He wasn’t mad about that calendar—or about the next crisis, when the papers found out she wasn’t “a little orphan girl.” (Her mother was very much alive, and just released from a state mental hospital.) Joe knew all about making up your own life story. He didn’t judge her for that. And he knew why she did it. He seemed to understand (without a word said) how she wanted to be a star—had to be the biggest star, a perfect star. That’s what was wonderful: this man, who was so solid, rich, strong, assured, admired . . . still, he knew everything there was to know about hunger.
He wooed her sweetly, and gave her respite from the fever of appearing that was the rest of her life. (Joe was just as happy to spend an evening on a couch in a darkened room with on old movie on TV, while she resumed the habits of her girlhood and curled up next to him, to dream while some celluloid fantasy played out onscreen.) Withal, he bound her to him with the only cords that could ever keep her—those of her own ambition. She wanted to learn to be like him.
What she saw, what she wanted to learn, was the same thing two generations of Yankees saw, and tried to learn, from Joe. That was the certainty of his own stardom. She saw, she thought she had to have, the same thing the kids on the old North Beach Playground wanted, when they looked at Joe: the sufficiency in himself that made him quiet at his core. It was enviable, it was maddening. Marilyn and Ben Hecht tried to put it into words:
“I was always able to tell what it was about a man that attracted me. Except this time with Mr. DiMaggio. My feelings for this silent smiling man began to disturb me. What was the use of buzzing all over for a man who was like somebody sitting alone in the Observation Car?
“ . . . I thought, ‘You learn to be silent and smiling like that from having millions of people look at you with love and excitement while you stand alone getting ready to do something.’
“I only wished I knew what Mr. DiMaggio did.”
What Joe knew was, here was the most beautiful creature he’d ever seen. He knew a lot of broads—beauties, sure—but no one, nothing, like this girl. It wasn’t even the same category. He’d been around the block a few times in Hollywood. And not just with Dorothy—but big stars: Marlene Dietrich, for instance. (Joe didn’t like her. She had bad breath.) But Marilyn put them all in the shade. This girl had beauty shining out from inside.
It wasn’t her stardom that made her shine—though it pleased Joe that everything Dorothy hungered for, strove for, dumped him for . . . Marilyn already had all that (effortlessly, as he imagined), and by age twenty-five. She was just a kid! . . . And it wasn’t only her looks—though, what a looker! When she’d get dressed up (finally!) and made-up (second or third time, when she was satisfied), they’d go to some joint and she’d stop the place cold—like everybody else in the room disappeared. He loved that.
But he loved it more when it was just for him—or even better, when they’d get to her place, and she’d drop that dress on the floor (there was never anything on underneath), and scrub all that shit off her face, and drop the towel coming out of the bathroom, lit perhaps by one bulb behind her, or the blue of the TV he’d flicked on . . . and there she was, his girl, so pale, past vanilla, it was white in her young skin—dairy milk—and perfect, tiny-boned, delicate, like a twelve-year-old virgin, childlike as her giggle when he grabbed her, then, covered her with him, filled her, crushed her, sometimes (Christ forgive him) he was trying to kill her . . . God, he never wanted to jolt anybody like this girl.
Maybe she did know a bit about baseball—or she was learning fast. She called Joe her “slugger.” Years later, when her friend (and the great profile writer of the age) Truman Capote asked her who was the best, she brought up Joe’s name, and added: “He can hit home runs.” Capote understood—and, as usual, he understood why: he entitled his profile on Marilyn Monroe, “A Beautiful Child.”
By the time April came, Joe didn’t want his job on TV, and didn’t want to leave for New York. He felt like his real life—his aliveness—was with Marilyn. He’d known her three weeks.
Still, what he wanted was to leave with her—take her away to San Francisco, which was always the stage set in his mind when he cast himself as head of household. He didn’t push. He didn’t want to scare her . . . but he had to ask: did she ever want—you know, a real family? Kids? . . .
Oh, yes—more than anything! (Marilyn always said that.)
It made perfect sense to Joe. What didn’t make sense was to leave her now—here, in this town full of worms. What would happen when he left? Nothing good. (He could feel the acid-ache in his stomach, already.) But he had to leave. She told him she was going to come east that summer, to film on location at Niagara Falls. She could come to New York then. He could show her his town. She loved New York! . . . He made her promise, then promise again.
