Blonde

by Joyce Carol Oates

  Still, he took care to preserve this special issue of Swank, March 1945, hiding it in his desk drawer beneath old financial records.

  In Mayer’s Drugs, with no warning, one April morning she would long remember (the eve of the death of Franklin Delano Roosevelt), Elsie heard Irma calling to her excitedly and went to see the new issue of Parade her friend was waving—“It’s her, isn’t it? That girl of yours? The one who got married a couple of years ago? Look!” Elsie stared into the opened magazine. There was Norma Jeane! Her hair had been plaited like Judy Garland’s in The Wizard of Oz and she wore snug corduroy slacks and a powder-blue “hand-knit sweater set” and she was swinging on a country gate, smiling happily; in the background were horses browsing in a pasture. Norma Jeane was very young and very pretty but if you looked closely, as Elsie did, you could see the tension in that bright, broad smile. The girl’s cheeks were dimpled with the strain. Spring in the beautiful San Fernando Valley! For instructions on how to knit this charming sweater set in cotton wool, see p. 89. Elsie was so stunned, she left Mayer’s without paying for the magazine. Drove straight to Mission Hills to see Bess Glazer, without taking time to telephone beforehand. “Bess! Look! Look at this! Did you know about this? See who it is!”—thrusting the copy of Parade into the older woman’s startled face. Bess saw it and frowned; she was surprised, yes, but not very surprised. “Oh, her. Well.” To Elsie’s bewilderment, Bess said nothing more, but led her through the house and into the kitchen, where, out of a drawer beside the stove, she retrieved the December 1944 issue of Stars & Stripes with the feature GIRL DEFENSE WORKERS ON THE HOME FRONT. And there was Norma Jeane—again! Elsie felt as if she’d been kicked in the belly—again. She sank onto a chair staring at Norma Jeane, her own daughter, her girl!—in snug-fitting coveralls, smiling at the camera in a way Norma Jeane had never smiled at anyone, so far as Elsie could recall, in real life. As if whoever it was held that camera was her closest friend. Or maybe it was the camera that was her closest friend. A wave of emotion washed over Elsie: confusion, hurt, shame, pride. Why hadn’t Norma Jeane shared this wonderful news with her? Bess was saying, with her sour-prune look, “Bucky sent this home. He’s proud of it, I guess.” Elsie said, “You mean you’re not?” Bess said huffily, “Proud of such a thing? Of course not. The Glazers think it’s shameful.” Elsie was shaking her head indignantly. “I think it’s wonderful. I’m proud. Norma Jeane’s going to be a model, a movie star! You just wait.” Bess said, “She’s supposed to be my son’s wife. Her wedding vows come first.”

  Elsie didn’t storm out of the house; she stayed, and Bess made coffee, and the women talked and had a good cry over their lost Norma Jeane.

  FOR HIRE

  For the true actor, every role is an opportunity. There are no minor roles.

  —From The Actor’s Handbook

  and the Actor’s Life

  She was Miss Aluminum Products 1945, her first week with the Preene Agency. In a tight-fitting white pleated nylon dress with a dipping neckline, strands of costume pearls and pearl button earrings, white high heels, and elbow-length white gloves, a creamy white gardenia in her “highlighted” shoulder-length hair. A four-day convention in downtown Los Angeles, where she was required to stand for hours on an elevated platform amid a display of gleaming aluminum household products, passing out brochures to interested parties—mainly men. Paid $12 a day with (minimal) meals and carfare included.

  Her second week, she was Miss Paper Products 1945. In a bright pink crepe-paper gown that rustled when she moved and wilted with moisture beneath her arms, and with a gilt crepe-paper crown atop her upswept hair. In a downtown convention hall passing out both brochures and sample paper products: tissues, toilet paper, sanitary pads (in plain brown unmarked wrappers). Paid $10 a day with (minimal) meals and trolley fare included.

  She would be Miss Hospitality at a Surgical Appliances Convention in Santa Monica. Miss Southern California Dairy Products 1945 in a white swimsuit with big black Guernsey-cow spots and high heels. A “showgirl” hostess at the Luxe Arms Hotel opening in Los Angeles. A hostess at Rudy’s Steakhouse opening in Bel Air. In nautical attire—a middy blouse and short skirt, silk stockings and high heels—she was a hostess at the Rolling Hills Yacht Show. In jaunty cowgirl “rawhide” fringed vest and skirt, high-heeled boots, wide-brimmed hat, and a holster with a silver-plated (unloaded) six-shooter on her shapely hip, Miss Rodeo 1945 in Huntington Beach (where beneath bright lights she would be “lassoed” by the grinning master of ceremonies).

