by Adam Braver
Up the hill, the shadow moves faster, a slow avalanche. She can still see Joe, and she doesn’t know if he’s there to protect her or just to shake his head in disappointment and shame. The hill keeps getting darker. She can barely make him out. Why is he letting the moon shadow wash over him? Can’t he tell? She raises her hands, trying to signal him, mouthing, Move down. Move down. I need you.
To protect themselves from predators, some insects rely on hiding, camouflaging themselves within their habitat, heads down and bodies still, counting on not being seen. Others, however, protect themselves through mimicry, evolving in a way that allows them to take on the characteristics of their predators. The insect survives because the hunter often will move right past its prey, unaware it sees anything other than its own kind.
With Joe finally lost in darkness, she pushes herself away from the pole and walks out of the pool area in a slow shuffle, one foot barely in front of the other, scraping out a rhythm that seems familiar, her limbs heavier, her hair more tousled, and the gravel boring into her feet. She’s sure she hears gruff voices bellowing off Sinatra’s porch, unaware, and seemingly uncaring, that she’s anywhere near.
There is no safety. Booby traps are around every corner. But they’re without identifiable form, only the abstract shapes of a publicized lawsuit or a series of unseen threats or a lifesaving plan gone wrong. All she can do is go back to her cabin, polish off the warm champagne left on top of the wicker desk, light a candle and take some pills, spread out on her bed, and hide under the protection of night.
11:50 PM
Frank opens her door without knocking, dangling her shoes like a keepsake. The black heels swing past each other, clacking. He’s still dressed in the clothes from his show—slim black pants, a white button-down, and a matching coat. Only the fedora has been left behind. He looks a little shiny all over, his eyes watering and his skin gleaming in the glow of a candle she’s lit. Running a hand through his hair, swaying, he looks down at her in the bed. He pinches the edge of a poppy plant in the water-glass bouquet. The petal falls off and to the floor. He kicks it toward the bed.
She’s on her back atop the comforter. Still dressed. Bare feet. The flame from the nearly burnt-out candle reflects on her face. Champagne bottles lie on their sides on the floor; the pill containers are lined along the desk, two opened, their white lids missing. Looking at him she says, “Frank,” then closes her eyes with a half smile.
He sits at the end of the bed, placing the shoes beside him. His knees point outward. Taking hold of her left ankle, he slowly lifts her foot up onto his lap. He slips the corresponding shoe onto her foot. “At last I’ve found my princess,” he says. “And boy did she do a number on my closet.”
She says nothing.
Frank scoots up the bed. He stops only to smooth the wrinkles from his pants. Her other shoe falls to the floor, landing on its side. He folds a pillow under his neck, then puts an arm around her. “I’d at least figured on you joining me for a drink after the show,” he says, wiggling beside her. “Was I that bad?”
“You, Frank, were wonderful. As always.”
“Then what gives? Why did you let me down?”
And she wants to talk, but she can hardly speak more than a few words at a time before her mind shifts and forgets where it’s going. Anger is churning inside, and she’s not even sure what it’s directed at, other than that she can’t stop being in a world she doesn’t want to be in. What she does manage to tell Frank is that she came into this weekend planning to go up, up, up, but that the things he claimed wouldn’t be there were there, and they snared her when no one was looking, and now she’s going down, down, down. And he says, “Things I claimed? When no one was looking? What the hell are you talking about?” And she says, “Not your show, Frank. Your wonderful show. Time should’ve stopped there.” And he sits upright, wresting his arm back from around her neck, the pillow tumbling to the floor.
“Now don’t get loony on me,” he says.
And that makes her smile. Loony. His crisp Jersey accent almost makes it sound charming.
How quickly he can turn. Through his clenched jaw his voice sounds on edge. “You just have no idea what a mess you are, do you?”
“No.” She shakes her head. Then she nods. “Well, sort of.”
