Blonde

by Joyce Carol Oates

  Norma Jeane said, cleverly, “If you told me Father’s name, I could send him this magazine. Gosh, I could—call him sometime. If he’s still living? In Hollywood?” Norma Jeane hesitated to tell her mother that she’d been inquiring after her elusive father for years, and well-intentioned people, usually men, had provided names; but none had come to anything. They’re humoring me. I know. But I can’t give up! (Clark Gable she’d flirted nervously with, drunk on champagne at an opening. Joking with the famous man that they might be related and he’d been mystified, not knowing what on earth this gorgeous young blonde was getting at.) Norma Jeane repeated, “If you told me Father’s name. If—” But Gladys was losing her enthusiasm. She let the magazine fall shut. She said, in a flat dead voice, “No.”

  Norma Jeane combed her mother’s hair, primped her up a bit, and impulsively looped about her mother’s creased neck the diaphanous black scarf, which was also a gift from V, and led her hand in hand out of the hospital. Norma Jeane had made the required arrangements; Gladys Mortensen was a patient with such privileges. It was a long tracking shot, with a buoyant mood music beneath. In their wake, uniformed hospital staff, even the courteous Dr. X, observed smilingly. The receptionist told Gladys, “How pretty you look today, Mrs. Mortensen!” In the floating black scarf Gladys Mortensen had become a woman of dignity. She gave no sign she’d even heard this remark.

  Norma Jeane took Gladys into Norwalk, to a beauty salon, where Gladys’s straggly hair was shampooed, styled, and set. Gladys was unresisting if not very cooperative. Next, Norma Jeane took Gladys to an early lunch at a tearoom. There were only women customers, and not many of these. They frankly stared at the striking young blonde with the frail middle-aged woman who might have been—must have been?—her mother. At least, Gladys’s hair now looked presentable, and the scarf hid the stained and rumpled bosom of her dress. Outside the undersea atmosphere of the mental hospital, Gladys might look virtually normal. Norma Jeane ordered for them both. Norma Jeane helped her mother pour tea into her cup. Norma Jeane said mischievously, “Isn’t it a relief to be out! Out of that awful place! We could just drive and drive, couldn’t we, Mother? Just—drive! You’re my mother, it would be perfectly legal. Up the coast to San Francisco. To Portland, Oregon. To—Alaska!” How many times Norma Jeane had suggested to Gladys that Gladys spend a few days with her in her Hollywood apartment; a quiet weekend—“Just us two.”

  Now that Norma Jeane was working twelve-hour days on the set, this wasn’t a very likely possibility; still there was the idea, the perennial offer. Gladys shrugged and grunted, bemused. Gladys chewed her food. Gladys sipped tea without seeming to mind that the steaming liquid burnt her lips. Norma Jeane said flirtatiously, “You need to get out more, Mother. There’s nothing wrong with you really. ‘Nerves’—we all have ‘nerves.’ There’s a full-time doctor at The Studio who’s hired just to prescribe nerve pills for actors. I refuse. I would rather be nervous, I think.” Norma Jeane heard her provocative girlish voice. The voice she’d cultivated for Nell. Why was she saying such things? It was fascinating to listen. “Sometimes I think, Mother, you don’t want to get well. You’re hiding in that awful place. And it smells.” Gladys’s mask face stiffened. The deep-set eyes seemed to recede. Her hand shook holding the cup, tea spilled onto the black scarf unnoticed. Norma Jeane continued to speak in a lowered girlish voice. They might’ve been co-conspirators, mother and daughter! They might’ve been planning an escape. Norma Jeane was not Nell but this was Nell’s voice, and her eyes were narrowed and glowing like Nell’s in those ecstatic scenes in which “Jed Powers” was overpowered by her, as “Widmark” was overpowered by “Marilyn Monroe.” Gladys had never met Nell. Never would Gladys meet Nell. It would be cruel, like looking into a distorting mirror: a mirror that made of the aging woman a girl again, radiant in beauty. Norma Jeane contained Nell as any skilled actress contains a role, but certainly Norma Jeane was not Nell for Nell did not exist. They had taken her lover from her, and they had taken her father from her, and they were claiming she was mad, and because of this Nell did not exist.

