by Jon Jacks
Always on. Always turned to face where she’s sitting or standing.
Her eyes never leave it, even on the rare occasions she’s putting some food together, or cleaning pots and plates.
That’s her real life, not this one. That’s where her friends live.
Dick Van Dyke, Ed Sullivan, Jack Benny, Red Skelton, Dick Powell, Steve Allen, Perry Como, Joey Bishop, Bob Newhart, Bob Cummings, Du Pont, Bullwinkle, Bugs Bunny – just who doesn’t have a show, ‘inviting you into their home’?
What’s My Line has her talking to the TV like they can hear her dumb ass answers.
‘How’d you figure he’s a taxi cab repairer?’ I’d say.
‘You never know,’ she’d answer, ‘someone has to repair them.’
She’d draw me in like that, see?
Saw it as family life, as we were sitting there doing something together.
If I sat by her, she’d reach out, take and squeeze my hand, smiling.
Eyes still fixed on the screen, natch.
Both of us staring at a minute box on the table that goes more places than we’re ever likely to see.
That would be mum’s ideal, see? She wants me to be get hooked on her drug of choice, so we can share all those precious moments.
‘It’s 77 Sunset Strip,’ she’d say, the credits starting up, every moment of it unmissable for mum. ‘You like that, don’t you? The way Kookie – it is Kookie, isn’t it? – is always combing his hair.’
Yeah, right, like always combing your hair is cool.
Look at me Mom – when did I last comb my hair?
Worse still are the cowboys. More cowboys, I reckon, than ever actually really existed. Wagon Train, Laramie, Bonanza, Tales of Wells Fargo, Marshal Dillon, Gunsmoke.
Anyone of them gives Mom an excuse to refer back to a past I can’t even remember anymore.
No, I don’t mean back whenever it was when cowboys actually went about worrying if they’d get their herd to town in time.
I mean back to some mythical time when I was as cute as Beaver.
It’ll come, usually, about half way through whatever it is she’s watching. And always when it’s time for the adverts, natch.
‘Remember when you used to watch this with me? Never miss your–’ and here she’d simply insert whichever dumbass cowboy she was watching –‘you wouldn’t.’
There might even come a bit about how I used to have a toy gun I’d fire into the air, or a hat I’d slope back at a jaunty angle just like they did on screen.
Times like this, I couldn’t ever be sure she wasn’t completely confusing me with sweet little Theodore ‘Beaver’.
Okay, there could’ve been a time I was stupid enough to run around in this ‘little red cowboy hat, with the silver badge,’ she keeps harping on about.
What’s for sure, it’s a long time ago.
And a long time ago don’t exist no more.
*
Mom glances up at me as I come in.
Gives me a weak smile.
Then back to the screen.
‘You been in a fight again?’
‘Yeah.’
I figure my face must be heavily bruised. It sure feels that way, anyhow.
I shrug, like it’s one of those things you grow to expect round here.
She looks up, just in time to catch the end of the shrug.
‘You okay fixing something for yourself?’
The weak smile again, like she’s one of those women you see in movies, confined to bed with a wasting disease.
‘Sure.’ I glance over towards the dirty pots still piled in the sink.
She gratefully turns back to her programme, believing she’s kept her eyes off the screen long enough to show motherly concern.
‘Marilyn’s dead.’
As I say it, I find it’s hard to move. Like I’m dead inside. Like I’m empty, just a shell.
She laughs lightly. I’m angry, till I realise she’s amused by something Roy Rodgers has just said to Dale Evans.
Is that another new show? They just keep on coming out with them, don’t they?
‘I know,’ she replies. ‘Such a shame. Such a beautiful woman as well.’
Her eyes are still locked on Roy and Dale, the only emotion she’s capable of showing at the moment being one of mild amusement.
‘You knew?’
‘It was on TV.’
Figures. She probably cried then, when it was on TV – the emotions she was supposed to feel clearly set out for her by the tearful presenter.
I suppose I shouldn’t be so surprised she knew, what with her sitting in front of the TV all night.
