But now Miss Collier had died, and here I was loitering in the vestibule of the Universal Chapel waiting for Marilyn; we had talked on the telephone the evening before, and agreed to sit together at the services, which were scheduled to start at noon. She was now a half-hour late; she was always late, but I’d thought just for once! For God’s sake, goddamnit! Then suddenly there she was, and I didn’t recognize her until she said …
MARILYN: Oh, baby, I’m so sorry. But see, I got all made up, and then I decided maybe I shouldn’t wear eyelashes or lipstick or anything, so then I had to wash all that off, and I couldn’t imagine what to wear …
(What she had imagined to wear would have been appropriate for the abbess of a nunnery in private audience with the Pope. Her hair was entirely concealed by a black chiffon scarf; her black dress was loose and long and looked somehow borrowed; black silk stockings dulled the blond sheen of her slender legs. An abbess, one can be certain, would not have donned the vaguely erotic black high-heeled shoes she had chosen, or the owlish black sunglasses that dramatized the vanilla-pallor of her dairy-fresh skin.)
TC: You look fine.
MARILYN (gnawing an already chewed-to-the-nub thumbnail): Are you sure? I mean, I’m so jumpy. Where’s the john? If I could just pop in there for a minute—
TC: And pop a pill? No! Shhh. That’s Cyril Ritchard’s voice: he’s started the eulogy.
(Tiptoeing, we entered the crowded chapel and wedged ourselves into a narrow space in the last row. Cyril Ritchard finished; he was followed by Cathleen Nesbitt, a lifelong colleague of Miss Collier’s, and finally Brian Aherne addressed the mourners. Through it all, my date periodically removed her spectacles to scoop up tears bubbling from her blue-grey eyes. I’d sometimes seen her without makeup, but today she presented a new visual experience, a face I’d not observed before, and at first I couldn’t perceive why this should be. Ah! It was because of the obscuring head scarf. With her tresses invisible, and her complexion cleared of all cosmetics, she looked twelve years old, a pubescent virgin who has just been admitted to an orphanage and is grieving over her plight. At last the ceremony ended, and the congregation began to disperse.)
MARILYN: Please, let’s sit here. Let’s wait till everyone’s left.
TC: Why?
MARILYN: I don’t want to have to talk to anybody. I never know what to say.
TC: Then you sit here, and I’ll wait outside. I’ve got to have a cigarette.
MARILYN: You can’t leave me alone! My God! Smoke here.
TC: Here? In the chapel?
MARILYN: Why not? What do you want to smoke? A reefer?
TC: Very funny. Come on, let’s go.
MARILYN: Please. There’s a lot of shutterbugs downstairs. And I certainly don’t want them taking my picture looking like this.
TC: I can’t blame you for that.
MARILYN: You said I looked fine.
TC: You do. Just perfect—if you were playing the Bride of Frankenstein.
MARILYN: Now you’re laughing at me.
TC: Do I look like I’m laughing?
MARILYN: You’re laughing inside. And that’s the worst kind of laugh. (Frowning; nibbling thumbnail) Actually, I could’ve worn makeup. I see all these other people are wearing makeup.
TC: I am. Globs.
MARILYN: Seriously, though. It’s my hair. I need color. And I didn’t have time to get any. It was all so unexpected, Miss Collier dying and all. See?
(She lifted her kerchief slightly to display a fringe of darkness where her hair parted.)
TC: Poor innocent me. And all this time I thought you were a bona-fide blonde.
MARILYN: I am. But nobody’s that natural. And incidentally, fuck you.
TC: Okay, everybody’s cleared out. So up, up.
MARILYN: Those photographers are still down there. I know it.
TC: If they didn’t recognize you coming in, they won’t recognize you going out.
MARILYN: One of them did. But I’d slipped through the door before he started yelling.
TC: I’m sure there’s a back entrance. We can go that way.
MARILYN: I don’t want to see any corpses.
TC: Why would we?
MARILYN: This is a funeral parlor. They must keep them somewhere. That’s all I need today, to wander into a room full of corpses. Be patient. I’ll take us somewhere and treat us to a bottle of bubbly.