  “That’s the puzzle I can’t comprehend, Mother, of all the puzzles,” Norma Jeane said thoughtfully. “That some of us ‘exist’—and most don’t. There was an ancient Greek philosopher who said that the sweetest thing of all would be not to exist, but I don’t agree with that, do you? Because then we would lack knowledge. We’ve managed to be born and that must mean something. And before we were born, where were we? I have an actress friend named Nell, she’s under contract as I am at The Studio, and she has told me she lies awake at night, through the night, tormenting herself with such questions. What does it mean to be born? After we die, will it be the same thing as it was before we were born? Or a different kind of nothingness? Because there might be knowledge then. Memory.” Gladys shifted uneasily in her straight-backed chair and made no reply.

  Gladys, sucking in her bloodless lips.

  Gladys, keeper of secrets.

  It was then that Norma Jeane saw Gladys’s chafed hands. It was then that Norma Jeane recalled having seen, back in the visitors’ lounge, her mother’s hands clasped on her knees and later buried in her lap. Her mother’s hands shut into fists. Or opened, and the thin fingers restlessly stroking one another. Broken and bitten, blood-edged fingernails digging at one another. At times, Gladys’s hands seemed almost to be wrestling each other for dominance. Even when Gladys professed a sleepwalker’s indifference to what was being said to her, there in her lap was evidence of her alertness, her agitation. The hands are her secret. She has given up her secret!

  There was the Fair Princess returning her mother to Norwalk State Psychiatric Hospital, Wing C, for safekeeping. There was the Fair Princess wiping tears from her eyes as she kissed her mother goodbye. Gently the Fair Princess unwound the diaphanous black scarf from around the aging woman and looped it about her own unlined, lovely neck. “Mother, forgive me! I love you.”

  8

  She had not intended it. She would not have exploited her mother. Perhaps she was unconscious of it, in fact. The hands! Nell’s restless seeking hands. Hands of madness. In Don’t Bother to Knock, there was Norma Jeane as Nell with Gladys Mortensen’s hands and mesmerized stare. Gladys Mortensen’s soul, in Norma Jeane’s young body.

  Cass Chaplin and his friend Eddy G saw the movie in a classy Brentwood movie house a short drive from the place they were house-sitting for a Paramount exec’s ex who’d long had a crush on Eddy G. Norma Jeane was so fantastic, this sick-crazy-sexy blonde—with bra straps showing!—they returned for a second visit, this time liking Norma Jeane even more. Inevitable as death is THE END. Cass nudges Eddy. “Know what? I’m still in love with Norma.” And Eddy G says, shaking his head like he’s trying to clear it, “Know what? I’m in love with Norma.”

  THE DEATH OF RUMPELSTILTSKIN

  One day he was screaming at her over the phone, the next day he was dead.

  One day she was stricken with shame, the next day stricken with grief and remorse.

  I didn’t love him enough. I betrayed him.

  He was punished in my place, God forgive me!

  What a scandal! The “Golden Dreams” nude pinup of Norma Jeane taken by Otto Öse years ago had been belatedly, sensationally, identified on the front page of the tabloid Hollywood Tatler:

  NUDE CALENDAR PIX

  MARILYN MONROE?

  Denial by the Studio

  “We Had No Knowledge” Claim Execs

  Immediately the lurid little tale was taken up by Variety, the L.A. Times, Hollywood Reporter, and the national news services. The nude pinup itself was reprinted with strategic parts of the girl model’s voluptuous body blacked out or draped suggestively in what looked like opaque black lace. (“Oh, what have they done to me? This is true pornography.”) The pinup would become a hot subject for gossip columnists, radio personalities programs, even newspaper editorials. Nude photographs of contract actresses were outlawed by the studios; “pornography” was for
bidden. The studios were desperate to keep their merchandise “pure.” Hadn’t Norma Jeane signed a contract stipulating that behavior contrary to the morals of the Hollywood community would result in suspension of her contract or even termination? A sharp-eyed reporter for the Tatler (with a personal taste for young-girl nudes) had come upon the photo on an old calendar and examined the girl’s face and had a hunch that the model was the rising young blond actress Marilyn Monroe; he’d investigated and learned that the model had identified herself in a 1949 contract as “Mona Monroe.” What a scoop! What a scandal! What an embarrassment for The Studio! “Miss Golden Dreams” had appeared in a 1950 glossy girlie calendar called Beauties for All Seasons published by Ace Hollywood Calendars, the kind of calendar to be found in gas stations, taverns, factories, police precincts, and firehouses, men’s clubs and barracks and dormitories. “Miss Golden Dreams” with her eager, vulnerable smile and smooth bared armpit and beautiful breasts, belly, thighs, and legs, and her honey-blond hair tumbling down her back had inhabited how many thousands or tens of thousands of masculine dreams of no more harmful significance than any fleeting image that triggers orgasm and is forgotten upon waking. The girl was one of twelve nude beauties of whom none was identified in the calendar itself. She did not in fact very closely resemble the myriad publicity photos of “Marilyn Monroe” that had begun to appear in the media in 1950, arranged by The Studio for distribution as any manufacturer might send out mass-market logos, eye-catching advertisements for consumer goods. “Miss Golden Dreams” might have been a younger sister of “Marilyn Monroe”: less glamorous, less stylized, her hair seemingly natural, little eye makeup and no conspicuous black beauty mole on her left cheek. How had the reporter recognized her? Had someone given him a tip?