  No dating of clients. Under no circumstances tips from clients. Clients will pay the Agency directly. Violating of such rules will result in suspension from the Agency.

  For the pain and fever of cramps she took Bayer’s aspirin. When that wasn’t sufficient she began to take stronger pills (codeine?—what exactly was “codeine”?) prescribed by the Preene Agency’s “attending” physician. Her heavy throbbing menstrual flow. Her throbbing head. Often the vision in one or both of her eyes faded. On the very worst days she couldn’t work. Each loss of payment, if only $10, hurt her like a pulled tooth. What if she went blind? What if she had to grope her way to a trolley, stumble on and stumble off like an elderly woman? She was in terror of becoming the disheveled woman who’d once been her mother. She was in terror of failing at the simplest task. She was in terror of dogs sniffing at her wet crotch. Sanitary pads already fortified with layers of Kleenex soaked through within an hour. And where could she change? And how often? They would observe that she walked stiffly, a board between her thighs. She was desperate; she couldn’t remain home in bed moaning and half conscious as she’d done in Verdugo Gardens and at the Pirigs’, where Aunt Elsie would bring her a hot-water bag and warmed milk. How’s it going, hon? Just hang on.

  Now there was no one who loved her. Now she was on her own. She was saving to buy a secondhand car from a friend of Otto Öse’s. She was renting a furnished room in West Hollywood within walking distance of Otto Öse’s studio. She was sending five-dollar bills to Gladys at the State Psychiatric Hospital—“Just to say hello, Mother!” She was spoken of as one of the new “promising” Preene models. She was a “rising” model. The head of the Agency disliked her “dishwater-blond” hair. Unless it was “ditchwater-blond.” She had to pay for a beauty parlor rinse—“highlighting” streaks. She had to pay for modeling lessons at the Agency. Sometimes she was provided clothes for her appearances, sometimes she had to provide her own. She had to provide her own stockings. She had to provide her own deodorant, makeup, underwear. She was making money, yet she was borrowing money: from the Agency and from Otto Öse and from others. She was in terror of getting a run in a stocking; she’d been observed (on a trolley, by strangers) bursting into tears, seeing the tiny telltale snag that was the beginning of a disastrous run. Oh no. Oh no, please God. No. Now she was a Preene model, all disasters were equivalent: the terror of sweating through deodorant on a hot steamy day, the terror of smelling, the terror of staining a dress. And everyone would see. For everyone was watching. Even when she wasn’t being photographed in Otto Öse’s studio beneath Otto Öse’s cruel glaring lights and cruel unsparing gaze she was being watched. She had dared to step out of the mirror and now everyone was watching. There was no corner in which she could hide. In the Home, she could hide in a toilet stall. She could hide beneath her bedclothes. She could squeeze out a window and hide in a slanted corner of the roof. Oh, she missed the Home! She missed Fleece. She’d loved Fleece like a sister. Oh, she missed all her sisters—Debra Mae, Janette, Mouse. She’d been Mouse! She missed Dr. Mittelstadt to whom she still sent little poems sometimes. In the Shadows of the Night the stars are more bright. In our hearts we know what is right. Otto Öse who’d photographed her at Radio Plane Aircraft and saw into her heart laughed at such sentiments. Li’l Orphan Annie goo-goo eyes. Otto Öse told her point-blank she was being paid “damn good bucks” to be somebody special, so she better be somebody special—“Or get off the potty.” She would, she would
be somebody special! If it killed her. For hadn’t Gladys believed in her, from the start? Voice lessons, piano lessons. Beautiful costume-clothes to wear to school.

  Otto Öse, the Dark Prince. He’d swooped upon her in the dope room and took so many photographs of her for Stars & Stripes, Norma Jeane in her girl-defense-worker coveralls, no matter how she protested, no matter how shy she was, and, after Bucky’s photo sessions, ashamed of having her picture taken; he’d pursued her around the fuselages, and wouldn’t take no for an answer. He was in the employ of the official U.S. Armed Services magazine and that was a grave responsibility. For him, but also for her. The American G.I.s fighting overseas required their morale being boosted by shots of pretty girls in coveralls—“Don’t want our boys to despair, do you? That’s tantamount to treason.” Otto Öse had made Norma Jeane laugh, though he was the ugliest man she’d ever seen. He click click clicked his camera hunched and staring at her like a hypnotist. “Know who my boss is at Stars & Stripes? Ron Reagan.” Norma Jeane shook her head, confused. Reagan? That actor, Ronald Reagan? A third-rate Tyrone Power or Clark Gable? It was surprising to Norma Jeane that an actor like Reagan had anything to do with a military magazine. It was surprising that an actor could do anything real, at all. “‘Tits, ass, and leg, Öse—that’s your assignment,’ says Ron Reagan. Dumb ass don’t know shit about factories if he thinks I can get leg in a place like this.” The rudest, ugliest man Norma Jeane had ever met!