(So we sat and talked and Marilyn said: “I hate funerals. I’m glad I won’t have to go to my own. Only, I don’t want a funeral—just my ashes cast on waves by one of my kids, if I ever have any. I wouldn’t have come today except Miss Collier cared about me, my welfare, and she was just like a granny, a tough old granny, but she taught me a lot. She taught me how to breathe. I’ve put it to good use, too, and I don’t mean just acting. There are other times when breathing is a problem. But when I first heard about it, Miss Collier cooling, the first thing I thought was: Oh, gosh, what’s going to happen to Phyllis?! Her whole life was Miss Collier. But I hear she’s going to live with Miss Hepburn. Lucky Phyllis; she’s going to have fun now. I’d change places with her pronto. Miss Hepburn is a terrific lady, no shit. I wish she was my friend. So I could call her up sometimes and … well, I don’t know, just call her up.”
We talked, about how much we liked New York and loathed Los Angeles (“Even though I was born there, I still can’t think of one good thing to say about it. If I close my eyes, and picture L.A., all I see is one big varicose vein”); we talked about actors and acting (“Everybody says I can’t act. They said the same thing about Elizabeth Taylor. And they were wrong. She was great in A Place in the Sun. I’ll never get the right part, anything I really want. My looks are against me. They’re too specific”); we talked some more about Elizabeth Taylor, and she wanted to know if I knew her, and I said yes, and she said well, what is she like, what is she really like, and I said well, she’s a little bit like you, she wears her heart on her sleeve and talks salty, and Marilyn said fuck you and said well, if somebody asked me what Marilyn Monroe was like, what was Marilyn Monroe really like, what would I say, and I said I’d have to think about that.)
TC: Now do you think we can get the hell out of here? You promised me champagne, remember?
MARILYN: I remember. But I don’t have any money.
TC: You’re always late and you never have any money. By any chance are you under the delusion that you’re Queen Elizabeth?
MARILYN: Who?
TC: Queen Elizabeth. The Queen of England.
MARILYN (frowning): What’s that cunt got to do with it?
TC: Queen Elizabeth never carries money either. She’s not allowed to. Filthy lucre must not stain the royal palm. It’s a law or something.
MARILYN: I wish they’d pass a law like that for me.
TC: Keep going the way you are and maybe they will.
MARILYN: Well, gosh. How does she pay for anything? Like when she goes shopping.
TC: Her lady-in-waiting trots along with a bag full of farthings.
MARILYN: You know what? I’ll bet she gets everything free. In return for endorsements.
TC: Very possible. I wouldn’t be a bit surprised. By Appointment to Her Majesty. Corgi dogs. All those Fortnum & Mason goodies. Pot. Condoms.
MARILYN: What would she want with condoms?
TC: Not her, dopey. For that chump who walks two steps behind. Prince Philip.
MARILYN: Him. Oh, yeah. He’s cute. He looks like he might have a nice prick. Did I ever tell you about the time I saw Errol Flynn whip out his prick and play the piano with it? Oh well, it was a hundred years ago, I’d just got into modeling, and I went to this half-ass party, and Errol Flynn, so pleased with himself, he was there and he took out his prick and played the piano with it. Thumped the keys. He played You Are My Sunshine. Christ! Everybody says Milton Berle has the biggest schlong in Hollywood. But who cares? Look, don’t you have any money?
TC: Maybe about fifty bucks.
MARILYN: Well, that ought to buy us some bubbly.
(Outside, Lexington Avenue was empty of all but harmless pedestrians. It was around two, and as nice an April afternoon as one could wish: ideal strolling weather. So we moseyed toward Third Avenue. A few gawkers spun their heads, not because they recognized Marilyn as the Marilyn, but because of her funereal finery; she giggled her special little giggle, a sound as tempting as the jingling bells on a Good Humor wagon, and said: “Maybe I should always dress this way. Real anonymous.”
As we neared P. J. Clarke’s saloon, I suggested P. J.’s might be a good place to refresh ourselves, but she vetoed that: “It’s full of those advertising creeps. And that bitch Dorothy Kilgallen, she’s always in there getting bombed. What is it with these micks? The way they booze, they’re worse than Indians.”
I felt called upon to defend Kilgallen, who was a friend, somewhat, and I allowed as to how she could upon occasion be a clever funny woman. She said: “Be that as it may, she’s written some bitchy stuff about me. But all those cunts hate me. Hedda. Louella.
