Marilyn's Daughter

  Tantalizing, extorting, Normalyn was sure, remaining mysteriously quiet.

  Another knock at the door. Billy Jack opened it.

  A youngwoman with a veiled hat and a gray dress entered. She held a silver cigarette lighter in her hand. She seemed about to click it.

  Normalyn stopped her with angered words: “Who the hell are you pretending to be?”

  “It’s just I!” Veronica Lake removed the veiled hat. She shook her hair loose, rearranged a lump of it over one eye.

  Lady Star said to Normalyn, “Who did you think it was, darling?” Billy Jack and Veronica Lake laughed. “Oh, and by the way—we have a confirmation from . . . Sandra. She will attend auditions. . . . She’s a surprise guest from the past.”

  Sandra. . . . The figure in the “game”? In the captive twilight of this fallen château, Normalyn felt weighted by the resurrected past.

  “Are you sure you won’t be part of auditions, darling?” Lady Star addressed Normalyn.

  “I’ll attend,” Normalyn decided—and felt so damn sad, so alone, afraid, missing everyone.

  Twenty-Eight

  “Auditions!” Lady Star intoned. “Will now begin! For a few—!”

  “Very goddamn few.” Billy Jack asserted his tough say. He opened his shiny shirt to expose the authoritative tombstone cracked by a rose. Today he was again Billy Jack.

  “—for a very few Dead Movie Stars . . . darlings!” Lady Star flung the endearment at the worried petitioners seated before her in the basement of the Thrice-Blessed Pentecostal Church of the Redeemer. With a real orchid in her newly reddened hair—she was once again Lady Star—she sat in a high-backed chair once used by a church minister awaiting the time of his sermon. Billy Jack sat on her right, Veronica Lake on her left; the rest of the founding Dead Movie Stars flanked them on either side, all behind a table draped with a lacy sheet of starry silver and propped on a small platform.

  Before them in rows of folding chairs were about twenty-five youngmen and youngwomen, all preselected from among many more as “petitioners,” and all dressed somewhat like the movie stars they longed to be. In the shadows beyond the ashen circle of light over the clearing containing the platform, other young people sat scattered on the floor: allowed “supporting players” who would perform only when—if!—a particular petitioner reached the ultimate stage of examination. There was in the large murky room a buzzing tension, the restiveness of outsiders confined to rules.

  Front row center, Normalyn, in her own attire and makeup, faced Lady Star. She prepared to remind herself as often as necessary—and that was now—that she was here only to find a possible guide into areas of truth. In the row behind her sat the girl Normalyn had encountered at the Silent Scream; her lips were painted red, red.

  News of the date for midnight auditions had been conveyed only earlier today to the qualified. From a sheltered vantage, the Dead Movie Stars had earlier overseen the entrants, safeguarding against the uninvited. Alerted to irregularity, Lady Star would slice a finger across her throat, signaling to Otto, the enormous hulking caretaker of the Thrice Blessed Church, to bar a questionable presence. Otto provided the large basement for free in exchange for “hobnobbing among glamour”—Lady Star’s words. Hairy hand planted passionately on his groin, he guarded the door and kept strict discipline during auditions.

  Now in her tall chair and behind her silvery table, Lady Star introduced Billy Jack, Veronica Lake, Tyrone Power, Betty Grable, Errol Flynn, Hedy Lamarr, James Dean, and— “Where the hell is Rita Hayworth?”

  “I think her mom’s sick,” Tyrone Power offered.

  Lady Star went on to address the assemblage: “As we begin this memorable evening of discovery, keep in mind that glamour and tragedy go hand in hand. It is that that allows the great stars to glow forever.” She explained the stages to Dead Movie Stardom. Each petitioner, darlings, would be evaluated quickly on appearance and at least the hint of a secret. Those deemed worthy of further exploration would become pretenders. The panel would be allowed any question at any stage. Five or more “nos” from the founders meant unappealable impeachment in the first two phases. “If you don’t accept our just decision peacefully, our most competent paramilitarian—”

  “Parliamentarian,” Veronica Lake adjusted.

  “—is ready—and able—to assist you out into the dark, deserted street,” Lady Star warned. “Of course, we prefer that you remain as loyal fans.” She swept on to explain, darlings, that those passing the first two rigorous phases would be designated contenders, then permitted to perform “scenes”—with supporting players, if desired—from the life of the great star under consideration. Seven “yesses”—out of a possible nine from the founders—“if Rita Hayworth gets here in time,” she complained only to Billy Jack—would bestow the supreme accolade of Dead Movie Star.

