Marilyn's Daughter by John Rechy
“They sayin’ goodbye to me!” Troja whispered.
Normalyn wanted to vanish forever, but Troja’s firmed arm through hers reassured her. As they passed the two menacing men, the black woman said, “Whoevuh you are, Ah have always depended on th’ kindness of—” She hurled substituted words: “—on the shittiness of motherfuckers like you!”
In the chilly night, the three walked across tangled weeds toward an old 1968 Mustang, its convertible top patched with adhesive tape turning gray and curling at the ends. Kirk placed Troja’s bag and the folding chair into the back seat.
Soon she would be standing alone on this weedy lot, miles away from the hotel, from Long Beach, from Gibson, from life, Normalyn knew.
“Well, get in, hon,” Troja said.
Inviting her! Normalyn jumped into the car. Fellow outlaws!
Kirk turned the ignition. Nothing.
Troja got out. She lifted the hood of the car. Her head ducked under. One hand explored the motor, the other held out the white fur piece, protected, away from the engine. “Start the fucker!” A wisp of simulated fur floated into the night. The motor turned.
Normalyn looked at Troja with admiration as she jumped back into the car. Normalyn moved over. Kirk’s thigh touched hers. Normalyn slid away carefully.
Only when the car moved away from the Hollywood Four Star Theater Club did Normalyn realize she did not know where she was going with two strangers she had just met in a city she had just arrived into. She held her purse against her body, because she was cold in the patched car—and because she was suddenly afraid.
Four
“Huccome you pressin’ that purse of yours like you think someone’s gonna snatch it?” Troja said coolly.
That increased Normalyn’s fear. They drove along a decaying strip of Sunset Boulevard, near Western, a gray spectrum of cheap bars, abandoned buildings smeared with the smoke of desultory fires, walls plastered with ripped posters; all-night coffee shops in dirty puddles of light; aging motels with exotic names: THE FLAMINGO, HOLLYWOOD PALACE, GOLDEN SANDS.
Troja leaned back in silence, Normalyn sat guardedly away from Kirk. The night had turned chillier in this car which welcomed every draft.
Along the street, women idled. Many wore tight dresses cut to the edge of their buttocks. In body stockings the color of flesh, some women appeared nude under yellow cones of light. A few had a surrendered prettiness, Normalyn saw. Men with them guided them to cruising cars. Here and there, ragged derelicts, men and women, slept on crumpled papers, in doorways, on the sidewalks.
Normalyn felt as if she were passing through a foreign world.
“Get off this damn street!” Troja actually spoke harshly to Kirk. “Don’t wanna remember!”
Her world once? Normalyn wondered. Difficult to imagine this grand creature on those streets.
Kirk steered the car away from the darkly sexual arena and into a residential neighborhood of small stucco houses just holding on. On a desolate block, a church loomed, all crosses and ornate windows—old, forbidding. Over a glassy enclosure announcing that week’s sermons, Gothic letters proclaimed THE THRICE-BLESSED PENTECOSTAL CHURCH OF THE REDEEMER.
Within night mist, about fifty young people in their teens, early twenties milled excitedly before the large church. They all wore vague costumes. Some of the girls were in negligees posing as evening dresses. A few of the youngmen wore improvised tuxedos, swatches of bright cloth doubling as cummerbunds, scarves. Others brandished leather jackets and jeans rolled high at the cuffs. A girl wrapped herself in a gouged fur coat. They looked like extras in a low-budget movie intended to suggest elegance. Or like children made up for an impromptu masquerade.
Accompanied by a tough-looking youngman wearing a bloused shirt and cowboy boots, a youngwoman in a filmy gown and with a giant fake orchid in her reddened hair skimmed past the others. The buzzing increased. A few of those waiting in line almost bowed reverentially to her. With her escort brushing them aside, she disappeared into the basement of the Thrice-Blessed Church. The rest of the gathered moved in after them, leaving the night intact.
“Those sick Dead Movie Stars and their midnight auditions!” Troja said in tired disgust. “Gettin’ all that publicity now.”
