next” person. Normalyn prepared not to be surprised; she knew the note would contain the name of another of the people in Enid’s newsclipping.
Stanley Smith!
The paper designated that name, a telephone number, a city—“Palm, California.” She tried to battle clashing confusions so she could cope with these present moments. But she had been set adrift. A last name she had thought made up by Major Hughes was suddenly a real one, and the man who bore it threatened—so suddenly!—to become much more than a denounced figure in Enid’s life—Stan, the object of her mysterious vengeance. That was the name Normalyn had given David that first time, when he had asked about her father. She held the paper tightly in both hands so he would not see them trembling.
“Why didn’t you tell me you knew of him, where he was— when I told you he was my—?” Now that he had become much more than a remembered name, she did not want to call Stan her father.
David Lange leaned forward, on his elbows, his fingers pressed together under his chin as if he were pleading. “We were just moving to trust each other then, Normalyn, remember? Remember? Step by step?”
Step by step. That was what she had intended to use on him in her collapsed strategy.
“He’s part of that same time of mystery, Normalyn. He, too, will speak only to the exact person.”
Had Mildred determined that person was her—Normalyn? “Are you sure he’ll talk to me, see me?” Another kind of apprehension had entered her voice.
“No, I’m not. I’m sorry. That’s what you’ll have to find out.” David Lange still leaned toward her. “The step is yours to take. Or not . . . Normalyn.”
5
Outside, Normalyn looked at the paper in her hand. It was real. The name on it was real, and the telephone number. With relief and fear, she knew she could now locate her father, and he would verify what she knew, had of course known all along—that she was Enid’s daughter. That’s all she wanted to know from this man, nothing more—and not to see him, ever!
She found a telephone booth in a recently abandoned lot off Sunset Boulevard. Not yet entirely demolished, the walls of a building remained, slabs of broken wood, dying plaster. She was too anxious to call, and too tired to move, even to locate another telephone. She merely looked away from the desolate lot, up, at the lofty fronds of indifferent palmtrees.
She asked the operator where Palm was. “Two, three hours out of Los Angeles, but it’s still long-distance.” For control, Normalyn counted the sounds her quarters and dimes made as she deposited them. She felt relief when the ringing extended. A woman answered . . . No, Stan wasn’t home . . . Maybe back in an hour, half an hour. The woman seemed agitated. Who was calling? Normalyn told her she would call back.
Even more tired now, she sat on the curb of the street. She began rereading Joyce’s story of Stephen Dedalus’s flight into the world. . . . Slightly more than a half hour later, she dialed again.
“Hello—”
“Stanley Smith?” Normalyn hated pronouncing the name.
“Yeah. Who are you?” The man spoke in a strong voice.
“I’m Normalyn.”
“I don’t know you,” came the firm voice. “Must have the wrong Smith. Happens.”
“I’m Enid Morgan’s daughter.” Into the following silence, Normalyn sighed, “Enid died, just weeks ago . . . Stan.”
The silence lengthened. Then the man’s voice shot out in rage: “I can’t grieve for Enid Morgan. For me she died when she took our son from me.”
Normalyn held the telephone away from her, as if it, not the words, were assaulting her.
The man’s voice said with quiet anger, “Our son is dead, and now Enid’s dead, too. Let her goddamned vengeance be finished.” Then his voice regained control. He said firmly, “Leave me alone, Normalyn. I am not your father!”
Even after Normalyn depressed the telephone hook to end the connection, even then she continued to clutch the receiver, to force out different words. Her hand tightened until she felt pain. She released the telephone. The receiver dangled lifelessly. . . . Enid had had a child by Stan—a boy, and he had died.
6
About to put on the blonde wig just as Normalyn walked in, Troja made a hurried attempt to hide it. All the way here, Normalyn had hoped she’d be able to talk to her, just talk to her! But now Troja’s and Kirk’s lives demanded immediacy.
Kirk was dressed in a good-looking sports jacket, shirt open low enough to reveal the sharp definition of his chest. Troja was wearing one of her fanciest chiffons, of mixed pastels. She had painted her lips bright red, lined her eyes heavily, drawn a black beauty mark on her brown cheek. Her own dark hair was pinned tightly to accommodate the wig.
