Blonde

by Joyce Carol Oates

  And I did feel guilt and shame. As if I’d truly been Angela taking revenge on the very man who loved me.

  Where was Cass? Why hadn’t he come to the screening? Norma Jeane was faint with love for him, need for him. Hadn’t he promised to come and sit beside her and hold her hand, knowing how terrified she was of this evening, and yet he had not; and it was not the first time Cass Chaplin had promised Norma Jeane the gift of his elusive presence in a public place where eyes would move upon him excited in recognition—Is it? then in disappointment No, of course not, it must be his son, and then in quickened prurient interest So that’s Chaplin’s son! And little Lita’s!—and then failed to show up. He would not apologize afterward or even explain himself, and Norma Jeane would find herself apologizing to him for her own hurt and anxiety. He’d told her that being Charlie Chaplin’s son was a curse that others stupidly wished to believe must be a blessing—“Like it’s a fairy tale, and I’m the King’s son.” He’d told her that the much-beloved Little Tramp was a vicious egoist who despised children, especially his own; he hadn’t allowed his teenage wife to name their son for a full year after his birth, out of a superstitious dread of sharing his name with anyone, even his flesh-and-blood son! He’d told Norma Jeane that Chaplin divorced Little Lita after two years and disowned and disinherited him, Charlie Chaplin, Jr., because he wanted only the adulation of strangers, not the intimate love of a family. “As soon as I was born, I was posthumous. For if your father wishes you not to exist, you have no legitimate right to exist.”

  Norma Jeane could not protest this statement. She knew: yes, it was so.

  Though thinking at the same time with childlike logic Yet he would like me, I think. If ever we meet. For Grandma Della had admired the Little Tramp, and Gladys too. And Norma Jeane had grown up with those eyes gazing upon her from out of what pockmarked wall of what forgotten “residence” of her madwoman mother. His eyes. My soulmate. No matter our ages.

  Norma Jeane fumbled to adjust her clothing and left the safety of the toilet stall, grateful that the powder room was empty still. Like a guilty child she contemplated her flushed face in the mirror, not head-on but sidelong, dreading to see Norma Jeane’s plain yearning face inside the beautiful cosmetic face of “Marilyn Monroe.” Inside the carefully made-up eyes of “Marilyn Monroe,” the staring hungry eyes of Norma Jeane. She seemed not to recall that Norma Jeane herself had been strikingly pretty; though her hair was dish-water blond, yet boys and men had stared after her in the street, and her photo in Stars & Stripes had set this all in motion. This ravishing blond “Marilyn Monroe” was the role she had to play, at least for the evening, at least in public, and she’d prepared elaborately for it, and I. E. Shinn had prepared elaborately for it, and she didn’t intend to disappoint him. “I owe him everything. Mr. Shinn. What a good, kind, generous man he is.” She’d spoken in this way to her lover Cass, who’d laughed and said reprovingly, “Norma, I. E. Shinn is an agent. A flesh merchant. Lose your looks, lose your youth and sex appeal, Shinn’s gone.”

  Stung, Norma Jeane had an impulse to ask And you, Cass? What about you?

  There was a mysterious dislike between Cass Chaplin and I. E. Shinn. Possibly, Cass Chaplin had once been a client of Mr. Shinn’s. (Cass was a singer-dancer-choreographer with acting experience; he’d had numerous small roles in Hollywood films, including Can’t Stop Lovin’ You and Stage Door Canteen, though Norma Jeane couldn’t remember him in these films, which she’d seen holding hands with Bucky Glazer a lifetime ago.) There would be a private dinner in a restaurant in Bel Air following the screening and Norma Jeane had invited Cass to the dinner as well, but I. E. Shinn intervened, saying this wasn’t a good idea. “Why not?” Norma Jeane asked. “Because your friend has a reputation around town,” Shinn said. “A reputation for what?” Norma Jeane demanded, though she supposed she knew. “Being ‘left-wing’? A ‘subversive’?” “Not only that,” Shinn said, “though that’s risky enough right now. You see what’s happened to Chaplin, Sr.—he’s been hounded out of the country, not for his beliefs but for his attitude. He’s arrogant, and a fool. And Chaplin, Jr., is a drunk. He’s a loser. A jinx. He’s Chaplin’s son but he hasn’t Chaplin’s talent.” “Mr. Shinn,” Norma Jeane protested, “that’s unfair, and you know it. Charlie Chaplin was a great genius. Not every actor must be a genius.” The gnomelike little man wasn’t accustomed to being contradicted by his girl clients and especially not by Norma Jeane, who was so shy and malleable. Cass Chaplin must be corrupting her! Shinn’s broad, bumpy forehead creased with worry and his eyes bulged and glared. “He owes money everywhere. He’ll sign for a role and fail to show up. Or he shows up drunk. Or doped. He borrows cars and cracks them up and he leeches on to women—who should know a hell of a lot better—and men. I don’t want you seen with him in public, Norma Jeane.” “Then I won’t go to the dinner myself!” Norma Jeane cried. “Oh, yes, you will. The studio expects ‘Marilyn,’ and ‘Marilyn’ will be there.”