That group again! Miss Bertha had thought she might be one of those trying to join. They dredged up scandals about the great movie stars they tried to imitate. Normalyn looked back at the darkened church. What secrets could those shabby children know?
In a residential block illumined by dull yellow lights, Kirk parked before a small square house set into a lawn patched with dying grass, vibrant weeds. A short palmtree, just one, squatted before the house. Normalyn’s heart sank. The house tilted! A portion of a small porch had collapsed. She almost slipped when she stepped out of the car.
“Slide area without even being on a hill,” Troja remarked, scrutinizing the house.
They entered turmoil. There were three rooms; a large one ducked to one side to form a kitchen area bordered by a barlike counter with unmatched stools. A scrambled bed in the main room faced a dormant television. A few pillows patched the floor. Its long wire a series of coils and knots, the telephone on the floor was off the cradle, making no sound, disconnected. In another room, clothes were tossed everywhere. A third room was crowded with unpacked boxes—and a tidily made-up bed. An attempt to hang drapes had been abandoned. Only a few panels flanked windows.
Pulling clothes out of her large bag, Troja threw them over bare lamps to soften the harsh spectacle. She said cheerfully, “That bed’s real comfortable.” She indicated the made-up bed surrounded by boxes in the next room. “I sleep in it myself sometimes, hon. Know why? Cause that room gets the best breeze, and a nice view of the garden. That’s why it’s the guest room. I’m sure you’ll be real comfortable, hon.”
“What!” Normalyn remained near the door.
“Sit down, hon. Make yourself at home. Wanna drink?” Troja invited nervously.
Normalyn shook her head. Then she saw this:
On the disheveled bed, Kirk was snorting white powder from what looked like the tip of a tiny knife. As he sat hunched, his huge muscles seemed to intrude on him, as if they carried a heavier weight that was not physical. He extended a packet of powder to Troja.
Troja shook her head with exaggerated emphasis. In attempted concealment, she made a gesture that rejected a further offer of it, to Normalyn. “Takin’ so much.” She softened the words to Kirk by adding, “sweetheart.” She said to Normalyn, “Too bad it’s past checkout at that expensive hotel you’re wasting your money on; we’d drive you for your luggage, save you all that wasteful rent!”
They needed her money! That was all! They had been fired, and that powder Kirk had been snorting even at the nightclub cost a lot, Normalyn knew that. She felt angry, foolish, ridiculously gullible, eager to be included, have “friends,” so awed by anyone’s life! She moved closer to the door.
Quickly, Troja stood before it. “You ain’t going?”
A statement? Was she actually blocking her? Not possible! Normalyn looked at Kirk; he had supported her earlier. No, it was clear to her now that the silent exchanges in the dressing room conveyed signals about what was occurring now.
“Yeah, stay, hon,” Kirk said to Normalyn. There was no menace in his voice, but there was little emotion in anything he said. It was as if the powder he was fingering demanded his total commitment.
If she side-stepped Troja, would the door be locked? Where would she run in the night? More than the burgeoning fear, Normalyn felt a sense of deep, cutting betrayal. “I thought you were my friends,” she said.
Troja moved to one side of the door. “Turnin’ mean—too fuckin’ tired.” She seemed to judge herself. But she remained near the door, not totally committed to remorse. Then she sat down on the floor. She looked defeated by the ugly night.
Or was she acting—to keep her here with less effort? Normalyn did not want to believe they had really intended to force he
The sudden braking of a car outside was so harsh Normalyn jumped back. Troja sat up. Even Kirk was fully alert.
The police! To save her? Arrest her? Normalyn backed farther into the house. The door opened. A skinny man walked in.
“Duke—” Troja said.
He was small, wiry, with bony nervous fingers that tapped constantly on any surface, or no surface, as he moved into the cluttered room. In his thirties, he had ashy-blond hair, a scratchy complexion. Colorless eyelashes and eyebrows made his dark, deep-set eyes look stark, frightening. “How’d your gig go, babe?” he asked Troja.
“You know. You were there.” Troja kept her voice firm. But her eyes avoided his.
Normalyn was astonished that Kirk said nothing. Were he and Troja afraid of this man?