What happened when he left was a bellyache of the worst sort—Marilyn was hospitalized with acute appendicitis. On April 28, she was wheeled into an operating room at the Cedars of Lebanon Hospital. From New York, DiMaggio sent wires and mail, called at all hours, day and night. Every day, he sent flowers—roses, always. (Marilyn had told him she loved roses. If she died, she wanted him to put roses on her grave every week—just as William Powell did for the great Jean Harlow.) . . . DiMaggio filled her room with roses.
In her own way Marilyn, too, tried to be true to what she’d told him—or what she always told herself. When the OR staff lifted her hospital gown to reveal her belly where the incision would be made, they found a note, taped to her skin:
Most important to Read Before operation.
Dear Doctor,
Cut as little as possible. I know it seems vain but that doesn’t really enter into it—the fact that I’m a woman is important and means much to me. Save please (can’t ask you enough) what you can—I’m in your hands. You have children and you must know what it means—please Doctor—I know somehow you will! thank you—thank you—for Gods sakes Dear Doctor No ovaries removed—please again do whatever you can to prevent large scars. Thanking you with all my heart.
Marilyn Monroe
As her British biographer (Goddess: The Secret Lives of Marilyn Monroe), the relentless digger, Anthony Summers, confirmed with her surgeon more than thirty years later, there was no collateral damage, no ovaries disturbed (and just a normal small scar) when Marilyn’s appendix came out. A week later, she was back on the set, to finish Monkey Business. Her makeup man, Allan “Whitey” Snyder, promised he would make her the picture of good health. (Anyway, he said, if she keeled over and died, he’d make her look great in her coffin. Marilyn laughed, and made him promise that, too.)
In New York, Joe was delighted with her good news. The way he figured, as soon as she finished that picture (When? A week? Two weeks?) . . . she’d be coming east to start on Niagara. He called every night (though it was late in New York) to see how she was, what she’d done that day—and to fret about his own job (it was stupid, and nerve-wracking). She was always sympathetic. He was just shy, like her—she was always scared to death in front of a camera . . . .
It did him so much good to talk to her, Joe never realized that all her good news (She’d be working once again with Howard Hawks . . . . She’d met an agent, a big-time agent—Charley Feldman—he came to see her, himself! . . . They were talking about her for Gentlemen Prefer Blondes!) . . . every good thing that happened was carrying her farther from the life he saw for them. The life he thought she saw, too.
“She’s a plain kid,” Joe told his pal Jimmy Cannon. “She’d give up the business if I asked her. She’d quit the movies in a minute. It means nothing to her.”
LAST WEEK IN MAY, she arrived in New York, and that’s where she fetched Joe into the boat forever. It was like life came back to him—and appetite, excitement, fun. Even within his network of pals, no one had ever seen him like this. Jesus! Daig was grinnin’ all the time!
He’d had such a rotten month—with that little pissy job. He knew it should have been easy. There was a pregame warm-up show—f
ive minutes at most. And then after the games, fifteen minutes more: just an interview with one of the guys, five or six questions (the writers would have them all written out), then give the final score again, and goodbye . . . . It should have been a walk in the park. But it ate him up. He knew he looked bad.
Even the brevity of it was a problem. It was like a whole day leading up to one at-bat. And then you got up, there were only two pitches (that you never saw before, and neither one worth a shit) . . . how could you hit ’em out of the park like that? He’d show up every day—every hair in place, beautiful suit, perfect shirt, gorgeous tie, pants creased, shoes shined—and wait (That was another problem: wait, wait, wait! What’s he supposed to do? Chat?) . . . while something got screwed up. He’d stand in front of the camera, waiting ten minutes, stiffer every minute (he could feel it in his back) . . . twenty times, he’d unbutton his coat, cram his shirtfront back into his pants, hold the microphone in front of him again, then look down—his fuckin’ shirt was wrinkled! . . . Then, he’d look up again. Where’s the goddamn CUE CARDS? One time, he threw a total fit, roaring curses—he refused to go on—because the producer lost the first cue card. They calmed him down in the nick of time—wrote out a new card in block capitals:
HI, I’M JOE DIMAGGIO.
