Misfit (23 page)

The swimming pool is the epitome of the Cal Neva's location. Not quite kidney-shaped, its stand-out feature is the tiled black line that splits the pool, with each side marked appropriately,
California
and
Nevada
. However, it's not divided down the middle, as some people think. The California portion makes up only about a third of the pool. The shallow end.

 

And she pictures herself as any one of those women she grew up seeing in Norwalk State Hospital. Always a half step off the beat, yet moving with a sense of assurance. But when met by the rest of the world, they turned afraid, went inward. Like a peaceable tribe confronted by its aggressor.

 

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.

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?

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.

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.”

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.

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.

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.