For Christmas 1942, one of Bucky’s cousins in the army sent him a Japanese skull “souvenir” from an Aleutian island called Kiska. What a surprise! Unwrapping the package, lifting the skull in both hands like a basketball, Bucky whistled a long low whistle and called to Norma Jeane in the next room to come look. Norma Jeane hurried into the kitchen and looked. And almost fainted. What was that ugly thing? A head? A human head? A smoothly bald, hairless, and skinless human head? “It’s a Jap skull. It’s OK,” Bucky said. A boyish flush colored Bucky’s face. He poked his fingers into the enormous eye sockets. The nose hole, too, seemed abnormally large and jagged. Three or four discolored teeth remained in the upper jaw, but the lower jaw was missing altogether. Thrilled and envious, Bucky said several times, “Jesus! Trev’s sure made an end run around ol’ Bucky.” Norma Jeane smiled her bright, blank smile like one who hasn’t caught on to a joke or doesn’t wish to acknowledge she’s caught on, like those nasty jokes the Pirigs and their friends would tell to make her blush, and she hadn’t blushed. She could see how excited her husband was and wasn’t about to disturb his mood.
“Ol’ Hirohito” was placed prominently on top of the RCA Victor console radio in the living room. Bucky seemed as proud of it as if he’d captured it, in the Aleutian Islands, himself.
5
She meant to be perfect. He deserved nothing less.
And he had such high standards! And a sharp eye.
Each morning thoroughly cleaning the apartment in Verdugo Gardens. Only three not-very-spacious rooms and a bathroom large enough to contain a tub, a sink, a toilet, and all these spaces entrusted to her she cleaned with the concentration and fervor of a religious mendicant. It did not echo ironically in her ears that No wife of Bucky Glazer’s is going to work. Ever. She understood that a woman’s work inside the home is not work but sacred privilege and duty. “The home” sanctified any expenditure of spirit or effort. It was a frequently voiced conviction of the Glazers, in some unclear way allied with their Christian ardor, that no woman, especially no married woman, should work outside “the home.” Even during the Depression when some of the family (Bucky was vague about details, embarrassed and ashamed, and Norma Jeane would not have wished to inquire) lived in a trailer and a tent somewhere in the San Fernando Valley, even then only male members of the family “worked,” though these included children, no doubt Bucky himself, younger than ten.
A matter of pride, male pride, that Glazer women didn’t work outside “the home.” Innocently Norma Jeane inquired, “But now it’s wartime, isn’t that different?” Her question hovered in the air, unheard.
No wife of mine. Ever!
To be the object of male desire is to know I exist! The expression of the eyes. Hardening of the cock. Though worthless, you’re wanted.
Though your mother didn’t want you, yet you are wanted.
Though your father didn’t want you, yet you are wanted.
The fundamental truth of my life whether in fact it was truth or a burlesque of truth: when a man wants you, you’re safe.
More vividly than she recalled her young husband’s heated presence in their apartment, Norma Jeane would one day recall the long, deeply gratifying morning hours stretching into early afternoon in that place of shaded, near-secret seclusion, not quiet (for Verdugo Gardens was a noisy place, like a barracks, children shouting outside, babies crying, radios turned up higher than Norma Jeane’s own): the rhythmic, repetitive, hypnotic pleasures of housework. How swiftly the animal brain takes to the instrument at hand: carpet sweeper, broom, mop, scouring pad. (The young Glazers couldn’t yet afford a vacuum cleaner. But that would come soon, Bucky promised!) In the living room there was a single rectangular rug measuring about six feet by eight, royal blue, a remnant purchased for $8.98, and over this rug Norma Jeane ran the carpet sweeper in a trance of oblivion. A single shred of lint was exciting: now it was there, a blemish; now it was gone! Norma Jeane smiled. Perhaps she recalled Gladys in a mellow mood, a vague almost-loving mood, performing one or another task (not housework), drugged yet more than drugged, for Norma Jeane understood now that her mother’s brain generated its own unique and purposeful chemistry. To be so utterly absorbed in the moment at hand. To become one with the action you are performing. Whatever this is: this wonder that is before me pushing the heavy carpet sweeper back and forth, back and forth. And then in the bedroom, a yet-smaller rug, oval in shape. Singing with the radio, a popular Los Angeles station. Her voice was soft, feathery, off-key, content. She recalled Jess Flynn’s lessons and smiled to think of Gladys’s grandiose hopes for her, Norma Jeane, to sing! That was funny, like piano lessons from Clive Pearce. The poor man wincing and trying to smile as Norma Jeane played, or tried to play. She felt a wave of shame for her more recent baffling attempt at the high school to audition for a role in a student play—what was it?