But usually, see, any news item is too much of a reminder of the real world for her to stay and watch when she can use the time to slope off and do her ‘necessaries’. Best do that when there’s no danger of missing anything important, eh?
‘They’re saying it’s suicide Mom.’ I’m sure I sound like I don’t believe it.
‘A drug overdose,’ she agrees without looking up. ‘They’ll find out soon enough it’s all a mistake.’
‘Mistake?’
There’s an awful lot of hope contained in that one word.
My head whirls with all the things the word ‘mistake’ could mean under the circumstances.
It’s all been a mistake, and Marilyn isn’t dead after all?
‘All this about her being suicidal. She liked it, all this thing with people rushing around after her. She liked the thought of all these people caring enough to “rescue her”.’
Mom’s talking now because an advert’s popped up on screen. An old one, for the Studebaker. Its big new feature – an oval wheel, for better leg clearance.
‘Miss Monroe knew more about how many pills it took to get to sleep better than anybody down the drugstore. Sure, she’d take a high dose; get all confused, and speak like she was drunk. But she weren’t ever in any real danger, no sir. Never in no real danger. People’d overreact, calling a doctor. Or she’d call somebody herself. She liked that, the attention, is all. And don’t our Dr Greenson just love that, eh? Trying her out all the time with other drugs. Taking her money for making her feel bad ’bout herself.’
Mom finally looks up from the TV, the mention of Dr Greenson having roused her.
‘All these here doctors, not one of ’em did the poor girl any good at all, you ask me. What they’d ever do for her, ’cept try take control of her life? Arguing with her directors, putting her on drugs whenever she was filming; confusing the poor girl and making her even more as somebody you couldn’t rely on turning up on time.’
I can see my brief time with Mom is coming to an end. Even the adverts are pulling on her attention; ‘Admit it Mary, you're fascinated by Glade!’
It’s a pity the anger Mom has for Dr Greenson couldn’t have been more usefully poured out on Pop at a time when it would have done some good.
Sure, the bile on Pop floods forth every now and again, no messing. But that’s now he’s no longer around.
What I want to know is, where the damnheck was all that fury when he was around? When she just used to cower whenever he came home, flinching as soon as he moved or spoke?
See, I may not be too hot on remembering if I went running around flicking back by little red hat or not. But I sure as hell can recall the way Pop used to knock her around.
You don’t forget things like that, oh no.
Pop would have a hard day at work, and he’d take it out on Mom.
Pop would lose money on a horse, and he’d take it out on Mom.
Pop would have had harsh words with a friend, and he’d take it out on Mom.
Pop would have enjoyed himself all night down the bar, and he’d take it out on Mom.
Sure, when all that was happening, I’d have preferred to be anywhere. Riding the range. Herding up those dang critters. Up on the moon.
�
��You should have seen the Beverly Hillbillies,’ Mom says with a slight chuckle, like I care.
Another new show. Mom thinks she can recognise some of the places they pass through. Yeah, like we visit them all the time, those sort of places.
I jump as I hear a police siren, spinning around to look out the window. The ragged, chequered curtains are drawn.
The siren’s coming from the TV.
Remember not to miss Car 54, Where Are You?
Naked City. The Untouchables. Somehow, I think these programmes are much closer to reality.
Much closer than I’d ever believed.
*
Chapter 6
The sedan is waiting for me, parked at the roadside.
They’ve drawn it up just beyond a clump of roadside plants, so I wouldn’t see it until it was too late to turn back.
Smart.
They knew I wouldn’t be heading to school. They knew I’d head for Marilyn’s, even though she won’t be there anymore.
The car’s black. It’s sparkling, like it’s pretty new. The rear door glints as it springs open.
I keep on walking towards it. Too late to run. No point.
The jerk who spoke to me yesterday steps out.
Hair cut like he’s a Marine recruit, just a couple of weeks after his Sergeant Major ordered it all to be shaved off. Norm’s welcome mat shaved within an eighth of an inch of its life. Face like a General Ordinance folding shovel, all chin and flat nose.