He tells her she best snap out of it quick, because if she’s like this tomorrow, then he’s shipping her back, and she can take that yapping Pat Lawford with her. He’s not running a halfway house for mental breakdowns, he says. This is a place to relax and enjoy yourself, no matter who you are. For all his friends. A community. “Morning,” he declares. “Figure it out by morning. Figure out how the Marilyn I invited can be back here and present.” He leans over and blows out the candle. It seems only her face has gone dark, like a reverse spotlight. And then he exits the room, leaving it almost as it was when he came in, except that she has one shoe on her foot, the other on the floor, the bouquet is slightly more wilted, and the candle is snuffed out.
“Morning,” he calls back through the closed door.
“Morning,” she whispers. And as she hears his steps pound off the porch, she rolls over onto her side and hugs a pillow, chanting to herself, “Tomorrow is tomorrow is tomorrow is tomorrow.”
With Frank gone, the main objective is to sleep. “Snap out of it” by morning. Sometimes the yellow warning sign tells her not to stand too close to the edge. Other times it tells her to beware of falling rocks. That’s why the doctors and nurses give out pills. To help avoid that step that will put you in harm’s way. A security barrier away from the edge and a protective umbrella against any falling rocks. It’s a matter of safety. Didn’t the nurses at Norwalk often say that to her almost apologetically, after forcing a regimen of pills on her mother?
* Decadron phosphate
* Chloral hydrate
* Rx 80521
* Rx 80522
* Rx 13525
* Rx 13526
* Seconal
No one has ever been able to tell her which are the best meds for her. Dr. Engleberg has barely even entertained the question when she’s asked. He’s told her she’s in over her head, and she says, “I just think you’re trying to control me,” and he laughs and says, “You always make me laugh. No matter what.” And she says, “No, really,” but he cuts her off, “No, really. When you get a medical degree, then we can have the debate.” “Now,” she says, “you’re making me laugh.” It’s a regular conversation, one that always ends with her false acquiescence. They both know she keeps other kinds of downers, a stash that’s picked up regularly for her in Tijuana. It’s just a matter of trying to remember which is which. She can never keep the colors straight.
She pushes a strand of hair behind her ear, then drops down a mystery pill (Rx 13525), chasing it with champagne.
Here’s to snapping out of it.
12:11 AM
The zipper on her dress is undone. She’s on her stomach, propped up by an elbow. The sconces are dimmed, with just a trace of moonlight seeping through the blinds. A thin sheet of air blows over her back, the exposed skin chilled and goose-bumped. The telephone line stretches to the center of the bed, barely making it past the mound of pillows—a taut string vibrating just above the sheets.
She dials out of instinct. It’s probably the booze and her nerves, but the ringing sounds like a series of infinite spirals, a mechanical purr that abruptly stops with hello. She recognizes the voice, almost as familiar as her own. She can’t place it, though she can connect it to the Actors Studio. It’s as though her short-term-memory fuse has blown. “Who is this?” Marilyn asks.
“You’re the one who called.”
“I know I called. But . . .”
“Jeannie,” the voice answers suspiciously.
“Jeannie who?”
“Is that you, Marilyn?”
“Do you mean Jeannie Carmen?”
“Jesus, Marilyn. It’s Jeannie.”
“What are you doing now, Jeannie?�
� Marilyn says, her voice deepening a little. It doesn’t sound like Jeannie.
“It’s not a good time . . . You know what I mean . . . ? Not a good time to . . . You know what I mean, right? And aren’t you in Lake Tahoe? That’s what someone said.”
She doesn’t say anything. She takes her glass off the nightstand and sips the last of the champagne.
“Marilyn . . . ? Still there, Marilyn?”
“Yes. Marilyn’s still here.”
“Sweetheart, can we talk in the morning? Is that all right?”
“I’m just so tired, Jeannie. Can’t get to sleep. Almost too tired to get to sleep, if that’s possible . . . You see, I just can’t tell these pills apart, and the labels don’t mean anything . . . Nothing here makes sense, and I’m just wondering if you’d be able to tell . . .?”