  Sighs of ambition rose pleadingly to the ceiling.

  “Now previews!” Lady Star tantalized. “This evening we will have two thrilling firsts, auditions for two of the greatest female movie stars ever! And we have with us a most distinguished special guest!” Lady Star motioned toward the back now, to an older woman, in her fifties, who looked down into her lap. Seeming out of place, she wore a dark blue dress. “We may inspire her to address us in the course of this memorable evening. Darlings! She was actually there when it happened,” she added suspense.

  Sandra? . . . At the same moment that Normalyn turned to look at her, the older woman adjusted her glasses to peer at her. There was a sudden flutter of the woman’s hands, as if she were deciding whether or not to signal.

  Lady Star captured the exchange. “We may have other surprises.”

  Normalyn did not flinch.

  Lady Star intoned grandly, “Darlings! Some advice. Speak distinctly. Don’t be tongue-tied; don’t wave your hands about like this. Make gentle, flowing, gestures—smooth. Don’t chew the scenery, don’t shout or split our ears, don’t clown to get some easy laughs, don’t overdo your scenes. But don’t be timid, either. Allow the tragic lives you’ll be exploring to be your inspiration. And let this be your guide: We’re here to find the secret truths.” She paused then added, “. . . darlings!”

  Then she called the first mighty name.

  “The petitioner for Judy Garland!”

  Errol Flynn questioned the chubby girl: “When did you try to kill yourself the first time, how old, why?”

  “Fourteen, because I was lonesome,” the plump girl answered.

  “Wrong!” flung Errol Flynn. “Judy was twenty-eight; MGM had just dumped her because she was getting fat.”

  The girl protested, “I really did try to kill myself when I was fourteen. Look.” She raised scarred wrists.

  Lady Star meted out harsh judgment: “You are not tragic nor glamorous, just fat and neurotic. We recommend you seek help elsewhere for both maledictions.”

  “Maladies?” wondered Veronica Lake.

  “Can I try out for Greta Garbo?” the petitioner pleaded.

  “Petitioner for Marlon Brando!” Lady Star wiped the girl aside.

  The youngman, in ripped tank top, hardly shreds, had bleached spiked hair, knotty muscles.

  “Do we think Brando’s, uh, dead?” James Dean consulted.

  Lady Star knifed him with a look.

  “Present evidence of worthiness!” Billy Jack barked at the petitioner.

  The petitioner for Marlon Brando told of a deprived childhood marked by one single joy: “—playing my harmonica by the river.”

  Betty Grable placed the matter on firmer ground: “Why did you really flee to Tahiti and become a mess?”

  “Huh? Well, uh— . . . Huh?”

  Marlon Brando grew old, and his soul remained beautiful, Miss Bertha whispered to Normalyn. And Judy? What can these creatures do to Judy?

  “Gong!” James Dean led the banishment.

  The petitioner walked up to him, drawing gasps. “I’ll just have to make damn sure your car crashes, motherfucker, and then I’ll fuckin??
? take your place.”

  “Try it now if you can get your finger out of your ass, shit-face,” James Dean spoke clearly.

  “Malcontents,” Hedy Lamarr sighed.

  Otto hauled out the threatening petitioner.

  Lady Star spoke the next name with a tip of distaste; Billy Jack had been adamant about this inclusion: “The petitioner for Jayne Mansfield!”

  Hair a spray of bleached waves, a tittering youngwoman in a clutching dress bent forward. Amid whistles from a contingent of “reformed bikers”—Veronica Lake identified them knowledgeably—Billy Jack sex-growled at the petitioner, “Prove those fuckers are real!”

  Nipples of enormous breasts escaped. Billy Jack and Errol Flynn led applause. Tyrone Power yawned.

  Lady Star blinked twice in disapproval.

  Tyrone Power tested the petitioner: “What did you and Mr. Universe do in your pink bedroom every Friday night for three hours?”

  “Posed stark naked in the mirror!”

  Billy Jack and Errol Flynn led a burst of approving cheers from reformed bikers.

  “That,” Lady Star squelched, “is neither glamorous nor tragic, petitioner! Stars were always dressed in their glamour. Rejected.” She relied on impetus.