—Our Town. It was harder to smile at that memory. The eyes of ridicule, the voice of a teacher’s confident authority. I doubt that Mr. Thornton Wilder would see it that way. The man was right, of course! Now she loved the carpet sweeper, which was a wedding gift from one of Bucky’s aunts. And she’d been given a wooden-handled mop with a wringer and a green plastic bucket, another useful present from a Glazer relative. These instruments to aid in her task of becoming perfect. She mopped and polished the badly scuffed linoleum floor of the kitchen, and she mopped and polished the faded linoleum floor of the bathroom. With her Dutch Boy scouring pads she deftly, fanatically, scoured sinks, counters, tub, and toilet. Some of these would never be clean, not even near-clean. Stained by previous tenants beyond reclamation. Briskly then she changed bedclothes, “airing out” the mattress, the pillows. Each week she hauled laundry to a Laundromat nearby. She returned with the damp clothes to hang on a line outside the apartment. She loved ironing, mending. Bucky was “hard on his clothes,” as Bess Glazer gravely warned her daughter-in-law, and this challenge Norma Jeane was determined to meet with unflagging zeal and optimism, mending socks, shirts, trousers, underwear. In high school she’d learned to knit for British War Relief and now, when she had time, she was knitting a surprise for her husband, a hunter-green pullover sweater from a pattern Mrs. Glazer had given her. (This sweater Norma Jeane would never complete, for she kept ripping out what she’d done, dissatisfied with the way it looked.)
So long as Bucky was out of the apartment, Norma Jeane draped one of her scarfs over the Japanese skull on the radio. Shortly before he was due home, she’d remove it. “What’s under here?”—so Harriet one day inquired, lifting the scarf before Norma Jeane could warn her. Harriet’s pug nose crinkled when she saw it. But she only let the scarf fall back into place. “Oh, Christ. One of those.”
More lovingly, Norma Jeane dusted the framed photographs and snapshots on display in the living room. Most of these were wedding photos, glossy and radiantly colored, in brass frames. Married less than a year, and already Bucky and Norma Jeane had accumulated many happy memories. A sign of good things to come? Norma Jeane had been struck by the numerous family photos in the Glazers’ house, displayed proudly on virtually every suitable surface. Great-great-grandparents of Bucky’s, and so many babies! Norma Jeane was enchanted to see how you could trace Bucky from his first appearance as a chubby gape-mouthed baby in youthful Bess Glazer’s arms, in 1921, to the husky young bull of a man he was in 1942. What proof that Bucky Glazer existed and was cherished! She recalled from her infrequent visits to the homes of Van Nuys High School classmates how these families, too, proudly displayed images of themselves on tables, on pianos, on windowsills and walls. Even Elsie Pirig had a few select photos of the Pirigs’ younger, sunnier selves. It was a shock to realize that only Gladys had never had any family photos framed and displayed, except that of the dark-haired man she’d claimed was Norma Jeane’s father.
Norma Jeane laughed, lightly. Probably the photo had been a publicity still from The Studio. No one Gladys had even known well.
“Why should I care? I don’t.”
Now sh
e was married, Norma Jeane rarely thought about her lost father or the Dark Prince. Rarely did she think about Gladys, except as one might think of any relative in chronic ill health. What was the need?
There were a dozen framed photos. Several were beach scenes, Bucky and Norma Jeane in their swimsuits, arms around each other’s waist; Bucky and Norma Jeane with some of Bucky’s friends at a barbecue; Bucky and Norma Jeane posed lounging against the grille of Bucky’s newly purchased 1938 Packard. But it was the wedding photos that most fascinated Norma Jeane. That radiant girl bride in the white satin dress with the dazzling smile, the bridegroom in his formal jacket and bow tie, hair slicked back from his forehead, profile handsome as Jackie Coogan’s. Everyone had marveled at how attractive the young couple was and how much in love they were. Even the minister had wiped at his eyes. Yet how scared I was. And none of it shows. In a daze Norma Jeane had been led up the aisle by a friend of the Glazer family (since Warren Pirig refused to attend the wedding), blood beating in her ears and a sick sensation in the pit of her belly. At the altar she swayed in high heels that pinched (a half size too small but a bargain at the secondhand shop), staring with her sweet dimpled smile at the minister of the Church of Christ intoning his rote words in a nasal voice, and it came to her that Groucho Marx would have played this scene with more pizzazz, wriggling his ridiculous fake eyebrows and mustache. Do you, Norma Jeane, take this man . . . ? She’d had no idea what the question meant. Turning then, or made to turn, for probably Bucky had nudged her, she saw Bucky Glazer beside her like an accomplice in crime, nervously licking his lips, and she managed to answer the minister’s question in a whisper, I-I do, and Bucky answered more forcibly, in a voice loud enough to be heard through the church, I sure do! There was some fumbling then with the wedding band but it fitted Norma Jeane’s icy finger perfectly, and Mrs. Glazer with her customary foresight had made sure that Norma Jeane’s engagement ring had been shifted to her right hand, so that part of the ceremony went smoothly. So scared. I wanted to run away. But where?
