Joe knew. And he was trying to teach her. By August, when she was back in L.A., he was on the phone every night, with advice, encouragement, warnings, like a long-distance manager. See, now, she had three pictures out that summer—Clash by Night in June, We’re Not Married in July, and now, in August, Don’t Bother to Knock . . . . Now, she was going to have Monkey Business and Niagara in the can. How was she ever gonna get more money—put the studio over a barrel, if she already gave them everything they wanted? They had a backlog on her—they were using her, see?—so she’d never be able to hold out against them.
They were using her up! (Take it from him—Joe had been through this.) . . . They had her on a seven-year contract, and of course every year they picked up the option—and what could she do? What were they paying her now? Seven hundred fifty a week. Chump change! She was making real money for them. And they were treating her like a piece of meat.
Of course, she explained to Joe how she’d got into this, two years ago, before anybody knew who she was . . . . Her first agent (and champion, daddy-figure, lover)—Johnny Hyde (he was such a wonderful man, the first man who promised to make her a star—and he wanted to marry her!) . . . Johnny had worked out that seven-year contract, and then, a week later, he was dead. That’s why she was still with his agency, William Morris. But nobody there took care of her now.
Jesus, Joe almost jumped through the phone. He would take care of her. . . . The whole story fed his certainty that this kid needed someone—a strong man, a guy who’d been around—to wrest her from the clutches of those Hollywood assholes. He’d be out there, right after the season . . . don’t sign with Feldman. Don’t sign anything!
For Marilyn, this was an accustomed role, familiar and comfortable—or at least well practiced. In her marriage (into which she’d been placed, at age sixteen, more or less like another foster home), the best thing about her husband, Jimmy Dougherty, was he was five years older, and had a mustache. She called him Daddy. After she divorced him, in 1946, all her serious relationships had been with older men, strong and shrewd men. She played waif to their protector. Now, her Slugger signed his letters, “Pa.”
But she also knew, Joe was right. Or he might be right. He was from outside—he wasn’t all caught up in the tangly web of Hollywood friendship and power, loyalty and fear—he was only loyal to her. He did know about bargaining and contracts. (They gave him more money to play in a baseball game than she ever made in a week.) . . . But it wasn’t the money she cared about most. What Joe was really talking about was control: about her deciding when to make a picture—and what picture. That should be up to her! Joe had such certainty, and pride. And what she loved most was his pride in her—his certainty that she was great.
Sometimes, she wished he wouldn’t watch over her so constantly. There was the time that September, when she came east again, for the premiere of Monkey Business, and to serve as Grand Marshal for the Miss America Pageant in Atlantic City. She dressed for the occasion in a gown of black chiffon, with a neckline . . . well, no, it never got near her neck. Instead, two orphan folds of chiffon were born apart, somewhere near her shoulders, and made acquaintance with each other, down the road, near her navel.
“It was an entirely decent dress,” Marilyn was still protesting to Ben Hecht, years later. “You could ride in a streetcar in it without disturbing the passengers.
“But there was one bright-minded photographer who figured he would get a more striking picture if he photographed me shooting down. I didn’t notice him pointing his camera from a balcony . . .”
(Well, gosh! A girl can’t keep track of everything!)
The scandal erupted, predictably, with the next day’s papers. And predictably—expertly—she turned it to her advantage. If there was still anybody in the country who knew nothing about Marilyn Monroe . . . they got an eyeful in their paper that morning—and probably an earful, that Sunday, in church. In short, it worked out just like she wanted—except for Joe. Joe was awful.
He was furious. He was screaming at her. Like she’d done the whole thing to embarrass him. She tried to explain, it was publicity, it was part of her job, she had to show herself.
“SHOW ’EM NOTHING!” Joe just shouted her down.
But that was the dress she got from the studio!
“WEAR YOUR OWN GODDAMN CLOTHES . . .”
But she didn’t have any clothes!
He was so unfair. He was hateful. He said they made her look like a whore. And she was in tears on the phone.
Thing was, Joe couldn’t stay mad at her. At least, he couldn’t stay away. He had to talk to her. Late at night, there was nothing else he wanted in the world. Except he wanted to be there with her . . . . But she couldn’t shrug off the hurt from him—not that fast, not with what he’d said. She shrank away from him. Let the phone ring. (Or maybe she wasn’t there! . . . What was she doing? . . . Who was she with?) . . . Marilyn fixed his wagon, but good. She didn’t have to take that from him.