They had decided to answer Duke’s command. Normalyn thought they looked like a saddened bride and groom.
Kirk removed his jacket angrily. He sat on the bed. With the remote control, he snapped on the television. “Can’t do it, can’t do it, sweetheart. Troja, I’m too fuckin’ scared.”
Troja held the blonde wig at her side. “Is it because of me?” she asked him.
Normalyn read Troja’s pained, angered eyes. She thought Kirk was afraid of going out with her because he would again have to come in sexual contact with her, a trans— . . . Or was Kirk afraid that age would judge him?
“No,” Kirk said to Troja. “It’s not because of you.”
Troja pushed her fingers into her own hair, releasing the fine lustrous halo. “What the hell. Duke didn’t really care if you want out or not, Kirk. It was just his extra special torture on me.”
Kirk pulled Troja protectively against him.
Normalyn went into her room with the shreds of her own life. Carefully she reconstructed the words she and Stan had spoken on the telephone: The man she had spoken to had denied being her father—without her ever having asked him.
Twenty-Two
She left word at the newspaper that it was urgent she see David Lange today at his office. She designated the hour she would be there—“exactly,” she added for import.
If he was not at his office—she thought this as she entered the handsome building—at the time she had demanded, she would wait on the windowsill in the corridor until he did come.
He was already there. He ushered her in with concern. “Your message sounded frantic. Is anything wrong? I would have called you back instantly, but I have no number—”
Seated, she grasped the armrests on the tall chair. “The man you asked me to call—”
“I didn’t ask you to call him, Normalyn.”
Trying to intercept her accusation before it formed! She wouldn’t allow it. “He denied being my father—without my even suggesting it!” She almost jumped ahead to her major challenge—You told him what to say, David—but she had to mount her accusation with gradual evidence.
His voice contained no impatience. “I’m sure you told him you’re Enid Morgan’s daughter. Certainly he assumed you know he was involved with her. If he thought you were here to make demands on him, Stanley Smith would deny he was your father.”
Yes, the “son-of-a-bitch” Enid had come to despise and who had walked out on both of them would deny it—if he had made the assumption David claimed. It was possible. Suddenly— again!—what had seemed so mysterious last night was tempered with logical explanations. Still, she felt frustrated, angry. She would not pull back: “He didn’t even ask how I got his telephone number.” Her voice had lost its thrust.
“It wouldn’t be difficult; his number’s listed.” David Lange spoke patient
ly, as if expecting her doubts to be aroused, willing to clarify them whenever necessary. He reminded, “I even told you I wasn’t sure he’d speak to you. When we took our first step, I warned you there were some people involved who are afraid to talk, perhaps not because they believe they’re in danger now, but because they may have to face harsh matters—about themselves.” He glanced away from her. “Don’t you believe he’s your father, Normalyn?”
Don’t tell him what the man said about a son! This may be a trap, dearheart. Not even Miss Bertha was entirely sure about David Lange. So Normalyn did not answer. She didn’t want Stan to be her father; she just wanted the mystery of Enid’s letter, of her identity, to lift.
“Do you truly want to find the truth—or only what you wish would be true?” David’s voice was at its gentlest.
Normalyn felt struck by his words. She had been looking for only one “truth,” the one she had grown with. Each time she thought she had found confirmation, there followed contradiction, ambiguity.
“Perhaps Stanley isn’t your father,” David said.
In rushing retrospect, it seemed to Normalyn that that’s what he had wanted her to discover, when he had so easily given her Stanley’s number. She felt vulnerable now, terribly alone.
“The next step, David,” she said, words she had not come here to speak.
“The Dead Movie Stars—” he said distantly.
He couldn’t be guiding her to them, those ragged children and their presumed knowledge? Oh, she had misunderstood him, she knew as he continued. Or, again, had he deliberately conveyed a split meaning? How quickly doubts could resurge!
“The Dead Movie Stars know what allows the great stars to go on living fully for others long after their actual deaths. Yes, those silly derided young people do understand that—that the stars they idolize lived fiercely, at the very edge. That very ferocity, that existing at the edge, made them tragic and reckless—but it gave them the glow of specialness, a glowing despair, a rage to live, even to die early to sustain it! Monroe had it!” His voice had gained excited admiration.