  Shinn spoke loudly. He gripped her wrist and she quieted immediately.

  Of course I. E. Shinn was right. She’d signed a contract with M-G-M. Not just to play the role of “Angela” but to fulfill publicity requirements too. “Marilyn” would be there.

  In a fifty-seven-dollar dazzling-white silk-and-chiffon cocktail dress purchased for Norma Jeane by Mr. Shinn at Bullock’s in Beverly Hills, a chic-sexy dress with a low-cut bodice and a slender fitted skirt that showed her figure to advantage. Fifty-seven dollars for a dress! Norma Jeane had a sudden girlish impulse to telephone Elsie Pirig. The dress was as glamorous as Angela’s costume in the film, which perhaps it was meant to resemble. “Oh, Mr. Shinn! This is the most beautiful dress I’ve ever worn!” Norma Jeane pirouetted before a three-way mirror in the store’s most fashionable salon, as her agent looked on, smoking a cigar. “Well. White suits you, dear.” Shinn was pleased with Norma Jeane in the dress and pleased with the attention his client was drawing in the store. Beverly Hills matrons, rich and good-looking and expensively dressed, the wives of studio executives, were glancing in their direction wondering who the glamorous young starlet was with the redoubtable I. E. Shinn. “Yes. White suits you very well.”

  Norma Jeane was again taking voice lessons, acting lessons, dance lessons, now at M-G-M, and her public manner was more assured, however nervous she felt. Almost, she could hear piano music at a distance, beyond the hubbub of conversations, melodic dance music; if this were a movie, a musical, I. E. Shinn in his double-breasted sport coat with the red carnation in his lapel and the shiny pointy shoes would be Fred Astaire, leaping to his feet to take Norma Jeane in his arms and dance, dance, dance away with her as a startled audience of saleswomen and shoppers looked on.

  After the cocktail dress, Shinn insisted upon buying two thirty-dollar suits for Norma Jeane, also at Bullock’s. Both were stylish, with narrow pencil skirts and snug-fitting jackets. And he bought her several pairs of high-heeled leather shoes. Norma Jeane protested, but Shinn interrupted, saying, “Look. This is an investment in ‘Marilyn Monroe.’ Who, when The Asphalt Jungle is released, is going to be a hot property. I have faith in ‘Marilyn’ even if you don’t.” Was Mr. Shinn teasing or serious? He crinkled his Rumpelstiltskin face and winked at her. Norma Jeane said weakly, “I do have faith. It’s just that—” “Just that—what?” “As Otto Öse explained to me, I’m photogenic. I guess. That means it’s a trick, doesn’t it? Of the camera lens or the optic nerve? I’m not really the way I look. I mean—” Shinn snorted in disgust. “Otto Öse. That nihilist. That pornographer. I hope to Christ you’ve put Otto Öse well behind you.” Quickly Norma Jeane said, “Oh, yes! Yes, I have.” It was true: since the humiliation of the fifty-dollar nude photo session, she hadn’t seen Otto Öse; when he’d called and left messages for her at her rooming house, she’d torn them into bits and never called back. She had not seen contact sheets for “Miss Golden Dreams” and seemed not to remember that she’d posed for a calendar. (She hadn’t told I. E. Shinn,
of course. She hadn’t told anyone.) Since being cast in The Asphalt Jungle she’d concentrated solely on her acting and had no interest in modeling of any kind, however much she could have used the money. “Öse and Chaplin, Jr. Stay away from them and their kind.” Shinn spoke vehemently. At such times, working his fleshy lips, he seemed a very old, even ancient man; all his playfulness vanished. “Their kind”—what did that mean? Norma Jeane winced to hear her lover casually dismissed, mysteriously linked with the cruel hawk-faced photographer, so lacking in Cass’s tenderness and purity of heart. “But I l-love Cass,” Norma Jeane whispered. “I hope he will marry me, someday soon.” Shinn wasn’t listening or didn’t hear; he’d heaved himself to his feet, flourishing his crocodile-hide wallet, which was twice the size of an ordinary man’s wallet, and giving instructions to a salesclerk. Norma Jeane now towered over him in her new russet-red leather high-heeled shoes and had to resist the impulse to slouch so she wouldn’t be quite so tall. Carry yourself like a princess, a wise voice admonished her. And soon you will be one.