‘Jack.’
I nod as I keep on walking, as if he’s just offering a polite, morning greeting.
‘Jack, shouldn’t you be at school?’
‘Nah,’ I say, leaving it at that, guessing he’s not really interested in whether I’m a star pupil or not.
He’s heading towards me, cutting me off. His hand up; should have the word ‘Halt’ written across it.
It’s not quite the same sedan as the one that tried to run me over.
There’s something about it I can’t quite place that tells me it’s not the one.
The hood a slightly different shape, slightly more bulbous.
The fender more exaggerated, like the makers figured their drivers would be more accident-prone.
The sun’s shining off the windshield, so I can’t make out the driver.
Maybe he’s the guy I saw at Marilyn’s. Maybe not.
Some of these jerks look like they’ve rolled off a conveyor belt.
Let me tell you about these guys, the one’s I saw hanging round Lawford’s house the time the President came to call.
Boasting about the size and power of their guns like kids talk about my pop beating up your pop. (Not the sort of thing I could ever get involved in at school. But like I cared.)
They’d talk like I wasn’t there, as dumb and as unimportant as the shrubs I pretended to be clipping.
Till one says, ‘Hey kid – ‘I’d take a bullet for the President. Would you do that son?’
No way, I wanted to say. Only a dumb ass jerk would take a bullet for someone else. Even the President.
‘Suppose I would,’ I’d said, playing him along, ‘for the President. If it was my job.’
He’d actually made an attempt at a smile as I’d said that.
Like I’d confirmed he was a hero, doing a good job, or something.
Dumb ass job, you ask me; thinking someone’s life’s more important than yours. Just so’s you can draw your wage check and pension.
‘One of your cars tried to run me over,’ I say as me and the agent confront each other alongside the black sedan.
‘How’d you know it was one of our cars?’
I note he’s not actually surprised someone tried to kill me. He’s just concerned I’m fingering him and his friends for the attempt.
‘Same colour. Same shape, just abouts.’
He takes a quick glance at the car.
‘Plenty of black sedans around Jack. Plenty of cars that shape. If anybody I knew had tried to kill you and here I find you still running around, I’d want to know why they’d failed. Know what I’m saying?’
‘That you ain’t responsible?’
‘You’re a bright kid after all, Jack. Way I see it Jack, I reckon it was just some hothead giving you a warning. Putting the frighteners on you. See, when I put my report in, saying as how you believe an agent may have been at Miss Monroe’s, all it takes is some new, young wannabe who wants to make a name for himself to overreact, got me? He don’t know how to play it cool yet. He’s worried that what you’re saying could get out into the public domain, provide ammunition for those who enjoy shooting us down. Know where I’m going with this one Jack? People out there who like making political mischief, just for their own gain. Even if that means weakening America.’
‘So you want me to lie?’
‘So I want you to tell the truth. Anybody starts asking, that limey Lawford was there that night, like we agreed.’
‘That what we agreed?’
‘That’s what everyone agrees happened kid. I’ve checked, got all my times right.’
He pulls out a small notepad, refers to it.
‘See, Lawford’s round there when you call, just after eleven-’
‘Before ten. Nine forty; you said that in your own notes yesterday.’
‘I checked again kid. Seems like we were both misled. Lawford was there after eleven. That’s when you must’ve called.’
‘Ten.’
‘You gotta watch kid? Cartier is it? Never loses a second?’
‘I ain’t got a watch.’
‘That’s the way I figured it. So, come eleven, Lawford and Pat Newcomb, Miss Monroe’s press agent, are there. Like I said, it was the limey actor, Lawford, who answered the door.’
‘How come you got the times so wrong yourself first time around? Ain’t you got a watch neither.’
‘I’ve got a watch boy, works like the finest clockwork. The time I’d got off some hick policeman, who probably couldn’t understand the limey’s accent.’
‘Limeys call “eleven” “ten”, do they?’
