You're nobody 'til somebody kills you

Four

Blond hair, red mouth, flawless, pale skin. To the public at large that’s what Marilyn Monroe was. But they had never seen the Marilyn who was standing in front of me at that moment.

“Eddie,” she said, in that breathy voice of hers. “Come on in.”

I entered the cottage, speechless, and closed the door behind me. She was wearing a pair of capri pants that hugged her assets, and a sweater that listed to one side, leaving a single shoulder bare. A single smooth, creamy shoulder, I might add.

“Miss Monroe-” I started, but she turned quickly, her hair swinging into her eyes. She tossed it back with a quick jerk.

“Please, Eddie,” she said, “call me Marilyn. Is Dean outside?”

“Yeah-yes, he said you wanted to see me alone. Marilyn, I don’t understand. We’ve only met once, and that was for about three minutes.”

She laughed, her beautiful face brightening at the memory of that moment. “I remember very well. It was last year in Harrah’s in Reno. You rescued me from a crowd of people and helped me get to the elevator.”

“And that was it,” I said. “We haven’t seen each other or spoken since then.”

“Oh, but Eddie,” she said, “I have to tell you, the way you took control? I don’t think I’ve ever felt safer. And I feel safe with you now.”

“Well, I wasn’t all that smart that time,” I said. “I was so involved in what I was doing I thought you were in town shooting The Misfits with Gable.”

“B-but … Clark died months before that, like twelve days after we finished shooting.”

“Sure, I knew that. I felt real stupid later when I thought back on it.”

“I was in town doing some publicity.”

Suddenly, her eyes got sad-the way they’d been when she opened the door-and her mouth quivered. And it wasn’t the famous Marilyn mouth I was looking at.

“Eddie-” she said, reaching a hand out to me blindly as tears filled her eyes.

“Hey, hey,” I said, taking her hand and leading her to a chair. She sat down and I crouched down in front of her.

Marilyn couldn’t help herself. Even in that moment she was radiating not only sex, but sadness. I knew what Dean had meant when he said I’d see for myself how fragile she was. Of course I’d heard stories of her moods. Also, her tumultuous love life, marriage and divorce from famous men like Joe DiMaggio and playwright Arthur Miller, a love affair with Frank that ended when he got engaged to Juliet Prowse.

Right at that moment, though, Marilyn looked alone and bewildered-much the way she had looked that day in Harrah’s Casino in Reno. The crowd had surrounded her and she had no one with her to help. I’d stepped in, took her to the elevator, and barely had time to tell her my name before the doors closed. But she’d had time to say, “Thank you, Eddie.” Later, after I finished with Sammy’s business and things were back to normal I’d think about that moment, play back in my head Marilyn Monroe saying my name.

Now I was alone in a room with her-not with the screen star, the icon, every boy or man’s wet dream-I was in a room with the real Marilyn-sad, lonely Norma Jean who, I sensed, was also very afraid of something.

“It’s okay, Marilyn,” I said. I pulled another chair over, sat next to her and took both her hands in mine.

“Dean said you could help me, Eddie.”

“And I will, Marilyn,” I said. How could I not? “But for me to do that, you have to tell me what’s wrong.”

“Oh, Eddie,” she said, squeezing my hands, “when it comes to my life, the question is … what’s right?”