Duke flipped a packet of cellophane near Kirk, caught it again, and jerked it away. He said to Troja, “Don’t worry about what happened. I already got a date for you.”
“She doesn’t want to go out any more,” Kirk spoke softly.
“How you gonna pay for your heaven?” Duke asked him. “Wanna go out yourself, stud?” He held the packet before Kirk as if he might pull it back. Instead, he let it drop to the floor.
And still Kirk said nothing! Normalyn saw him reach for the packet.
Duke extended a piece of paper to Troja: “Call this number, babe. Remember, you’re the black Marilyn. Wear the blonde wig.”
“Not any more, no more ridicule.” Troja said. She hid her hands behind her, hiding the trembling.
“That’s how your fans love you,” Duke’s voice mocked. He glanced at Normalyn against the wall. He smiled an icy smile. “I got the impression you were running out just now. Need a ride?”
“I’m living here!” Normalyn felt suddenly protected in this house. And challenged by this whole situation!
Under pale lashes, the black eyes focused on her. Then Duke pointed a finger in imitation of a cocked gun, which he clicked once at Troja, once at Kirk. “Got you, babes!”
When he was gone—and he left a long, tense silence behind him—Normalyn said to Kirk, “Why did you let that skinny bastard get away with all that?” Her blunt question surprised her.
Troja stood before her. “That ‘skinny bastard’ killed the most powerful black pimp on the street, and Duke’s still alive!” She looked away, said quietly, “He pulled me out of the streets.”
“Into the fuckin’ phone booths for your dates,” Kirk reminded. Only the words conveyed anger, not the voice.
“Made me high-priced like you were!” Troja shot back. “That’s how we came together, babe—two whores trickin’ with a married couple.” Shocked by her own anger, she pulled back: “And I have never regretted it,” she told Kirk eagerly. She knelt near him. “Have you?”
“You know I haven’t,” he told her. He held her shoulders tenderly. Troja crushed the paper Duke had left. Kirk eased it away from her hand. He smoothed it out, placed it on a table. Then he undid the new packet of cocaine.
Normalyn turned away from them—so much puzzling life. She would leave now . . . The night contained a new fear—of Duke. Waiting outside? She looked into the room with the prepared bed, so incongruous among the disorder everywhere else. She was more frightened to leave than to remain here. Still, she had to be cunning. She would stay, but she would not fall asleep. As soon as it dawned—before long now—she would jump out the window. “I will stay tonight,” she announced. “But I want you to know I don’t have any money with me, just some change and dollar bills.” And that was true, she could prove it. “But I have more at the hotel.” That would protect her!
Troja studied her. “I been scared like that myself, a lot. Nobody’s gonna hurt you here, hon. Promise. Now you go ahead and stay.” She smiled a crooked smile at her. “There’s something sweet about you,” she said to Normalyn. Then she walked into the room where lavish dresses were strewn. Kirk began to undress.
They did not sleep together. Normalyn rushed into the room with the boxes. She closed the door, considering pushing boxes against it. But she would be “protected” by Troja’s presence, her promise. She took off only her shoes and lay back exhausted on the bed, waiting for the dawn, waiting to jump out the window the moment it was light. She heard night sounds, sirens and—
She woke—startled that she had fallen asleep.
The door was open. Ted Gonzales stood there without a shirt. His muscles—! It was Kirk!
Normalyn huddled against the wall. It felt cold. “Please, no,” she whispered.
The door closed, the figure disappeared.
“I’m sorry,” Normalyn heard herself whisper—to herself, to life.
Five
Daylight spattered the room. Normalyn sat up. The room did have a view, not provided by the small barren yard that belonged to this house, but by a garden next door, a lovely smear of flowers. And beyond were the veily lavender clouds of jacaranda trees! The unfocused joy Normalyn felt stopped when she realized she had slept through her planned escape and remembered, in the next moment, that last night Kirk had stood at the door and—
She had dreamt it! Past fears had fused with new ones during the tired night. The luminous morning and welcome ordinary sounds from inside and outside the house banished the dream entirely as she smoothed her clothes, brushed her hair. Jump out the window now? That seemed silly after she had spent the night unbothered except by a nightmare from the past.