  “Rejected!” Veronica Lake touched small, proud breasts.

  “Rejected,” Betty Grable issued.

  “Out!” lashed Hedy Lamarr. Then Lady Star, Veronica Lake, Betty Grable, and Hedy Lamarr glared at Tyrone Power, who, with an indifferent shrug, banished the petitioner.

  The youngwoman cupped her breasts at the rejecters. “You’re jealous of these!”

  Betty Grable challenged her back.

  A hefty male supporting player offered the rejected petitioner “private auditions” as Otto escorted her out eagerly.

  With dignity and firmness, Lady Star subdued the crowd: “If this irrelevance continues—”

  “—irreverence,” Veronica Lake sighed.

  “—if this continues, we will not hesitate to take drastic measures—like removing the culpits from the hall!”

  “Culprits.”

  “The petitioner for Pola Negri!” Lady Star restored order.

  A spectral figure in mourning glided forth.

  “Tell us about you and Hitler!” Betty Grable was on her toes.

  “I only prepared for Valentino’s funeral,” came the plaintive voice behind the shroud.

  “Questions!” Lady Star unleashed the panel.

  Billy Jack barraged: “Were you ashamed as a kid cause you were so damn skinny? Did your fuckin’ old man whip you while you were naked and your sisters watched?”

  “Did, uh, yours?” a baffled James Dean inquired of Billy Jack, who sat back in sudden moody silence.

  To strengthen her diminishing resolve for remaining here, Normalyn glanced back at the older woman, who almost raised her hand as if in greeting.

  The petitioner in mourning quivered. “I do have a secret. I’m the Madonna of Sorrows. I had a vision on Hollywood Boulevard just earlier. She told me to come here and tell you to erect a chapel in her name at—”

  “I just knew we’d start getting the religious nuts, with all those suicides we’ve been taking.” Hedy Lamarr softened her gorgeous hair.

  Otto led the protesting figure out.

  Rita Hayworth dashed into the basement, up the platform. “Sorry I’m late, guys. My mom’s dying. Who’s out?”

  Billy Jack filled her in.

  “The petitioner for Marlene Dietrich!”

  “She’s not dead,” a male voice from among the supporting players reminded. “Neither is Brando.”

  Veronica Lake identified the intrusive voice as that of a “punker.”

  “And he’s all right!” Betty Grable assured.

  “They. Are. Dead. When. You. Think. They. Are.” Lady Star engraved each word with acid. “Where the hell is Dietrich?”

  “Here!” A tall body with a top hat, a tuxedo jacket, tight shorts, sleek stockings, spiked heels, and legs wide apart conquered an aisle.

  “Who was Ferde?” Tyrone Power shot.

  “He was my insane husband,” the deep voice declared. Ambushed by ridiculing looks, the petitioner gambled for unimpeachability: “I read it in Mildred Meadows’s column.”

  At the mention of Mildred Meadows, there was a long inhaled sigh, released as a gasp of rage into the ensuing silence. It came from the older woman.

  “You’re bluffing,” Tyrone Power reprimanded. “We don’t like that. Ferde was the owner of a French dyke bar.”

  Hedy Lamarr leaned toward the petitioner. “More to the point, Dietrich is not a man, and you are!”

  If she focused on these mean distortions, she might shove back her urgent pain. In Normalyn’s mind, Kirk was receding into a shadow, as if he had carried death all along. His muscles had not concealed his sorrow, in her new memory of him. At this moment, Troja was probably bunched in pain, alone, but if—

  “The Divine Joan Crawford!” Lady Star called, and warned the square-lipped, square-shouldered petitioner, “Don’t dare rant about what that awful daughter claims.”

  Removing shoulder padding, the petitioner adjusted to perceived antagonism. “I’ve changed my mind, I want to petition for Hedy Lamarr. She was filmed in the nude!”

  “Some secret,” sighed Rita Hayworth, fussing with long, orange fingernails.

  “You’ve got your nerve!” Hedy Lamarr introduced herself to the petitioner.

  The youngwoman remained as a fan.

  “The petitioner for Valentino,” Lady Star summoned.

  A sinister youngman held a shiny black cylinder. “This is the dildo I gave Manuel Dante. He was murdered with it.”

  “Are you auditioning for Manuel Dante or Valentino?” Lady Star had already decided—neither. The others agreed.

