Beautiful Mess

by Herrick, John

  Arnie’s cheeks turned rosy as he grinned at Del. A wide, toothy grin. The discoloration of enamel betrayed a long-entrenched penchant for red wine. He rolled the script and slapped it against his palm.

  “Do you realize how many people would dry-hump a flagpole to get their hands on this?” exclaimed the agent. “We’re talking history here! Hollywood’s best-kept secret!”

  Del felt a bittersweet quiver in his gut but suppressed it. His life was about to become interesting again.

  Arnie paged through the screenplay further, scanning the dialogue. Several minutes ticked past. Del savored the silence which, in this case, was the sound of power.

  “Have you read this, Del?”

  “I have.”

  “Pretty deep shit in here. Dark shit, the kind that scares the hell out of you.” Arnie skipped to the screenplay’s midpoint and read some more. “And talk about explicit. The profanity, the sexual content, everything.”

  “She made herself vulnerable, no doubt.”

  “Damn, Del. This woman must’ve been more fucked up than we thought.”

  Del winced. “Arnie, cut it out.”

  “Sorry, I forgot you two were pals.” The agent shook his head in an absentminded manner, his mouth hanging open as he read further. “No wonder she didn’t show this to anybody else. Can you imagine how people would have reacted to this in 1962? The film would’ve been X-rated—if ratings had existed back then—and gotten banned from theaters. People would’ve protested outside. This script would’ve ruined Marilyn Monroe’s career.”

  “But today—”

  “—it’ll resurrect it.”

  The men stared at each other for a moment, sizing each other up.

  “But why you?” Arnie asked at last. “You said you two were buddies, but she knew tons of people. For all intent and purposes, she bequeathed it to you without realizing it. One of her final acts before she died. Why did she put this into your hands?”

  Del shrugged. “I never betrayed her.”

  He made his way toward a mini-fridge Arnie kept behind a bureau door and helped himself to a bottled water. He took a swig and began to pace the room, piecing the puzzle together with each stride.

  “Many people aren’t aware of this,” Del said, “but her emotional state took such a dive, she was forced into a mental institution against her will for a brief period. That event left a permanent scar. Toward the end of her life, she didn’t trust many people, especially since people she trusted betrayed her and sent her to that place. Once she escaped, she feared the day would come when they’d lock her up again.

  “This script exposed some of the inner workings and torments of her mind. What if authorities used it as evidence of a dangerous mental condition and sent her back to the one place she feared most? It was Joe DiMaggio, another ex-husband, who worked to get her out of there—and she barely made it out. If they had recommitted her, she would have lost her freedom forever.”

  “But something must have prompted her to give this script to you, Del. If she was so paranoid, why did she risk giving the script to anyone? Why didn’t she keep it to herself?”

  “She mentioned possible trouble ahead but didn’t go into detail.”

  “You’re telling me Marilyn Monroe was a psychic?”

  “Of course not. More like intuition. A sense that something was about to happen.” Del returned to his seat and crossed one leg over the other. He interlinked his fingers across his knee. “And she was right. A few months later, she died from a barbiturate overdose. Some speculated it was accidental, but the amount of drugs in her system were so high, it was hard to believe it was anything but suicide.”

  Arnie tapped a pen against a legal pad. Del’s heart stirred. The memory of her death threatened to bring tears to the resilient man’s eyes.

  Del leaned forward and locked eyes with his agent.

  “For Marilyn, this script wasn’t about business. It wasn’t about fame.” Solemn, Del added, “This script is my chance to bring Marilyn Monroe back to life, one more time—on her own terms. To position her as a serious artist, the way she craved people to view her.”

  “Your sentiment is honorable. That said, this revelation will set in motion a feeding frenzy.” Arnie paused, and Del caught a glint in his eye. “And I know you, Del. You like the cameras, the adoring fans. You want a career comeback—and this is the best ticket you’ll ever get.”