Jeannie laughs. It almost steams out of the phone. “Look, I can barely . . .”
“But let me describe them.”
“Marilyn, it’s the middle of the night. And it sounds as though maybe you’ve already had enough. Know what I mean? I’m a little bit, you know . . . Plus I’ve got a small crowd here, and, on top of that, it’s kind of hard to hear.”
“I can tell you the colors, maybe. Try to say them loud and quick. I just want to find the right one is all. I’m just so exhausted. And I want to find the right one that’ll work.”
Jeannie’s breathing is suddenly really loud. Men and women break into laughter behind her. It sounds so far away through the receiver. Again, Jeannie asks, “Marilyn? Listen. I want you to put yourself to sleep right quick, and do it without any pills, and then come morning you can let Norma Jeane come out to play. Put the floozy to bed, and get out the horn-rims, and bring out all of Norma Jeane’s talk-talk-talk, like we’re in New York again, where the smarts are, and where all the rest of those LA shits can go to . . . You know what I’m saying. Marilyn needs to go to sleep now. Send out Norma Jeane.”
“Jeannie, if you could help me tell them apart, is all.”
“Honey, it would take me a week alone just to unravel the phone cord. I’m in no shape, my dear, to match colors long distance. Tonight is not the night. Just let yourself fall asleep now.”
“Please, Jeannie.”
“Oh, Nor-ma,” she calls into the phone with a prairie cadence. “Nor-ma Jeane. Come out, come out, wherever you are.”
12:25 AM
The phone in cabin three has been off the hook for an unusually long time. The hotel operator notices it while plugging a line in through the manual exchange—a little glowing jack, flickering like a pesky insect. She has the feeling it’s been there for a while; she just didn’t pay attention while taking so many calls throughout the evening. It’s a feeling. She knows it’s not her job to judge or to presume what goes on in the guests’ rooms, but her instinct tells her to let someone know that she thinks something is wrong. It’s a professional ethic. One that trumps matters of privacy.
12:40 AM
Passing clouds partially eclipse the moon. The light in the cabin further fades. She just wants to go to sleep. She reaches out over the edge of the bed and grips the first bottle she touches. It’s like Braille. She fingers out a single capsule. It might be blue. It could be green. She holds the capsule above her mouth and pricks a small hole in the end of it with a safety pin. Sticking out her tongue in slow motion, she catches the falling powder, swallows, and feels it mix with her bloodstream. She stretches her arms over her head and drops the spent capsule behind the headboard. Empty and clear, it will blend into the green carpet.
12:48 AM
The hotel operator notifies the management about the unusual amount of time the phone has been off the hook in cabin three. They call Mr. Sinatra. He swears, then says it isn’t his problem either, he’s done intervening with her for the night. He has no time for this kind of crap. But then he calms. Thinks on it. A decision’s made to send Peter Lawford to her cabin; he can just give a polite rap on the door, poke his head inside to make sure everything’s okay. She trusts him, Sinatra says. It’s a Hollywood understanding. Who knows? Maybe she’ll be sitting on the bed, the phone crooked between her neck and shoulders waving him off or signaling just a moment. Or she could be asleep, unaware that when she kicked off her shoe, the heel knocked the receiver over, and she’d drifted off without noticing the pulsing tone.
The operator hopes it will be something more. In some respects she’s put her job on the line by sounding the alarm. It’s serious business to risk the privacy of the guests—especially ones who are promised seclusion. The operator’s moral side hopes the phone being off the hook has a simple, innocuous explanation. But in the most private corner of her mind, she holds out for something just horrible enough to give her alarm justification.
1:03 AM
She can barely see straight anymore, and though she’s flat on the bed, she’s balled up, feeling herself in free flight, sinking down. She’s still fully clothed but her evening dress seems to hover above her, humming like some sort of electric coating. Her palms push flat against the mattress to break the fall. She slows a little. Once it’s finally safe to let go of the bed, she’ll work her body out of the dress and kick the garment off, where it will slump to the floor. Then she’ll stretch out across the bed, fully nude and no longer constricted. And then just be. She lets up slightly on her grip, only to plunge further.