Another favorite photo showed the bride and groom cutting into their three-tiered wedding cake. This was at the wedding party, at a Beverly Hills restaurant. Bucky’s big capable hand over Norma Jeane’s slender fingers on the long-bladed knife and both young people smiling broadly into the camera’s flash. By this time, Norma Jeane had had her first glass or two of champagne and Bucky’d had both champagne and ale. There was a photo of the newlyweds dancing, and there was a photo of Bucky’s Packard festooned with crepe-paper garlands and JUST MARRIED signs, the newlyweds waving goodbye. These photos and others, Norma Jeane had sent off to Gladys at the state hospital at Norwalk. She’d included a chatty, cheerful note on floral stationery:
We were all very sorry you could not attend my wedding, Mother. But of course everyone understood. It was the most wonderful, wonderful day of my life.
Gladys hadn’t answered, but Norma Jeane hadn’t expected an answer. “Why should I care? I don’t.”
She’d never had champagne before that day. As a Christian Scientist she didn’t approve of drinking but a wedding’s a special occasion, isn’t it? How delicious the champagne, how magical the fizzy sensation in her nose, but she hadn’t liked the light-headedness that followed, the giddy giggling and lack of control. Bucky got drunk on champagne, beer, and tequila and vomited so suddenly while they were dancing, he stained the skirt of the beautiful white satin wedding dress. Fortunately, Norma Jeane was planning to change out of the dress soon anyway, before she and Bucky left for their honeymoon hotel up the coast at Morro Beach. Hurriedly Mrs. Glazer wetted napkins and wiped away most of the smelly stain. Scolding, “Bucky! Shame on you. This is Lorraine’s dress.” Bucky was boyishly repentant and forgiven. The party continued. The hired band continued to play, loudly. Norma Jeane, now shoeless, was dancing with her husband another time. “Don’t Get Around Much Anymore”—“This Can’t Be Love”—“The Girl That I Marry.” Sliding on the dance floor, careening into other couples, squealing with laughter. Cameras flashed. There was a swirl of confetti, balloons, and rice. Some of Bucky’s high school friends were tossing around water-filled balloons, and Bucky’s shirtfront got soaked. Strawberry shortcake was served, with whipped cream. Somehow, Bucky dropped a spoonful of syrupy strawberries on the flared skirt of the white linen dress into which Norma Jeane had just changed. “Bucky, for shame.” Mrs. Glazer was scandalized but everyone else (including the newlyweds) laughed. There was more dancing. A heated, festive confluence of smells. “Tea for Two”—“In the Shade of the Old Apple Tree”—“Begin the Beguine.” Everyone clapped to see Bucky Glazer, face gleaming like a car hubcap, attempt the tango! Sorry you could not attend my wedding. Do you think I give a damn?—I don’t. Bucky and his older brother, Joe, were laughing together. Elsie Pirig in acid-green taffeta, her lipstick smeared, was squeezing Norma Jeane’s hand in farewell and extracting from her the promise that she’d telephone sometime the next day and that she and Bucky would drive over to visit Elsie as soon as they returned from their four-day honeymoon. Norma Jeane was asking again why Warren hadn’t come to the wedding, though Elsie had told her it was for business reasons—“He sends his love, sweetie. We’re gonna miss you, you know.” Elsie, too, was in her stocking feet, shorter than Norma Jeane by two inches. Suddenly she leaned forward to kiss Norma Jeane on the lips, fiercely. Norma Jeane had never been kissed like this before by any woman. She was pleading. “Aunt Elsie, I could come home with you tonight. Just one more night. I could tell Bucky I didn’t pack all my things, OK? Oh, please.” Elsie laughed as if this was quite a joke, pushing Norma Jeane away in the direction of her bridegroom. It was time for the newlyweds to drive off to their honeymoon hotel. Bucky wasn’t laughing with Joe but arguing. Joe was trying to take Bucky’s car keys from him and Bucky was saying, “I can drive—hell, I’m a married man!”