When she opened the door, she saw Troja and Kirk in the “kitchen area.” The black woman was already fabulously made-up; she wore a negligee so sheer her flesh smudged it smoky brown. She was cracking eggs into a giant sizzling skillet. Shirtless, Kirk was drinking coffee. Neither looked menacing. Normalyn turned away from Kirk’s exaggerated body, which alienated her.
The place looked even more disheveled in the daylight—clothes everywhere, a raid of colors. In an honored space of an otherwise cluttered table was a photograph of Troja the way she had appeared last night on stage. No, it was Marilyn Monroe, in the same, sensual, curved pose. Troja had imitated it during the courageous last moments of her performance last night.
“No need bein’ shy, hon. Sit down and have breakfast,” Troja said.
She pronounced “hon” differently now. She gave it a slight inflection at the end, almost two syllables, making it special, her own, different from the way the people at the nightclub had said it, Normalyn noticed. “I’m not shy,” was all she could say, and sat down stiffly at the counter.
Normalyn was very, very hungry. She welcomed the plate of scrambled eggs and the white buttered bread Troja set before her, along with a cup of coffee. But the eggs were dry, the coffee black, the bread almost stale. She was too famished to reject the food.
“Not many places give you the best room and breakfast.”
Oh, oh. Normalyn just kept eating.
“Go ahead and ask her,” Kirk goaded Troja.
Troja arranged a look of great concern on her face; her voice matched it: “Hon, you payin’ a lot at that fancy hotel. Bet you don’t even have a kitchen. Have to eat out. Expensive!” she emphasized. “Why don’t you room here, for a modest—”
“You need money badly,” Normalyn understood.
“And you need experienced company in the big damn city,” Troja snapped.
She did. Normalyn would keep a decision in abeyance. She would let them drive her to the Ambassador Hotel—as Troja was insisting. There, she would decide whether to leave by a side exit and take a cab to— She’d decide then.
In the Mustang, they drove out of the splintered neighborhood; Oriental, Mexican, black, a few white children played along the
They passed an elaborate building, a rotunda with arcs. Vines lazed on it, with red flowers. That was it! Enid had described it. “My mother was baptized there by Aimée Semple McPherson!” Normalyn blurted excitedly.
Troja peered at her over gigantic sunglasses that were almost black. “Your mamma was baptized in a synagogue?”
“It’s not the Temple of Divine Love?”
“That’s way across town, in Echo Park,” Troja said.
Kirk offered, “That Aimée McPherson was a real star—and a con artist. Maybe that’s what a star is!” He actually laughed.
“Marilyn was baptized there, too,” Troja informed Normalyn. “By that same preacher woman, in 1926.”
“How do you know that?”
“Everyone who knows about Marilyn knows that,” Troja said. “You love Marilyn, too, huh, hon?” she encouraged.
Another piece of Enid’s life, a cherished one, was being given over to the movie star. “My mother knew her.” Normalyn looked away from Troja.
“Hon,” Troja asked cautiously, “is your mamma—?”
“She’d dead,” Normalyn said, grateful that the battered Mustang was driving up the curved road to the Ambassador Hotel so she would not have to hear any more of Troja’s profuse commiseration.
Valets hesitated to approach the ragged car. Normalyn hopped out. She agreed she’d check out, and if they had to move the car beyond the driveway she’d wait in front for them. Troja advised her to complain about the rotten service and get some money back.
As Normalyn moved through the parting doors of the hotel, she saw a tall slender man ahead, staring at her. It was the man who had talked to her yesterday! He was waiting for her! She walked past his intense gaze. Immediately, she was sure it was not the same man.
2
Shocked by what she owed for one night and one meal at the hotel, Normalyn knew she would move out. Soon she would have to call Mayor Hughes. And Ted? The memory of last night’s dream made her resolve not to call him. Why had she linked Kirk with him, so different? As she thought of all this and paid at the desk, keeping only fifty dollars in cash, Normalyn decided that she would run away from Troja and Kirk.