  Still, Otto was right. He’d plucked her out of oblivion as he boasted, and he was right. The strangers who hired her had every right to expect somebody special, not just some Van Nuys hick. She’d learned not to take offense, still less burst into tears, when they examined her as if she were a mannequin. Or a cow. “That lipstick’s too dark. She looks like a tramp.” “Hell, get with it, Maurie: lipstick that shade is fashionable these days.” “Her bust’s too big. You can see her nipples through the cloth.” “Hell, her bust is perfect! You want Dixie cups? What’s wrong with nipples, you got a thing against nipples? Listen to this comedian.” “Tell her not to smile so much, looks like she’s got St. Vitus’ twitch.” “American girls are s’posed to smile, Maurie. What’re we paying for, a moper?” “Looks like Bugs Bunny.” “Maurie, you belong in vaudeville not women’s quality apparel. The girl’s scared for God’s sake. This is costing us.” “You’re telling me, this is costing us.” “Maurie, shit! You want me to send her back, she only just arrived? This innocent angel-face little girl?” “Mel, you crazy? We already paid twenty bucks up front, plus eight for the car, we’d lose that, think we’re millionaires? She stays.”

  She was proud of that: always, she was allowed to stay.

  Her first week at the Preene Agency, she encountered a glamorous red-haired girl leaving just as Norma Jeane was arriving; the girl was descending the stairs, striking her heels hard and angry against the steps, a girl with auburn-red hair falling across her eyes Veronica Lake style, in a tight-fitting black jersey dress with underarm stains, bright crimson lipstick and rouged cheeks, and a perfume so strong it made your eyes water. The girl wasn’t much older than Norma Jeane but beginning to crack at the edges, and staring at Norma Jeane, whom she’d nearly shoved out of her way, she clutched at her arm—“Mouse! My God! You are Mouse, aren’t you? Norma Jane—Jeane?”

  It was Debra Mae, from the Home! Debra Mae, whose cot had been beside Norma Jeane’s and who’d cried herself to sleep every night unless (for it was always unclear at the Home) it had been Norma Jeane who’d cried herself to sleep every night. Except now Debra Mae was “Lizbeth Short,” a name she said bitterly she hadn’t chosen and didn’t like. She was a photographer’s model on suspension from the Preene Agency. Or maybe (this was unclear to Norma Jeane, who would not want to ask) Debra Mae had been dropped from the Agency. And the Agency owed her money. She told Norma Jeane not to make the mistake she’d made, and Norma Jeane naturally asked what mistake was that, and Debra Mae said, “Taking money from men. If you do, and the Agency finds out, that’s all they’ll want from you.” Norma Jeane was confused. “Want—what? I thought the Agency didn’t allow that.” “That’s what they say,” Debra Mae said, with a twisted mouth. “I wanted to be a real model and get an audition with a film studio, but”—shaking her red hair vehemently—“it didn’t work out that way.” Norma Jeane said, trying to figure this out, “You mean—you accept money from men? For dates?” Seeing a look on Norma Jeane’s face she didn’t like, Debra Mae flared up. “That’s so disgusting? That’s so unknown? Why? Because I’m not married?” (Debra Mae’s eyes dropped to Norma Jeane’s left hand, but Norma Jeane had removed her rings of course; nobody’d hire a married woman as a model.) “No, no—” “Only a married woman can take money from a man for fucking her?” “Debra Mae, no—” “Because I need the money, that’s so disgusting? Go to hell.” Debra Mae pushed past Norma Jeane in a fury, her back taut and her flamey-red head held high. Her high heels clattered on the stairs like castanets. Norma Jeane blinked after the orphan sister she hadn’t seen in nearly eight years, stunned as if Debra Mae had slapped her in the face. In her hurt memory it would someday seem that in fact Debra Mae had slapped her in the face. Norma Jeane called after her, pleading, “Debra Mae, wait—do you ever hear from Fleece?” Meanly, Debra Mae shouted back over her shoulder, “Fleece is dead.”