WELCOME TO THE JOE DIMAGGIO SHOW.
For contract purposes, it was called The Buitoni Show. That was the sponsor, the big pasta company. That was another problem. Joe liked the guys from Buitoni fine. They treated him with total respect. And their checks were good. But still, he wasn’t thrilled about being the front man for an all-Dago band. He’d sit down in a restaurant, and smart-ass fans would start making jokes: how come he wasn’t eating Buitoni macaroni? . . . And then there was the hokey end they wrote for the interviews. They’d bring out a bowl of spaghetti—like Joe and the guy he was talking to were going to chow down, after the game. One time, he had Jerry Coleman on the show—they bring out the big, steaming dish of spaghetti . . . and Joe’s supposed to wind it up by asking Coleman, “How’s the spaghetti?”
Coleman’s supposed to say it’s good—“Great!” And that’s that. But he says, “How do I know, Joe? I haven’t tasted it yet.”
Then what the hell was Joe supposed to say? . . . After the show, he was furious at Coleman. Sonofabitch showed him up!
It was like being in a slump all year. Couldn’t get his timing . . . couldn’t just hit it . . . and spending every night with the worry that always made it worse. He’d go out at night, have some belts to unwind, and the pal he was with would tell him he was fine—all he had to do was relax. That was like a slump, too: same meaningless advice. “Just go up there and be yourself! . . .” What the hell did they know about it?
But when Marilyn came, she told him he looked wonderful. And he was so cow-eyed—from her he half-believed it. (She was the one who looked perfect—to him.) And, after all, this was the kind of thing she did know about. The way the camera stared at you, like a million eyes in one, when you knew everything about you was wrong. Yes, she did understand . . . . She told him about the tricks she’d learned—the breathing lessons she received from her coach (Natasha. Oh, she was brilliant!) . . . Joe even said he’d try those, too.
He would’ve stood on his head if she’d told him to—or tried, or said he would someday . . . if she’d just stay with him. All his troubles disappeared. He took her around to his New York haunts. Dinner at the Colony, and next night, Le Pavillion . . . and she loved them. She must have said five times, there wasn’t anything like this—nothing close—in Los Angeles. She hated L.A . . . . and New York loved her. Everywhere they went, she stopped the show. Or she and Joe did. There was no one who didn’t look, and whisper to friends, or poke a companion so he could look, too. And no one who didn’t start to smile, the minute they saw them—those two looked so . . . perfect! There were plenty who came over for autographs (natch). But Joe even smiled through that. Of course, he’d sign—glad to—“But don’t you really want her . . . ?”
The papers fell into the love-fest, too—couldn’t get enough of this dream couple. Mr. and Miss America! . . . Or maybe it was Mrs. (There were immediate rumors that wedding bells were in the offing—or maybe they’d already tolled! Winchell, for one, insisted that he had information . . . about Mr. and Mrs. DiMaggio.) Marilyn, who was always thrilled by publicity, reveled in the excitement of this. Sure, she was (or she was getting to be) a big deal in Hollywood. But this was amazing! There was her photo—their photo—in a dozen papers, all in the same day. She couldn’t understand why Joe was so suspicious about that. He warned her repeatedly to watch out for the writers—and watch what she said around them. It was like he didn’t want her to enjoy herself . . . and just forget. But she knew he was only trying to protect her. He was so sweet. He rented them two rooms at the Drake—made a big show about that—in case anybody asked. (They did.)
There was in New York’s glee an element of civic ratification. Competition with “The Coast”—Tinseltown in particular—hadn’t heated up to a fever yet. But still it was satisfying that their hero (forget where he was born—wasn’t he always the Yankee Clipper?) . . . had sallied forth from his Manhattan cave and clubbed to (radiantly happy) submission this golden girl of Hollywood. It was as good as the Yankees dashing the hopes of the Red Sox again. (Better! Who gave a shit about dowdy old Boston?) . . . And, of course, being New Yorkers, both writers and readers assumed that anything that happened in New York had happened for America, once and for all. “They are folk idols,” Jimmy Cannon announced, “Marilyn and Joe, a whole country’s pets.”