So, Joe had to fly to L.A.—come to her—middle of September, with the season still on. What else could he do? He was so contrite. He wanted her so.
And that was the pattern: she’d shy from the pressure of his grasp . . . and he’d come on, to woo her, care for her, convince her. Then, his hold would get so tight, she wanted to scream—had to do something—and Joe would be hurt, offended, enraged. It wasn’t really for herself she had to act out. (God, no! If nothing else, her life had taught her to make do.) But she had to do something for the beautiful creation she’d made—for Marilyn Monroe—the girl the whole country was falling in love with. In those days she would linger, examining, fretting, fixing, redoing, in her dressing room, or some ladies’ room mirror—she’d be in there for hours—till someone would have to come get her.
What are you doing? . . .
“Looking at Her.”
That was the girl she had to protect. Sometimes, Joe wanted to kill Her.
But she wouldn’t, or couldn’t, shrink from Joe forever, either. He was so lonely without her. And so hurt, if she said she didn’t care to see him. He was so real! And he did what he said. After the Yankees won the World Series (it was exciting: Mickey Mantle hit a home run to win the seventh game!) . . . her Slugger did come back—Joe came straight to Hollywood, to take care of her. And the first thing was, he took her shopping, to buy some clothes of her own.
OF COURSE, every outfit had a neckline right up under her chin. But they were darling, and so was he—the way he sat there and helped her pick them out—and then he paid. She promised she’d wear them, if he’d try to be more patient with her. And he promised, too—he would try. They had a deal.
After that, he dived into the rest of her life, like a busy superintendent. How come she didn’t have any money? Marilyn didn’t have any idea. But there was rent, and her car, and she had to eat something, and books, and singing lessons, and acting lessons—Marilyn paid her acting coach, Natasha Lytess, hundreds of dollars every week for private lessons. Joe couldn’t figure that. Wasn’t Natasha the studio coach?
Why, yes! Marilyn had even made the studio give Natasha a raise. She would never do a picture without Natasha.
Well then, Joe said, let the studio pay her. (He never paid Crosetti to pitch extra BP.)
But Natasha would be hurt—and terribly upset!
Joe barely bothered to shrug. Next time Natasha called Marilyn at home, it was Joe who picked up the phone. “If you want to talk to Miss Monroe,” said DiMaggio, “you’d better call her agent.”
(Of course, that sent Natasha right up the wall. And Marilyn couldn’t, or wouldn’t, go on without her. So she had to make the studio promote Miss Lytess to chief drama coach—and give her another raise.)
There were a lot of things about Marilyn’s life that Joe couldn’t figure. (To be precise, he thought he had them all figured. He just couldn’t figure why she didn’t.) . . . Publicity, for instance—what was in it for her?
As she recalled for Ben Hecht, Joe would sn
eer at her excitement when some magazine was giving her a big picture spread.
“ ‘Yes, but where’s the money?’ he asks.
“ ‘It’s the publicity,’ I yell back.
“ ‘Money is better,’ he says in the quiet way men use when they think they’ve won an argument.”
There was the subject of punctuality. Why was she always late? Ten minutes late from traffic, sure. But two hours? Three hours? What got into her? . . . She’d say something like her hair was a wreck, and she had to comb it out, but she needed color, so she just couldn’t get it to look right. Or she had nothing to wear, because her outfit was at the cleaners, and she was at the studio, and by the time she got out . . .
That was another thing! She wasn’t shooting on a film that day. What was she doing at the studio? And who was she with? (That voice coach who ate her up with his eyes? That greasy designer who made her dress like a whore? . . .) She was always at the goddamn studio.