1:20 AM
She barely notices him when he bursts through the door.
Her right leg sticks out of the covers, twitching, her foot on the verge of cramping, the toes and the arch contracting. What’s left of the moonlight flows down her thighs, and she swears she can feel it running off her ankles, puddling on the sheets. Her left hand is clenched into a fist. The right holds on to the telephone receiver, cradled against her hip. She glances up, barely able to see straight. Trying to look is like staring into an eclipse.
He stands too large for the room. Pulling at his fingers. The joints popping in little bursts of thunder. Stepping forward, he accidentally kicks a champagne bottle. It rolls under the bed and knocks against a leg. A dull chime.
“Hi,” she says. Her gums stick together, her mouth dry. She drops the phone. It dangles off the bed.
He lets out a sigh, as though relieved to know she’s alive.
Could she look that dead?
Before she knows it his thumbs hook under her armpits. He pulls her up until she’s propped against the headboard. She can feel his breath blowing warm down her back. For his own sake, he tugs the bedsheets up to cover her breasts. “Marilyn,” he finally says. “Can you hear me? I know you’re in there, Marilyn.”
His voice is not just directed at her. It’s surrounding her, pouring in at all the unsuspecting places.
She nods her head in affirmation. But it must not look like much, because he keeps asking if she can hear him. All the while lightly slapping her cheek.
She feels herself sinking again. Being drawn back down into the bed.
Suddenly, water is falling over her, head and torso, slowly bringing her back up to the surface.
She nods. Feels her body. Touches her hips. No longer sinking.
With her eyes beginning to focus, it looks as if it’s Peter Lawford shaking out the last of the ice bucket over her head. Not Joe? It isn’t that she’s had a real reason to believe it’d be Joe. She just sort of expected it would be.
11:10 AM
By late morning the sheets have dried. One stream of light comes between the curtains. The room is already warm. She’s slept through breakfast.
Initially she rolls out of bed as though it’s any other day, stretching her legs and arms and rolling her neck. Her fingers splay toward the ceiling, elongating her spine. Her hips pop, as though they’ve been jammed into their sockets too tightly. And then she sees the room, and she smells the stale stink of last night, which brings everything back, reminding her that her head is throbbing and that her eyeballs might burst.
The physical remnants that the disaste
r left behind:
• The ice bucket on the floor
• Pill bottles turned over on every surface
• A wilted bouquet of wildflowers
• The nub of the candle tilted and lying in a puddle of its own wax
• Bottles and glasses
She walks right to the mirror arched over the bureau, places her sticky palms flat on the dresser top, and leans in to the mirror until her face nearly touches the surface. Her hair is stringy and matted, her eyes puffed, and her skin almost pure white. She huffs a breath against the glass, looking for a billow of fog, just to make sure she’s still alive.
She doesn’t know what will be waiting outside the door, or who will be there, or where the escape holes are.
She slips on a pair of capris, her green Pucci top, and unballs a scarf, tying it over her head. She feels like a primitive in a mask with bug eyes and exaggerated features, meant to ward off marauding sprits and enemies.
This is what failure looks like. How it lives. Like a room on a ward, where your disappointments and fears live among you as taunting reminders, while outside there’s a world that’s festively alive, but which you can’t enter because your disappointments and fears won’t let you out.
12:00 PM
Coming in for her afternoon shift, the hotel operator returns to the front desk. The first thing she does is check the switchboard, to confirm that the line for cabin three is properly hung up. And even if it weren’t she wouldn’t say anything. There’s been no word about what actually happened in the middle of the night. Whether her alarm was warranted. Nobody’s whispered any rumors. There’ve been no leaked details. In fact, she knows that if she pushes a little for information, needles some of her coworkers with vague hints and leading questions, they won’t reply because they won’t know what she’s talking about. Which is precisely why she won’t say anything again, if placed in a similar circumstance.