That wasn’t quite how Joe would have said it—he wasn’t interested in being the national poodle. But, still, he couldn’t argue the point. With the Hero Machine artillery firing barrels of ink from both coasts (Photoplay shot first, among the monthly cannoneers—with “He’s Her JOE! The Romantic Score on the Pin-up Girl and the Yankee Clipper.”) . . . the nation as a whole was soon splattered. Seemed like a dozen times a day, now, Joe had to “no comment” some writer or columnist, or send Georgie out to tell the shutterbugs to back off. And not just through that first visit—but weekends, all through June and July—she’d fly down from Buffalo, Friday night, when her shooting was done. DiMaggio steadfastly refused to discuss Miss M. in print. Except to deny they were married (when he’d settle for the blandly suggestive demurral: “No. We’re just good friends.”).
But what was also suggestive was, he wasn’t hiding her—or hiding himself anymore. He took her happily to Yankee Stadium where, to the delight of the sporting press, she coached him in the interview studio in the basement tunnel behind the Yankee dugout. Before the games, she’d wander down to the box seats, and all the young Yankees would flock to the railing to meet her, and get her autograph. (That part, Joe wasn’t happy about: did they have to crowd her like that? Jesus! Why didn’t they just climb in her lap?)
And the surest sign of his newfound ease: he took her to the cannoneers’ HQ—what Red Smith used to call the Mother Lodge—after dinner, they’d show up at Toots Shor’s saloon. Joe had finally forgiven Toots, and resumed his place on the banquette in the corner. What the hell, it was only a fight about broads—and Dorothy—that was all over now. Joe didn’t have any more problems on that subject. In fact, he took a positive delight in showing Toots how he’d worked out his worries. (Who’s moonin’ now?)
And for his part, Toots was so abjectly grateful that the Big Guy had come back (God, Toots cried like a baby when Joe got mad, it was like losing a son) . . . he woulda thrown everybody else on the street, locked the doors—leave the crumb bums on the curb!—if Joe and his girl wanted the joint to themselves. But that was the beauty part. Joe didn’t want anything special. That’s why Tootsie had to love him! Joe walks in with a broad—she’s so gorgeous a train would stop . . . and says he don’t want to disturb anybody. That is a champion with class!
Of course, in the event, what happened was, they walked in and the place was jolted—bigger th
an Dempsey, Sinatra and Gleason, and Joe Louis all rolled into one—the place went electric, like everybody found a plug and stuck their fingers in, and you could feel the lights flicker and come on brighter. Then the noise: like the air had come out of them all at once—whhouff—and then a rumbling male approbation (the sound at the Garden when a champ lands a big hook to the head), louder and louder, as they’re shouting, “It’s Dago! Hey, Joe! There he is, the Clipper!” And then they came over—a parade to the corner: “You look great, Daig! Y’gonna introduce me?”
The funny part was, Joe had told her that’s where they could go to get away from the columnists, photographers, fans—where they wouldn’t be bothered. But she loved it anyway. And it was funny. Joe was laughing. He looked so happy. All these strange, loud, adoring men, clapping him on the back like he’d just won the big game. “Joe! You look great! . . .” He’d shrug, and say through his grin: “I’m just with her.”
For Joe, in this happiness, there was more than an element of ratification. Maybe he would always be a stiff on TV. Maybe center field now belonged to Mantle—and (despite the mistakes that Joe had pointed out to Marilyn that afternoon) maybe the rockhead would do fine. Maybe the Yanks (in first place, and coasting) could even be champions without the Dago . . . . But with this girl on his arm, Joe was, once again, the Big Guy in the Hero Game. Without another word said—from her, or him. And didn’t matter what they did! Simply, in her person, she affirmed him—made him once again what he was (what he thought he’d lost) . . . He loved what he was in her eyes—and in the eyes of the world, with her. He was Joe DiMaggio again.
THE CLINCHER WAS, he knew he could help her. Here was someone he could watch over. She was just a sweet kid. She could get eaten alive—everybody wanting a chunk of her. He could see that already, the way she was with the writers, and photographers—it was like they owned her. Stand here, do this, hold that . . . and she’d jump. All excited. They wanted to make her picture! The kid didn’t know the ropes, how to say no.
Joe DiMaggio: The Hero's Life (Touchstone Book) Page 41