  The shopping spree took place two days before the screening. Mr. Shinn drove Norma Jeane home to her bungalow-boardinghouse on Buena Vista and helped her carry her numerous packages inside. (Fortunately, Cass wasn’t there, half dressed, sprawled on Norma Jeane’s bed or sunning himself in a patch of winter sunshine on the tiny balcony to the rear. The small apartment smelled of him, an oily-rich scent, a scent of body heat and underarms and thick, always slightly damp raven-black hair, and if I. E. Shinn’s hairy nostrils detected this odor, the agent was too tactful, or had too much pride, to give any indication.) Norma Jeane supposed she should offer Mr. Shinn a drink and not send him immediately away, but there was nothing in the kitchen except a bottle or two of Cass’s (Cass favored whiskey, gin, brandy), and Norma Jeane was reluctant to touch these bottles. So she didn’t offer Shinn a drink, or even invite him to sit down while she brewed coffee. No, no! She wanted the ugly little man gone so she could model her new clothes in the mirror, rehearsing Cass’s arrival. Look. Look at me. Am I beautiful for you?

  Norma Jeane thanked I. E. Shinn and walked him to the door. Seeing in the little man’s yearning eyes that something more was required, in Marilyn’s husky-breathy voice she said, “Thank you, Daddy.”

  Leaning down to kiss I. E. Shinn, light as a feather, on his astonished lips. Norma Jeane dialed Cass’s number from the powder room. It was a new number, for Cass was staying for several weeks in a new borrowed residence, on Montezuma Drive in the Hollywood Hills. “Cass, please answer. Darling, you know how I need you. Don’t do this to me. Please.” The screening was over; Norma Jeane’s fate was decided; from the theater foyer came a rising din of voices; it was not possible for Norma Jeane to hear the repeated query Who’s the blonde? who’s the blonde? the blonde? or even to imagine such a phenomenon. And I. E. Shinn proudly boasting The blonde is my client, that’s who she is: Miss Marilyn Monroe.

  Never would she have imagined that, following this legendary screening, immediately the studio would give “Marilyn Monroe” billing with the major cast of The Asphalt Jungle: Sterling Hayden, Louis Calhern, Jean Hagen, and Sam Jaffe in a film directed by John Huston.

  Whispering into the receiver, “Cass, darling. Please.”

  At the other end a telephone rang, rang.

  Love at first sight.

  Faint with love. Doomed!

  Love enters through the eyes.

  Norma he called her. He was the only one of her lovers ever to call her Norma.

  Not “Norma Jeane.” Not “Marilyn.”

  (Norma Shearer had been his idol when he’d been a boy. Norma Shearer in Marie Antoinette. The beautiful queen in all her finery, her absurd high-piled and bejeweled hair and layers of opulent fabric so stiff she could barely move, condemned to a cruel, barbaric, unjust death: to the guillotine!)

  Cass she called him. Cass my brother, my baby. They were as gentle with each other as children who’ve been injured by rough play. Their kisses were slow and searching. They made love for long dreamy hours in silence, not knowing where they were, whose bed this was, when they’d begun, and when they would end, and where. Pressing their heated cheeks together desperate to ease together, to see through a single pair of eyes. I love love love you! Oh, Cass. Holding the beautiful tousle-haired boy tight in her arms like a prize wrested from other, greedy arms. Never fierce in love, she found herself fierce in love now.

  Vowing I will love you until death. And beyond.

  And Cass laughed at her and said Norma. Until death is enough. One world at a time.

  She would not tell him about that long-ago time, his eyes, his beautiful eyes fixed on hers, out of the City Lights poster. How long ago she’d fallen in love with those eyes. Or were they the dark brooding-yet-playful eyes of the man in the framed photograph on Gladys’s bedroom wall? I love you. I will protect you. Never doubt me: I will come for you someday. One of the great shocks of her life, which as Otto Öse predicted would not be a long life but which would be a snarled and dreamlike and riddlesome life of puzzle pieces fitted together by force, was that moment—and in the movies what ecstatic pulse-quickened music would signal that moment!—when she’d stepped out from behind the tattered Chinese screen in Otto Öse’s studio knowing herself demeaned, debased, humiliated—and for only fifty dollars!—and there was Cass Chaplin smiling at her. We know each other, Norma. We’ve always known each other. Have faith in me.

  A cinematic collapse of time. Days, weeks. Eventually months. Never would they live together (Cass found the idea of sharing an actual household made him anxious and asthmatic, mingling clothes in a closet for instance, things in bathrooms, in drawers, accumulating history together, couldn’t breathe! couldn’t swallow! Not that he was the Great Dictator’s son incapable of maintaining a mature, responsible relationship with a woman, not that he was a cruel vindictive hedonist hypocrite like the Great Man, Cass was not, for this was in fact a physical symptom; Norma Jeane could observe it terrified at close quarters, eager to allow her lover to know I’m not smothering you! I’m not that kind of woman), but they spent every hour together (or almost, depending upon Cass’s mysterious schedule of auditions and callbacks and long meditative walks in the rain as in the sun on the beach at Santa Monica) when Norma Jeane wasn’t on the M-G-M set at Culver City.