  “Arnie—”

  “All I’m saying is this: I don’t doubt your motive to honor Marilyn Monroe’s memory, but once we set this in motion, you’ll get caught up in the whirlwind. I’m warning you now because I don’t want to have to dig you out of a guilt complex later.”

  “I’ll be fine, Arnie. Trust me.”

  His agent regarded him for a moment, then nodded in resignation. “In that case, we need to set a plan in motion. How do we release the news of this discovery? How do we consider contenders? Where do we set the minimum bar for a deal? We get to call the shots here. They’ll need to play by our rules, and this script needs to be on strict lockdown.”

  “Agreed.”

  “In that case, the first thing we need to do is establish its authenticity. I’ll get the proof lined up and we’ll keep it in our back pockets. Next, we’ll hold a press conference to announce the existence of the screenplay—but let the press speculate about whether it’s authentic. We’ll hem and haw for a while, tease them a bit, make them think they have us cornered.”

  Del didn’t want to look like a fool in public, regardless of how temporary or intentional, but he was willing to hear the rest of the idea. He stroked his chin and clasped his hands upon his chest. “And what happens next?”

  “Then, when attention is at its peak, we release the evidence. It’ll be good for another round of marketing. So instead of releasing the evidence at the first news conference, we’ll get twice the bang for our buck.”

  “Makes sense to me.” Del felt much more at ease. He exhaled and took a swig of water. The bottle’s thin plastic crackled in his grip.

  “We’ll need some time to strategize this while the thumbprints are verified. I know a guy who can get it done under the radar. Meanwhile—and I’m sure you know this, but I’ll stress it anyway—don’t breathe a word of this until the day of our big announcement. Not to the media, the studio people, producers—not even to the chef at your sushi restaurant. The element of surprise will strengthen our bargaining position. Agreed?”

  “Agreed.”

  Arnie exhaled, as though in relief, and scratched his bald head. His fingers left behind red streaks. “This is big, Del.”

  Del’s pulse increased with anticipation, yet he maintained his composure. He finished his water and crumpled the bottle.

  ‘Big’ didn’t do it justice.

  This wasn’t just Marilyn’s final chance.

  It was Del Corwyn’s, too.

  PART TWO

  GENTLEMEN PREFER BLONDES

  CHAPTER 26

  NORA HAD HOPED a wellness coach would be helpful, but she hadn’t expected to look forward to their next appointment the way she did.

  Russell Merritt had proven easy to talk to, especially given the luxury of anonymity. Nora had forgotten how wonderful such freedom could be.

  RMerritt44: You mentioned a successful career, but that you also lack joy in your life. Why do you think that’s the case?

  CAGirl202: Isn’t that why I’m paying you? To tell me?

  RMerritt44: Humor me. I’m gathering background. Sometimes difficulty finding happiness has deeper roots. Did you have a happy childhood?

  Nora snorted. Yeah, right.

  CAGirl202: My childhood was fucked up.

  RMerritt44: Your parents? Siblings? Socioeconomics? Would any of those come into play?

  CAGirl202: Parent.

  RMerritt44: I beg your pardon?

  CAGirl202: One parent. I never knew my father. He was a deadbeat dad, skipped out on us before I was old enough to remember. Never paid child su
pport. Never kept in touch.

  RMerritt44: And your mother?

  Nora hesitated. Did she want to go into detail on this? Did it matter? She never talked about this stuff. Then again, maybe that was one of her issues. Wasn’t that why she contacted Russell Merritt in the first place? To find answers?

  She tugged at her ear lobe, then decided to throw caution to the wind. Anonymous, right? She put her fingers to the keyboard.

  CAGirl202: My mother was in bad shape. A drug addict. Sometimes she was present in mind, other days she wasn’t. Let’s just say when I grew up in Colorado, I had issues.

  RMerritt44: Someone else must have taken care of you. Is that correct?

  CAGirl202: I had an aunt who stepped in. Mom’s sister. She became a role model for me.