  DAUGHTER AND MOTHER

  I wasn’t proud yet, I was waiting to be proud. She sent carefully selected photo features of herself from Parade, Family Circle, and Collier’s to Gladys Mortensen at the State Psychiatric Hospital. These weren’t cheesecake photos like those in Laff, Pix, Swank, and Peek but fully clothed photos of Norma Jeane: in the hand-knit sweater set; in jeans and a plaid shirt and her hair in pigtails like Judy Garland in The Wizard of Oz as she knelt beside twin lambs, smiling happily as she stroked their soft white nubby wool; in Back-to-School coed clothing, pleated red plaid skirt, long-sleeved white turtleneck sweater, saddle shoes, white bobby sox, her honey-brown curly hair in a ponytail, smiling as she waved Hello! to someone on the other side of the camera, or Goodbye!

  But Gladys never replied.

  “Why should I care? I don’t.”

  A dream she’d begun to have. Or maybe she’d always had it and could not recall. Between my legs, a cut. A deep slash. Just that—a slash. A deep emptiness out of which blood drained. In a variant of this dream which she would call the cut dream she was a child again and Gladys was lowering her into hot steamy water with a promise to cleanse her and “make it well,” and Norma Jeane was clinging to Gladys’s hands, wanting to let go and in terror of letting go.

  “But I guess I do care. I’d better admit it!”

  Now she was earning money from the Preene Agency and as a contract player at The Studio, she began to visit Gladys in the hospital at Norwalk. In a phone conversation she’d been told by the resident psychiatrist that Gladys Mortensen was “as nearly recovered as she will be ever.” Since her hospitalization a decade ago, the patient had had numerous electroconvulsive treatments, which had reduced her “manic seizures”; she was currently on a regimen of heavy medication to prevent outbursts of “excitation” and “depression.” According to hospital records she had not tried to injure herself—or others—in a very long time. Norma Jeane asked anxiously if a visit to Gladys would be too upsetting and the psychiatrist said, “Upsetting to your mother or to you, Miss Baker?”

  Norma Jeane hadn’t seen her mother in ten years.

  Yet she recognized her at once, a thin faded woman in a faded green shift with a crooked hemline, or maybe the dress was buttoned crookedly. “M-mother? Oh, Mother! It’s Norma Jeane.” Afterward it would seem to Norma Jeane, awkwardly embracing her mother, who neither embraced her in return nor resisted her, that both she and Gladys burst into tears; in fact, only Norma Jeane burst into tears, surprising herself with the rawness of her emotion. In my early acting classes I could never cry. After Norwalk, I would be able to cry. They were in a visitors’ lounge amid strangers. Norma Je
ane smiled and smiled at her mother. She was trembling badly and could not catch her breath. And her nostrils pinched, to her shame: for Gladys smelled, a sour yeasty unwashed smell. Gladys was shorter than Norma Jeane remembered, no more than five feet three. She wore filthy felt slippers and soiled bobby sox. The faded green shift was stained beneath the arms. There was a missing button, and you could see Gladys’s flat concave chest through the loose neck, a dingy white slip. Her, hair, too, was faded, a dull grayish brown, oddly frizzed like shredded wheat. Her face, which had once been so quick with life, now seemed flattened, the skin sallow and minutely creased like crumpled paper. It was shocking to see that Gladys must have pulled out most of her eyebrows and lashes, her eyes were so naked and exposed. And such small watery untrusting eyes, of no color. The mouth that had always been so glamorous, sly, and seductive was now thin as a slit. Gladys might have been any age between forty and sixty-five. Oh, she might’ve been anyone! Any stranger.

  Except the ward nurses were comparing us. They saw. Somebody’d told them that Gladys Mortensen’s daughter was a model, a magazine cover girl, they’d wanted to see for themselves how alike mother and daughter were.

  “M-mother? I’ve brought you some things.” Edna St. Vincent Millay, Selected Poems, in a small hardcover volume she’d bought at a secondhand bookstore in Hollywood. A beautiful dove-gray knitted shawl delicate as cobwebs, a gift from Otto Öse to Norma Jeane. And a tortoiseshell compact with pressed powder. (What was Norma Jeane thinking of? The compact had a mirror inside, of course. One of the sharp-eyed ward nurses told Norma Jeane she couldn’t leave such a gift—“The mirror might be broken and put to a bad use.”)