  It was my first true film. I plunged into it with all my strength. And that strength came from Cass. From a man loving me. For there was not just myself, just one. But two. I was strengthened by two.

  You wanted to believe that. There was every reason to believe that. It might’ve been scripted, the words had that sound. Prepared words. Not-spontaneous words. Therefore words you could trust. Like reading the scripture when you have the key. When you have the secret wisdom. Like the jigsaw puzzle once it’s completed, every piece in place and no piece lost. And how naturally they fitted together in a sweet fainting swoon, in a delirium of aching physical need, as if long ago they’d made love as children. As if there were no maleness and no femaleness between them. No need, for instance, for the embarrassing clumsiness of condoms. Ugly smelly demeaning condoms. “Rubbers,” Bucky Glazer had called them. His blunt matter-of-fact way. And Frank Widdoes, hadn’t he said “I’d use a rubber. Don’t worry.” But Norma Jeane, staring smiling through the windshield, had not heard and would not hear for it would not be repeated.

  Such bluntness was not Norma Jeane’s way. Hers was the way of romance. For her lover was beautiful as any girl and side by side in the mirror flushed and their eyes dilated by love they laughed and kissed and tousled each other’s hair and you could not have said who was more beautiful and whose body more desirable. Cass Chaplin! She loved to walk with him and see women’s eyes fasten upon him. (And men’s eyes too! Oh, she saw.) They hated clothes between them and walked about naked when they could. It was Norma Jeane’s Magic Friend in the Mirror come alive. Her lover was hardly an inch taller than she and he had a smooth-muscled torso with a patina of fine dark hairs c
overing his flat breasts hardly thicker than the down on Norma Jeane’s forearms and she loved to stroke his torso, his shoulders, his supple lean muscled arms, thighs, legs, and she loved to brush his thick, damp, oily hair back from his forehead, and kiss kiss kiss his forehead, and his eyelids, and his mouth, sucking his tongue into her mouth, and his penis rose quick and eager and warm and quivering in her hand like a living creature. This was no cruel wicked dream of a bleeding cut between the legs; this was fate, not desperation. Those eyes!

  Immediately you’re in love it’s as if you’ve always been in love.

  A cinematic collapse of time.

  Clive Pearce! There came the morning she realized.

  At rehearsal she’d been awkward and wooden in reciting her lines. How clumsy she was, working with the renowned elder actor Louis Calhern, who seemed never to look directly at her! Did he despise her, as an inexperienced young actress? Or was he bemused by her? Where at her audition Norma Jeane had spoken Angela’s lines with seeming spontaneity, naively lying on the floor, now on her feet she was paralyzed with fear at the enormity of the risk before her. What if you fail. If you fail. You will fail. Then you must die. If fired from the film she would be obliged to destroy herself, yet she was deeply in love with Cass Chaplin and hoped one day to have his child—“How can I leave him?” And there was her obligation to Gladys in the hospital at Norwalk. “How can I leave her? Mother has no one but me.”

  Her scenes with Calhern were exclusively interiors, rehearsed and shot on a sound stage at the M-G-M lot in Culver City. In the film, Angela and her “Uncle Leon” were alone together but in reality, on the set, they were surrounded by strangers. There was a curious comfort in shutting these others out. Cameramen, assistants. The great director himself. As at the orphanage she’d swung high, high on the swing, shutting out the rest of the world. In the clamorous dining room making her way to her table unseeing and unhearing. That was her secret strength, which no one could take from her. She believed her character Angela was herself, except stunted. Certainly she, Norma Jeane, contained Angela. Yet Angela was too narrow to contain Norma Jeane. It was a matter of mastery! In the film story, Angela is undefined. Shrewdly Norma Jeane perceived the girl to be her Uncle Leon’s fantasy. (And the fantasy of the moviemakers, who were male.) In the beautiful blank blond Angela, innocence and vanity are identical. There is no true motivation to her character except childlike self-interest. She initiates no scenes, no dramatic exchanges. She is purely reactive, not active. She speaks lines like an amateur actress, groping and improvising and taking her cues from “Uncle Leon.” By herself, she does not exist. No woman in The Asphalt Jungle exists except by way of men. Angela is passive as a pool of water in which others see their reflections, but she does not herself “see.” It’s no accident that the first time Angela is seen, she lies asleep on a sofa in a twisted position and we see her through her elder lover’s possessive eyes. Oh! I must have fallen asleep. Yet awake, eyes widened in perpetual wonder, Angela is a sleepwalker.