The drive up the coast was a little scary. Ocean fog drifting over the highway, and the Packard drifting over the center line. Norma Jeane was clear-headed now and cuddled with her head against Bucky’s shoulder to make sure she could grab the steering wheel if necessary.
At the Loch Raven Motor Court above the fog-shrouded ocean, now at dusk, Norma Jeane helped Bucky out of the gaily decorated Packard and they slipped and slid and nearly fell together, in their good clothes, in the cinder drive. The cabin smelled of insect spray and there were daddy longlegs scurrying across the bedspread. “Hell, these’re harmless,” Bucky said affably, banging at them with a fist. “It’s scorpions that’ll kill you. Brown r’cluse spiders. Bite you in the ass, you’re bit.” He laughed loudly. He needed to use the bathroom. Her arm securely around his waist, Norma Jeane led him to the toilet. She was so embarrassed. The first sight of her husband’s penis, which until now she’d only felt, nudged or pressed or rubbing against her, was startling to her, engorged with urine, sizzling and steaming into the toilet bowl. Norma Jeane shut her eyes. Only Mind is real. God is love. Love is the power of healing. Shortly afterward, this same penis was being nudged into Norma Jeane, into the tight slash of an opening between her thighs. Bucky was alternately methodical and frenetic. Of course Norma Jeane had been prepared for this at least in theory, and in fact the pain wasn’t much worse than her usual menstrual cramps, just as Elsie Pirig predicted. Except it was sharper, like a screwdriver. Again she shut her eyes. Only Mind is real. God is love. Love is the power of healing. There was some bleeding onto the wadded toilet paper Norma Jeane had fastidiously placed beneath them, but it was bright fresh blood, not the darker and smellier kind. If only she could have a bath! Soak in a hot soothing bath! But Bucky was impatient, Bucky wanted to try again. He had a wilted-looking condom he kept dropping, cursing, “God damn,” his face swollen red like a child’s balloon blown near to bursting. Norma Jeane was too embarrassed to help him with the condom, this was only just her wedding night and she couldn’t stop trembling and shivering and it was disorienting to her—nothing at all like what she’d expected—that she and Bucky were s
o awkward with each other’s nakedness. Why, it was nothing like her nakedness in the mirror. It was nothing like any nakedness she’d expected. It was clumsy, skin-smacking, sweaty. It was crowded. Like there were more people than just her and Bucky in this bed. All the years she’d been thrilled, seeing her Magic Friend in the mirror, smiling and winking at herself and moving her body to imagined music like Ginger Rogers, except she didn’t need any dance partner in order to dance and be happy. But it was different now. It was all happening too quickly. She couldn’t see herself to know what was going on. Oh, she wished it was over so she could cuddle in her husband’s arms and sleep, sleep, sleep, and maybe dream of her wedding day and of him. “Honey, can you help me? Please.” Bucky was kissing her repeatedly, grinding his teeth against hers as if he had a point to prove in an argument. Somewhere close by, waves were breaking on the beach like applause with a jeering edge. “Jesus, honey, I love you. You’re so sweet, you’re so good, you’re so beautiful. C’mon!” The bed rocked. The lumpy mattress listed and began to skid dangerously to one side. Fresh toilet paper was needed to slip beneath them, but Bucky wasn’t paying attention. Norma Jeane squealed and tried to laugh, but Bucky wasn’t in a laughing mood. One of the last pieces of advice Elsie Pirig had given Norma Jeane was All you need to do, really, is stay out of their way. Norma Jeane had said that didn’t sound very romantic and Elsie snapped back Who said it was? Yet now Norma Jeane was beginning to understand. There was a strange impersonality about Bucky’s urgent lovemaking, it wasn’t anything like their avid, heated, protracted “necking” and “petting” of the past month. Between Norma Jeane’s legs there was a searing-burning sensation, there were smears of blood on Bucky’s thighs; you’d have thought this was enough for the night but Bucky was determined. He’d managed again to thrust himself into the slash between her thighs, Trojan or not, a little deeper than the first time, and now he was jiggling the bed and moaning and suddenly he reared up like a horse shot in mid-gallop. His face crumpled, his eyes rolled white in their sockets. A whimpering-whinnying sound escaped him—“Je-sus.”
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