She’d have plenty to wear, if her clothes weren’t in a dirty ball, where she dropped ’em. Joe couldn’t understand that, either. Why did she have to be such a mess? . . . Marilyn wasn’t just untidy. It was more like unconscious. The great director Billy Wilder (another man with a European sense of all things in their place) remembered a time when he caught a ride with Marilyn, and got a good look at her car. “Such a mess you wouldn’t believe,” as Wilder described it. “It is like she threw everything in the back helter-skelter because there’s an invasion and the enemy is already in Pasadena. There’s blouses lying there, and slacks, girdles, skirts, shoes, old plane tickets—old lovers, for all I know—you never saw such a filthy mess in your life. On top of the mess is a whole bunch of traffic tickets. I ask her about them. Tickets for parking. Tickets for speeding, passing lights, who knows what? Is she worried about them? Am I worried about the sun rising tomorrow?”
Mess was one of the reasons Joe always paid for a room of his own (or maybe he didn’t pay, but he made some kind of arrangement) at the slightly-less-than-top-of-the-line Knickerbocker Hotel, on North Ivar. Still, that wasn’t much of a place to entertain Marilyn, if they were going out (or staying in) that night. Sometimes, his pal Bernie Kamber would have to come out to the Coast. Bernie’s on the cuff, of course, so he’s staying at some nice hotel. Plus, Bernie had to have a TV—he’d schmear the bell captain, three-fifty a day. So Joe would say, “Hey, Bernie, you got a TV, right? I got a date with Marilyn tonight. Can we use your place?” And that worked out fine . . . . But still, a lot of nights, as that winter drew nigh, Joe would end up at Marilyn’s place. She liked that—she was lovely about that. But Joe could only take it so long. She’d have to get up in the morning, so by midnight, she’s alone in the bed (with her face greased like a wheel bearing, in a half-inch of Vaseline), while Joe’s wandering around in the mess. No wonder, every week or two, he discovered that some business required his presence in New York or San Francisco.
For almost twenty years, he’d had a rhythm to his life. A week or two at home (or some hotel that passed as home). And then he’d have to get going. What was he supposed to do in Hollywood forever? . . . It’d be different if she wasn’t working. He’d grouse, sometimes: Why did she always have to be working? It was like Marilyn didn’t even hear him. It was Gentlemen Prefer Blondes—and she’s the blonde! She’d have to sing, and dance (how was she ever going to do it?) . . . . But this was her biggest film ever.
The times she hated were holidays, when there was no work. She’d always hated them. It’d be different, if she had a family. Never did. Holidays, she was just at loose ends. Thanksgiving, what was she supposed to do? There was as much chance of a turkey cooking her. Joe said, forget about it—he’d take care of that. He’d take them to the Brown Derby, and they’d have Thanksgiving dinner. And Bernie happened to be in L.A., so Joe was happy about that, too. Joe and Bernie got to the restaurant by three-thirty, or four P.M. Joe wanted to be early—insisted on it—so they could get a table in the back, where they wouldn’t be bothered. Naturally, Marilyn was coming on her own from the studio. (What the hell’s she doing at the studio, Thanksgiving?) Except she didn’t come. And didn’t come, didn’t come. A half-hour, an hour, then two hours. By the time she showed up, Joe was so mad—he was rigid! He’d talk to Bernie. Marilyn, he acted like she wasn’t there. Then, she was hurt, so she wouldn’t talk to Joe. She only talked to Bernie, too. And that was the holiday (which just confirmed how awful they were).
And Christmas was always the worst. Everybody else had someone. And Joe wasn’t even in town. Marilyn went (she had to appear) to the studio Christmas party. But that only made her feel more empty—she left early, and went home, alone. Home, in those days, was a suite at the Beverly Hills Hotel. She was a star now—and ought to live like one. But what was the good of that, on Christmas? She unlocked the door, and there, on a table across the room, was a little Christmas tree, with a card propped up against the bottom of it. She ripped open the envelope, and read:
Merry Christmas, Marilyn
—Joe.
There were tears in her eyes as she looked up, and there he was, sitting silent in a corner of the room. She ran to him. “Nobody ever gave me a Christmas tree before,” she said. “Joe, I love you.” There was dinner he had ordered in, and champagne. They got a little tight and danced to an Ella Fitzgerald record, before they left it all, and went together into the next room.
THE TIMES JOE liked were weekends, when she didn’t have to get up, and they could lounge around all day. Or they’d ride in the country in his blue Cadillac, with the license plate JOE D. (No, he wasn’t hiding anymore. Why should he?) . . . Best of all, they could ride out to the Black Foxe Institute, Joe Jr.’s school, and take him out for a day, show the boy a big time. Then, Joe felt like he had everything taken care of—all the eggs were back in his carton.