  RMerritt44: That doesn’t sound like an easy life, by any means.

  Second thoughts settled in. Should she disconnect their session right now? On one hand, it felt awkward admitting personal details to a stranger. Yet, on the other hand, she could picture a cleansing on the horizon, albeit no more than a glimmer. Part of her wanted to talk to someone, but she didn’t have many options in her life. She knew a lot of people, but she’d never been one to confide in others. Now that her career had exploded full-force and she existed on everybody’s radar, she didn’t know who she could trust.

  She decided to press forward and set her red fingernails in motion.

  CAGirl202: I’ve always wondered what a normal family was. I used to look at my friends, the way their families interacted, and I wanted to be part of something like that.

  A pause. Then she heard the familiar ping that indicated Russell’s response had arrived.

  RMerritt44: And you feel your lack of contentment, or happiness as you call it, might have its roots in that aspect of your childhood? A lack of family?

  CAGirl202: I guess. Maybe. Who knows.

  RMerritt44: Sometimes you can find family where you least expect it. A surrogate of sorts, but it can help fill that void. Consider the relationships in your life. Are those relationships moving you forward?

  CAGirl202: I wish it were that simple. I’m in a complicated situation.

  RMerritt44: I understand. But keep your eyes open for opportunities to trust. Little ones.

  CAGirl202: I suppose. But my other fear is failure. I guess I think back on my childhood, consider the way things were and the lack of direction, the way things spiraled out of control with my mother’s addiction. It didn’t happen fast. It was gradual. But the scary thing was the silence.

  RMerritt44: What sort of silence?

  CAGirl202: The way things went unspoken. We knew there were issues, but we didn’t confront them until it was too late and Mom’s addiction had taken over control of her life and decisions. So much pain. But nobody outside of those four walls knew the extent of it because we never talked about it. One day, Mom died of an overdose. Part of me suspects she turned to drugs to mask her own pain in life.

  RMerritt44: That’s quite possible.

  CAGirl202: Even today, that silence scares me. I fear the silence of unspoken words, unspoken pains, unspoken struggles. The idea that you can look so good on the outside but hide such torment in your soul. I don’t want to die in silence.

  A pause. The cursor blinked on the screen. And a shroud returned to Nora’s heart, the familiar veil of depression.

  The silence.

  RMerritt44: You’ve taken one step forward, though. Haven’t you?

  Nora tried to smile, but her effort felt shallow.

  Numb.

  CHAPTER 27

  THE DRIVE FROM Del’s home to the Malibu shore took five minutes, most of that time spent winding through his neighborhood and down the mountain. With Felicia in the passenger seat, Del guided his silver convertible along a two-lane road. Splotches of greenery dotted the mountain’s surface, the kind of growth that, from a distance, resembled a scouring pad. Large homes speckled the hillside in strategic positions, to allow for privacy without obscuring stellar views of the Pacific.

  When they reached the shoreline, Del parked his car on the side of the Pacific Coast Highway, where they removed their shoes and made their way toward the ocean. Early on this January evening, they were the only souls walking the beach.

  Del had never outgrown his fascination with the Pacific Coast Highway. Los Angeles was the second-largest city in America. People flocked here from all over the world. And yet, this stretch of road, squeezed between water and mountain, felt like slice of rural America. Or, at least, the California version of it.

  He took Felicia’s hand in his and they strolled along the shoreline, though tonight, neither dared dip their toes in the cold water. Fine grains of sand rubbed between their toes. The incessant motion of breakers spoke to Del’s soul.

  So did the touch of the woman who ambled beside him. What drew him to her? Was it possible to find contentment with someone so close to his own age?

  “Were you ever a surfer?” Felicia asked.

  “I tried a couple of times. It was never my thing. I moved to L.A. while I was young enough to enjoy the ocean, but kept so busy, I never allowed myself time for it.” Del eyed Felicia with faux suspicion. “Don’t tell me you were a surfer.”