  The petitioner raised the dildo and his middle finger at the panel. He was shoved out by Otto for disrespect to the founders.

  With dizzying swiftness, the petitioner for John Derek, aided by a dazzling overlay of added eyelashes, almost became the evening’s first Dead Movie Star, with a secret so sensational no one even attempted to verify it. He created confusion when, heady with success, he offered to petition also for Shaun Calhoun.

  Lady Star was aghast: “You cannot hope to be two Dead Movie Stars; that’s schizofrantic.”

  “—phrenic,” Veronica Lake clarified to herself.

  “Yeah, well, just wait until you hear what I discovered about Shaun Calhoun.” The again-petitioner was cocky. “His only movie—in a bit part—drew over eighty thousand letters. He was murdered by Mae Barton, the cosmetic heiress; she bet Tony Mora, the big Vegas gambler, a hundred thousand dollars that she’d be the one to make Shaun break his promise to be faithful forever to his dead twin sister.”

  “Everyone knows that,” Billy Jack reminded.

  “But was he faithful?” Rita Hayworth was impatient to affirm the endurability of true love.

  “No—because Tony Mora seduced him first. And that’s why Mae Barton killed him. And I know even better stuff about John Smith, another of Wilson’s boys. He—”

  “You are disqualified as everyone!” Lady Star spoke for the panel. With unblemished poise, she moved on:

  “The petitioner for Alan Ladd!”

  Jim! Normalyn almost-hoped. No, the sailor who loved Miss Bertha would not fit in this arena of cruelty. When she saw him again—and she would—she would tell him how much handsomer and taller he was than this petitioner.

  Betty Grable snapped her fingers at the good-looking dark youngman: “Why’d you finally O.D.?”

  “Because my old man and my old lady wouldn’t stay off my fuckin’ back, man,” the petitioner yelled. Voted out, he shouted at Veronica Lake, “Hey, Rosa! Remember me, babe? Pete Mendoza? From Valley High?”

  In horror, Veronica Lake aimed emphatic words at the giggling panel and congregation: “I have never in my entire life seen this awful creature, much less at some place called Valley High!” She deman
ded, “Doesn’t anyone have a decent scandal tonight?”

  “I’m pregnant and on probation,” offered a trembly girl. Lady Star throttled the tiny tragedy by calling for: “The petitioner for Frances Farmer!”

  Pretty, disheveled, she became an easy pretender. “My mother committed me to an asylum, where I was raped and—”

  An older woman rushed down the hall.

  “Mother!” the pretender exclaimed.

  “Oh, oh,” Rita Hayworth empathized.

  The woman pulled the girl brusquely out of the dark hall. “You won’t get out this time!”

  “Was she a supporting player?” Errol Flynn wanted to know.

  They waited for the girl and the woman to return. They didn’t.

  “The petitioner for Nash McHugh!” Lady Star pushed away the disturbing moments.

  “Nash McHugh was a spy for the goddamned commies,” said the youngman, “and his lover molested little—”

  Protest, dearheart!

  “That’s a goddamned lie!” Normalyn stood up. “Mildred Meadows made all that up! They were both decent men.” And Enid loved Mark Poe.

  Applause at the passionate outburst came from the older woman.

  Lady Star smiled slyly at Normalyn.

  Lips pressed tight, Normalyn sat down.

  The petitioner for Nash McHugh was banished when he offered to avoid controversy and petition for John Wayne.

  Yes, some “fans” lay in wait to crucify the stars, pay them back for loving them. Miss Bertha had said that to Normalyn. She was seeing that here, how easily brutality posed as adulation as the Dead Movie Stars and the candidates raked over the real tragedies of Lupe Velez, her many loves—cowboys, stuntmen, hangers-on, one of whom made her pregnant, made her choose to die . . . Montgomery Clift, seeking temporary surcease in darkened sex-rooms, hiding his dying soul . . . Linda Darnell, once as beautiful as a dark jewel, then aging, alone, watching her old films on television when she was consumed by fire . . . Johnny Weissmuller, hospitalized, senile, tangled in the darkest jungle of his mind and still howling like Tarzan . . . Karen Stone, buying sex, thinking it was love, buying death . . . Tab Hunter, judged guilty because he had not remained “a boy, a beautiful blond boy” forever . . . Gene Tierney, seeking lost pieces of her fragile beauty. . . .