  Norma Jeane had been shown neither the contact sheets nor any prints of the now-notorious photo for which Otto Öse had given her, in cash, fifty dollars. If asked, Norma Jeane might have claimed she’d forgotten the photo session entirely as she’d forgotten, or almost forgotten, the predatory Otto Öse.

  No one seemed to know where Öse had gone. Some months ago, during a break in the filming of Don’t Bother to Knock, Norma Jeane had gone on an impulse to Otto’s old studio, thinking—well, he might need her? He might miss her? He might need money? (She had a little money now. Her anxiety with each paycheck was she’d spend it quickly and have little to show for it.) But Otto Öse’s shabby old studio was gone and in its place was a palmist’s shop.

  There was a cruel rumor that Otto Öse had died of malnutrition and an overdose of heroin in a filthy hotel in San Diego. Or Otto had returned in defeat to his birthplace in Nebraska. Sick, broken, dying. Suffocated by the sludge sea of fate. The brainless tide of Will. He’d pitted his frail human vessel—the “idea” of his individuality—against this ravenous Will, and he’d lost. In his copy of Schopenhauer’s World as Will and Idea which he’d lent her to read, Norma Jeane had come upon The suicide wills life, and is only dissatisfied with the conditions under which it has presented itself. “I hope he’s dead. He betrayed me. He never loved me.” Norma Jeane wept bitterly. Why had Otto Öse pursued her with his camera? Why hadn’t he let her hide from him at Radio Plane? She’d been a girl, a girl wife, hardly more than a child; he’d exposed her to the world of men. Men’s eyes. The hawk plunging its beak into the songbird’s breast. But why? If Otto Öse hadn’t come along and ruined her life, Norma Jeane and Bucky would still be married. They would have several children by now. Two sons, a daughter! They would be happy! And Mrs. Glazer, a loving grandmother. So happy! For hadn’t Bucky whispered to her at the very hour of his departure for Australia—“As many kids as you want, Norma Jeane. You’re the boss.”

  The tacky little scandal! Vulgar and shameful set beside headlines of U.S. casualties in Korea, front-page photos of “atom bomb spies” Julius and Ethel Rosenberg sentenced to death in the electric chair, reports of hydrogen bomb tests in the Soviet Union. I. E. Shinn had only just telephoned Norma Jeane to congratulate her on more good reviews of Don’t Bother to Knock. You had to realize the agent hadn’t expected such a response, for most of the reviews, he said, were serious, intelligent, respectful—“As for the others, the assholes, the hell with them. What do they know?” Norma Jeane shuddered. She wanted to hang up the phone quickly. She’d felt since the premiere like a bird on a wire, vulnerable to stones, bullets. A hummingbird observed through a rifle scope. Shinn meant well as V meant well, and other friends, defending her against critics of whom she knew nothing and would not know.

  Shinn was now reading her excerpts of reviews from newspapers across the country in his rapid-fire Walter Winchell voice, and Norma Jeane tried to listen through a roaring in her ears. “‘Marilyn Monroe, a rising new Hollywood talent, proves herself a strong, dynamic film presence in this darkly disturbing thriller also starring Richard Widmark. Her portrayal of a mentally unbalanced young baby-sitter is so chillingly convincing you would be led to believe’—”