  She laughed. “Not at all. Most of the time, I was preoccupied with the whole counterculture thing. Besides, even if I’d wanted to, half the time I was too stoned to balance myself on a surfboard.”

  Del loved to hear her laugh. It sounded lighthearted, carefree, yet tinged with wisdom acquired through years of both joy and disappointment along the way.

  He gazed into her eyes, where he found notes of tranquility. They soothed his soul even more than the waves, which now seemed to dance rather than roar.

  “You’ve never told me much about yourself,” Del said.

  She teased him with a soft bump, shoulder to shoulder. “You don’t ask.”

  The gleam in her eyes confirmed her attraction toward Del was genuine. This woman wasn’t star-struck. She didn’t seem impressed with his past achievements. Del wasn’t accustomed to that.

  “Does it count if I start asking you now?” he asked.

  “No time like the present, as they say.”

  Del peered down at her hand, absent of a wedding band, a sight he’d noticed many times prior. “Were you ever married?”

  He wasn’t sure, but he thought he noticed a twitch of her eye. Felicia’s posture grew rigid. She held silent for a moment, staring at the vast horizon. Her calmness remained intact.

  “Once, long ago. We were young.” She took a deep breath of resignation. “We all make mistakes. That was mine.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. We don’t need to talk about it.”

  “No, it’s a part of me. I don’t mind. I’ve shared it with many people. I’m a minister; it goes with the territory.”

  Del’s heart longed to know her better, but he endeavored to tread with care. He didn’t want to cause her heartache. “How long were you married? I hope the divorce wasn’t complicated.”

  “Actually, it was quite simple.”

  “How so?”

  Felicia stopped walking. When she turned toward him, Del observed the aura of a young, vulnerable girl in this mature woman’s eyes.

  “He walked out on me.”

  CHAPTER 28

  THE REVELATION CAUGHT Del off guard. With a marriage component absent along his own life’s journey, he lacked an appropriate response. But as he looked into Felicia’s eyes, his heart softened. He didn’t know whether to continue holding her hand, but before he could stop himself, he’d allowed it to fall from his.

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “It’s not a big deal anymore.” Although she waved off the memory, Del noticed an ember of pain lingered in her eyes. “But as I look back, I can’t say I’m surprised. We had eloped. A couple of hippies who lived in a commune in northern California for a year. I was sixteen years old. Far too young to get hitched.”

  “Yo
u never mentioned any children.”

  “The marriage ended before that could happen. Which, in my opinion, was the best thing. No child should have to grow up without a father.”

  “Did your ex-husband ever try to get back in touch with you?”

  “I haven’t heard a word from him since he walked out.”

  Del was dumbfounded. He found this woman striking. How could anyone abandon her?

  “What kind of man walks out on a woman like you?”

  A puckered smile emerged on Felicia’s face, which told Del he might have succeeded in relieving her surface-level pain. To a small degree, at least.

  “A boy with a dream.” She gazed out at the ocean. Strands of her hair fluttered in the breeze. The speckled flesh on the front of her neck hinted at her age.

  She ran her hand through her hair once, and Del thought she looked stunning.

  “I hope the dream was worth it to him,” he said.

  “He’d been a drummer in a small-time band. They wanted to be the Allman Brothers. One day, he came home and told me he’d run into a former bandmate at the grocery store. They were trekking to L.A. in a VW bus and asked if he wanted to rejoin the band.” Felicia returned her attention to Del, a knowing look in her eyes, a combination of struggle and maturity in hindsight. “He hit the road and never came back.”

  “Classy guy.”

  “It was another era. Things were different.”

  “Some things should never change.”

  Although Del had neither married nor ventured as far as a proposal, he had engaged in too many romantic relationships to count. He wondered if he had scarred any women the way Felicia’s ex-husband had scarred her. A shadow of guilt lurked at the corner of his conscience.

  “And today?” he asked.

  “Today?” Felicia smirked. “Today…let’s say I’m no longer sixteen.”