‘They sorta rhyme kid, said a certain way. Policeman with his cap forced on way too low over his ears – he’d mishear it, get what I’m saying? What you don’t seem to be hearing right, kid, is that I’m trying to help you. See, how much of a jerk are you gonna look when everybody else comes out with a different story to you? Now I’m seeing you ain’t wanting to face up to the fact Miss Monroe committed suicide, but that’s the way it is kid. And that’s the way everyone but you sees it.’
‘My Mom don’t see it that way.’
‘How come that don’t surprise me kid? Madness runs in the family, yeah? Way I hear it, too, old Miss Monroe’s mom and pop could have passed on a great deal more than her elegant derriere.’
‘Lots of things I hear said about her just ain’t true.’
‘Well okay Mr No-Watch-Man, get this.’
He took a quick glance at his notes, looked up at me once again, his eyes hard and stern.
About seven forty-five, our Mr Lawford called our Miss Monroe, intending to invite her out to one of his fancy parties. But she sounded drugged, he says, not listening to him at all. Instead she’s shouting, shouting her own name down the phone a few times. Then she said, and I quote–’ he looks at his notes, reads from them – ‘“Say goodbye to Pat, say goodbye to the President, and say goodbye to yourself, because you're a nice guy.”’
He looked at me as if to say ‘enough said?’.
‘You joking me?’ I say. ‘I told you yesterday, she was happy enough when I last seen her just half a-hour afore that! Joe had called, breaking off his engagement. You don’t believe me, but you believe this limey?’
‘And all this is going by the time on your no watch, right?’
‘Fact is, she was happy, not ready to top herself like this Lawford jerk’s making out.’
‘Fact is this “Lawford
jerk” was one of her friends. You go inviting her to any of your parties kid? You the one she’s gonna pour out all her troubles to, right?’
‘Yeah, sometimes.’
‘So you’re saying she did have troubles.’
‘Not what you’re saying, all this suicide sh-’
‘Watch the mouth son.’
‘If the limey’s such a friend, how come he ain’t getting help when he hears Marilyn sounding like she’s gonna pop herself?’
‘He did kid. Thing is, he’s such a friend, our Mr Lawford, that he still goes round at eleven – when you saw him there – to check she’s all right, remember?’
‘So, was she? Was she all right? If she’s suicidal, how come this limey and her best friend, Pat, ain’t sticking around?’
‘So remind me again what you do up that there house, boy. You a psychiatrist? No, wait, that’s Dr Greenson’s job now ain’t it?’
He makes out he’s having to check through his notes again to get his facts right.
‘That’s right,’ he says, like he’s just read it, ‘you’re the odd job boy. And it’s the odd job boy who’s making out Miss Monroe wasn’t suicidal that night, yeah?
‘Yeah, that’s right.’
‘Like she comes and tells everything to the boy who picks up litter in her garden, right?’
I shrug, smile. I can see the trap coming.
‘She wasn’t the worrier everyone makes her out to be,’ I say rather than answering him. ‘Like, she was once working on this movie, right? A real simple line, like, “It’s me, Honey.” And she kept on getting it wrong. Fifty times she gets it wrong. “Don’t worry about it,” the director says. “Don’t worry about what?” she says.’
He doesn’t say anything at first. He just looks at me, like he’s wondering whether to slap me again or not.
‘There’s gonna be a funeral for her soon son,’ he says at last. ‘My advice – stay away.’
*
Chapter 7
I’m just one amongst what seems like thousands hanging around on the streets.
There are police everywhere, stopping them all getting too close.
So who the damnheck’s gonna see me here?
All week, everywhere I’ve gone, I’ve heard Neil Sedaka singing; Breaking Up Is Hard To Do.
After the autopsy, Marilyn’s mom ain’t around to take care of the body, natch.
As all the papers are pointing out, she’s in a sanatorium. And like the man said, it can be passed on, that sorta thing.
Joe’s come to the rescue once again. Big hearted Joe.
He’s claimed the body. Arranged what he’d hoped would be a small, quiet funeral.