Of course, little Butchie was thrilled. Well, he wasn’t so little now—almost eleven years old—and every boy in his class knew very well who Marilyn Monroe was. (And he got to meet her!) It made him an object of high regard among his classmates. It was almost as good as being tall (which he wasn’t), or cool and dismissive and funny (no, he wasn’t) or a star on the baseball team (alas, he wasn’t that either). In fact, being friends with Marilyn Monroe was one of the very few ways that Joe DiMaggio, Jr., ever felt he fulfilled the expectations raised by his name.
It was terribly complicated, that name. A lot of times, he wished he could get rid of it. It wasn’t just baseball—though that was heartache enough—that’s why he always said he liked football better. He wasn’t even great at that (or big enough, strong enough)—maybe he could be the kicker . . . that would have been okay, if he’d had a lot of stories to tell about the Yankees, or times with his dad, or anything about him. But he didn’t. So he cultivated silence about Big Joe—like the other boys wouldn’t understand. But that was only good for a while—like when he changed schools, and people didn’t know him, which his manner more or less enforced, but it would have been nicer if they did know him—if it was just him they wanted to know . . . . It was complicated even to explain, sometimes.
But Marilyn (he liked using just her first name)—that was a name like a smile. “Marilyn told me . . .” Nothing complicated about that!
And she did tell him things. She liked him! She was so nice. She’d just talk like a regular person. (“Naw, she doesn’t have that whispery voice,” he’d assure his schoolmates, in days to come. “That’s not her, really. Not with friends . . .”)
Marilyn always got along with kids, because she would just talk to them, as equals. And she got such a kick out of how they really thought—they were all fears and delight (not airs and posturing of unconcern, like grownups). They were like her.
It was Marilyn who’d steer Big Joe off his nervous plans—a big-deal lunch, and then get some ice cream, and shopping, then the boy can go bowling, and then . . . it was Marilyn who’d say, let’s just go home. They’d hang around the pool at the hotel—whatever hotel i
t was now, that didn’t matter. It was great.
And then, even Big Joe was fine—once he relaxed. In fact, he’d just sit there and smoke, and smile, watching Marilyn and the boy. Satisfied. Or if he wasn’t satisfied, it was just about him, and he’d go off and get a coffee or something. Or he and Marilyn would go off for a little while—and come back laughing. Big Joe was nicer than Butch had ever seen him. For once he didn’t ask about the teams, Junior’s marks, his clothes, his friends (did he have friends?). Joe Jr. was usually so scared of putting his father in a bad mood, failing to live up (to what, he never did quite know) . . . it was like any visit started with a quiz, and the price of failure was an ice-bath for the day. If the visit was with Mom and Dad, that was impossible. Then, his father always asked more questions, like he wanted to find out something bad. And his mom would go wacky, too, hugging him all the time—like showing off their love.
He did love his mom. But that was complicated, too. It was fine, if it was just them. But with anybody else—even one of her boyfriends—she’d get switched on, loud and eager, and there wasn’t any way to calm her down. She was beautiful and everything. But couldn’t she just be Mom? Even if he brought friends home from school, it was like she’d put on a show. Now that Butch was older, it made him embarrassed. One time, he brought guys home and she had to show how she could do a handstand—she did it, and she didn’t have underpants on, or anything! The friends thought it was great—or said they did. Joe Jr. wanted to die.
But this was different, with Marilyn. She just was okay with him—and they all were. It was just nice. Until he told his mom about it. And she went nuts.
Dorothy Arnold got a lawyer, and went to court in Los Angeles. She filed a petition to limit DiMaggio’s visitation rights. It was “entirely inappropriate” to take Little Butchie to “adult places.” Why couldn’t Joe just take the boy to movies, a circus, bowling—someplace like that? Instead, she had to read (in gossip columns!) that her son, her ex-husband, and Marilyn Monroe were lounging around the Bel Air Hotel pool, where there was “a lot of adult talk.” (And by the by, Dorothy wanted more money, too. She couldn’t make ends meet on three hundred a month. Why not make it a thousand?)
Joe DiMaggio: The Hero's Life (Touchstone Book) Page 42