  Norma Jeane clutched at the phone receiver. She tried to feel a thrill of happiness. Of satisfaction. Oh, yes, she was happy . . . wasn’t she? She knew she’d acted capably, and perhaps more than capably. Next time she would be better. Except the thought was troubling her: what if Gladys were to see Don’t Bother to Knock? What if Gladys saw how Norma Jeane had appropriated her talon hands, her dreamy not-there mannerisms? Norma Jeane interrupted Shinn to exclaim, “Oh, Mr. Shinn! Don’t be mad at me. I know this is s-silly, but I have such a strong feeling, it’s like an actual memory, that I was n-naked in the movie?” She laughed uneasily “I wasn’t, was I? I can’t remember.” Somehow it had come to her in a flash that she’d had to remove her clothes in one of the scenes. Nell had had to remove the rich woman’s cocktail dress because it wasn’t hers. Shinn exploded. “Norma Jeane, stop! You’re being ridiculous.” Norma Jeane said, apologetically, “Oh, I know it’s silly. It’s just a—a thought. At the premiere I shut my eyes a lot. I couldn’t believe that girl was me. And already, you know, as time passes—time is like this fast river that runs through us—already it isn’t. But everybody in the audience would think it was me: ‘Nell.’ And afterward at the party: ‘Marilyn.’”

  Shinn said, “Are you on painkillers? Is it your period?” Norma Jeane said, “N-no, it is not. That’s no business of yours! I’m not on painkillers, I am not.” The remainder of that precious conversation with I. E. Shinn! The last time he would speak to her with kindness, with love. He’d talked to her of business. The Studio was considering her for a new film opposite Joseph Cotten, Niagara it was titled, and set at Niagara Falls; Norma Jeane would be playing a scheming, sexy adulteress and would-be murderess named Rose. “Sweetheart, ‘Rose’ is going to be terrific, I promise you. This film is a whole lot classier than Don’t Bother, which privately I think, and don’t quote me, is a stagy piece of crap except for you. Now, if I can get a better deal with those bastards—”

  Hours later, Shinn called back. He was screaming at Norma Jeane even as she lifted the receiver. “—never told me you did such a thing! When was this, 1949? When in 1949? You were under contract then, weren’t you? You fool! You dope! The Studio is probably going to suspend you, and at the worst possible time! ‘Miss Golden Dreams’! What was it, soft-core porn? That fucker Otto Öse? May he rot in hell!” Shinn paused to draw breath, snorting like a dragon. Norma Jeane would halfway think, afterward, that Rumpelstiltskin had been right in the room with her. She stood stunned, clutching the receiver. What was this man talking about? Why was he so angry? “Miss Golden Dreams”—what did that mean? Otto Öse? Was Otto dead? Shinn said, “‘Marilyn’ was mine, you dumb broad. ‘Marilyn’ was beautiful, and she was mine; you had no right to despoil her.”

  I. E. Shinn’s last words to Norma Jeane. And never would she see him again except in his casket.

  “It’s like I’m a C-commie, I guess? All the papers after me.”

  Norma Jeane tried to joke. Why was it so important? Why wasn’t it funny? Everybody so angry at
her! Hating her! Like she was a criminal, a pervert! She’d explained that she had posed nude only once in her entire life and she’d done it then only for money—“Because I was desperate. Fifty dollars! You’d be desperate too.”

  When we showed her the calendar she didn’t recognize herself. She didn’t seem to be pretending. She was smiling, sweating. She leafed through the calendar looking for “Miss Golden Dreams” until one of us pointed it out to her and she stared and stared and this panicked look came into her face. And then it was like she was pretending to recognize herself, to remember. And she couldn’t.

  Already she was missing I. E. Shinn! In terror he would fire her as his client. He hadn’t been allowed to come to The Studio with her for the emergency meeting in Mr. Z’s office. All afternoon she would be hidden away with these angry disgusted men. They never once laughed at her jokes! She’d become accustomed to men laughing uproariously at her mildest witticisms. “Marilyn Monroe” would be an inspired comedienne. But not quite yet. Not with these men.

  There was bat-faced Mr. Z, who could barely bring himself to look at her. There was corkscrew-curly Mr. S, who stared at her as if he’d never seen a female so degraded, so despicable, and could not tear his eyes away. There was Mr. D, who was a co-producer of Don’t Bother to Knock and had summoned Norma Jeane to him the evening following her meeting with W. There was grim-faced Mr. F, who was head of public relations at The Studio and clearly distressed. There were Mr. A and Mr. T, attorneys. From time to time there were others, all men. In her dazed state Norma Jeane wouldn’t recall clearly afterward. Mr. Shinn screaming at her! Other voices, on the phone, screaming at her! And what did she do? She rushed into the bathroom of her apartment and fumbled open the medicine cabinet and took up a razor blade as Nell had taken up a razor blade, but her fingers shook, and already the phone was ringing again, and the flimsy razor blade slipped from her fingers.