Color Marilyn Gone

The summer after Marilyn Monroe had moved to New York was the summer our secretive neighbor Evelyn Patton became a problem. Maybe if I were older I would have handled things different, but I was fourteen in 1956. Marilyn was staying with her business partner, the noted photographer Milton Greene, his wife Amy and their son Joshua while attending Lee Strasberg’s classes at the Actors’ Studio in New York.

That week in June, I was visiting my aunt’s cottage in Ocean Beach, a mostly weekend community on the western end of New York’s Fire Island. There were no cars allowed on that shoestring of sand out in the Atlantic which added to the appeal since I could make money transporting baggage for visitors. My cousin Peter, Bill Adie Jr. and I were in Adie’s grocery store selecting the biggest limes for the grownup’s nightly gin and tonics.

Marilyn came down the aisle and to my surprise nodded a quick hello pulling bubblegum colored sunglasses to the tip of her nose. She wore no makeup because she didn’t need it. Blue eyes sparkled in a lightly tanned face.  Blonde hair hid under a black silk scarf. She wore a red bikini and people were staring. My eyes took in those legs that were sugarcoated in white sand all the way up to an unbuttoned white cotton blouse, later I would glimpse her naked.

A pyramid of oranges had attracted Marilyn. The bouquet of oranges blended with her warm coconut butter. She turned and moved closer for a good look. “Aren't you the boy I saw through that fence today with a red wagon?" Her voice was so childlike and soft that it sounded like a kitten purring causing people to turn away as if it were a private matter.

We faced one another and I shrugged my shoulders. "I don’t know."  It was kid stuff—I knew it—but it worked. My palms were sweating but I hadn’t given in to the urge to clear my throat.  "You were almost late meeting the Fire Island Belle from Bay Shore.  I saw you wrinkle up that handsome face from the deck. Were you docking that ferry in your head?" 

Nervousness took hold in spite of my best efforts and I lifted an orange from her hand to toss it high in the air. “How’d you know that?" Marilyn moved me aside with a hip and caught the orange. “It’s easy to recognize people in thought, so I listen in to help them think, but I may give it up if somebody doesn't’ start returning the favor."  Stepping closer with my hands on my hips I said, "I’d never need help docking that boat; I could do that in my sleep."  Her eyes lit up inviting a wonderful smile. "Is that so?"

She blew me a kiss saying "So long, Captain." I waved goodbye but she didn't see it, excited shoppers had formed a circle around her. Seconds later, she was gone. Gawkers rose on tiptoes for a better look and like them I already missed her.

Something told me to keep that Marylyn encounter to myself but it flashed through my neighborhood after I called home. The day I returned to Fairfield, a seldom seen next-door neighbor appeared outside my door at 8:30 A.M.  A slight breeze tousled chestnut brown hair in front of a serious, lily-white face.  She wore no makeup, nail polish or shoes, but strangely enough, black stockings on a day when it was already hitting eighty degrees and that’s not all. 

A long-sleeved blue wool sweater and matching skirt clung to an hourglass shape. The gold earrings, bracelet and necklace gave off varying degrees of blue color. My sister said wearing topaz was a big deal, even though pure topaz was colorless. She was wrong; the package that wanted out of that sweater was the big deal. She could easily step into Marilyn’s sandals.

Unfazed by heat and humidity, she waltzed inside, sat on the piano bench and insisted we call her Evelyn, not Mrs. Patton. No one knew much about her then except that she had lost her husband during the Second World War and was known to have had a stream of boyfriends visiting, but that had tapered off.  We noticed early on that Evelyn didn’t care to reveal herself. 

As I repeated my conversation with Marilyn, Evelyn committed it to memory with brown eyes rummaging for misplaced memories that might fit.  “I’ll ask you to call that woman by her real name. Norma Jeane is the girl I knew.”  The ground rules having been laid down, she showed up each morning to chronicle Norma Jeane’s life with a frozen face that never thawed. Again and again, I wondered if it would break into icy fragments if a smile popped up.

According to Alfredo Cappelli, my piano teacher, both girls were eye-candy at an early age that had only gotten sweeter. We shook hands spontaneously at those words and I began to call him Al. He needed all the friends he could find as Evelyn chronicled Norma Jeane’s life. 

Al, fifty-something and six feet tall, had a cow licked silver-gray mop of hair atop bloodshot eyes. A five o'clock shadow carpeted sunken cheeks that ended in a chiseled chin. His swanlike neck flexed at odd angles before piano keys; he took in the world through awkward glimpses.  A greasy blue sports coat contained droopy shoulders under white short-sleeved shirts.  Gray slacks showed sock and hairless legs above scuffed penny loafers.  

White gloves dominated the ivories, but vocal accompaniment was out of the question; a rasping monotone was all tobacco-stained vocal chords ever achieved.  His brain and hands had evolved for keyboard use. Al knew every piece of music. His fingers would cease activity to laze under flattened palms at the piano’s edge only to pounce at the last second on required notes.

The once well-paid musician now consigned himself to the Ship’s Lantern in Westport every weeknight across from the YMCA where he rented the basement apartment.  Jules Munchin, Westport Playhouse’s founder, offered a paycheck if the summer’s production was a musical. On special occasions Al would show up wearing white gloves at the organ at Trinity Church in Southport or across the street inside the Pequot Library at the well used Baldwin piano.

Evelyn sat with my mother and sisters in the living room shuffling newspaper and magazine clippings to run the gamut from laughter to tears reliving Norma Jeane’s early life. Facts would sneak in between struck piano keys telling us that Norma Jeane’s life paralleled Evelyn’s. The pace quickened when either life entered into “The heart’s darkest waters.”   

It was very obvious Al and Evelyn were sworn enemies from another time and place. A look at Evelyn’s newspaper clippings started one lesson with a bang. “This is my hour you’re screwing with. The next time you put your problems and Marilyn’s canyons on display at least have the courtesy to spare me—pack up your coloring book.”  Al’s disgust seemed tempered by a perverse attraction. “I tossed your coloring book once don’t start that crap all over again.” Evelyn stiffened as Al approached the sofa and I noticed a tightening around her eyes while she continued a dissertation on the temptations young girls find inside high schools. Each word got louder; a right hand’s clenched fist closed fingers sent a message—Stop.

“Mind your business, Doodles and stay away from me.”  My family was dumbfounded; our distinguished piano instructor had been saddled with Doodles?  Evelyn took advantage of a stricken face to press on. “That’s right; little Alfredo Cappelli is none other than that big liar, Doodles.  He insists he was born on the Fourth of July, just like George M. Cohan.” Evelyn withdrew Al’s birth certificate. “I read the first day of the month, but go on stick to your story.”

Two retreated to the piano, three stayed on the couch but nobody enjoyed the tension.  Al commented, as we shared finger positions and misery. “I’d like it if we started on the hour, no more late arrivals…she’s killing me.  Think of that screwy voice as a broad on a lazy walk, the musical term is aldante. When she‘s loses it, she’s into a trot that’s allegretto. Next she’ll gallop with piss and moans, call that an allegro.”

Maritime troubles caused by the war entered Nora Jeane’s life starting as barely audible murmurs, but rose in volume with Evelyn’s grief.  Al would abandon my lesson, throw up his hands and break into what he called a Twinkle. This consisted of an arrangement of Green Eyes adapted to Norma Jeane lover’s current port of call.

Dixieland brass accompanied the freighter leaving New Orleans from the longest wharf in the world for the Mississippi delta.  Hawaiian keys signaled an oil tanker outward bound from Pearl Harbor’s East Loch to refuel warships.  Melancholy chords greeted the merchant ship passing Lady Liberty on her way to resupply London. The chords played were explained. ”You can change three or more of those moans into notes which make up a chord. Each piano chord can be played different ways using octaves.”

“You lost me, Al.”

“Sorry, another New York Lady came to mind.”

“Who’s that?”

“Lady Day—Billie Holiday of course— I shared gigs with her.”

 Al had a bad habit of adding years to my vanishing childhood. A lot of what he said shot way over my head; he must have been a lonely kid.  I’d find myself in conversations that forced me to scramble just to keep up, Evelyn was more my speed.  One day, she declared with great authority that Norma Jeane wouldn’t find happiness until she left Hollywood for good. She directed me to tell her to stay put in Connecticut. We all laughed, but Evelyn wasn’t amused.  

After a two-day disappearance she returned with too much makeup and a sheer long sleeved midriff agitating both Al and his pupil.  “That dummy should share with the other girls; a chest cold would be fatal.”  Evelyn was more concerned with her almost visible arms than the incredible torso and rushed home for a sweater. After our keyboard session, my mother, sister and I were glued to Evelyn’s clippings. The revised coloring book had been elevated to a scrapbook.  The thing—worth its weight in canyons—was dedicated to Jimmy Dougherty whom Norma Jeane had married in June of 1942.

  We discovered Norma Jeane Mortenson was born on June, 6, 1926 in Los Angeles County Hospital. Evelyn would tie their lives together, so we followed along and assumed Evelyn was the same age. Norma Jeane’s mother, Gladys Pearl Baker, lived in Los Angeles. A copy of the birth certificate, which Evelyn presented, listed Norma Jeane’s father as Martin Edward Mortenson.  Evelyn had once tried to get that error corrected and had fallen short.

We paid attention to another odd activity; Evelyn couldn’t stop those scissors. Swatches were diced quickly and few photos escaped clothing. Since Norma Jeane’s parents had married in 1924 and split up with Gladys pregnant, the Marilyn I met was in fact baptized Norma Jeane Baker, the last name of Gladys’ prior husband.  A tiny silk coat was glued to Gladys after she lost her job as a film cutter due to a mental illness. It would put her in an institution.

Norma Jeane spent a childhood with foster parents or other orphans until age eleven when she lived with a girlfriend. Was that Evelyn? We never got an answer. “Unspeakably sexual things happened to young Norma Jeane,” Evelyn said. A black witch-hat glued to the girl’s brown hair went on without comment. Gladys was a flop as a parent so Norma Jeane became a ward of the California and Gladys’ friend, Grace McKee, became Norma Jeane’s legal guardian.

Evelyn had kind words for Grace who must have lived in a world of movie stars glorified by film. You knew Evelyn was with those two watching movies. Those reels must have been an escape from reality.  The capes Evelyn crafted were the moviegoers were made of black wool. Nine-year-old Norma Jeane watched Grace marry Mr. Goddard and soon after the Los Angeles Orphans Home welcomed Norma Jeane. Two years later because Gladys wouldn’t sign adoption papers Norma Jeane was sent to live with her Aunt Olive.  Evelyn said Norma Jeane was raped by Olive’s son and I had to believe it.

Evelyn paused to consult crayon colors that held the dates, places and perpetrators of real or imagined sexual assaults. Had she become an expert liar under Al’s tutelage? It didn’t really matter, and so the tale continued. In 1938, Gladys sent twelve-year-old Norma Jean to live with another aunt in Van Nuys. Clothing placed on Evelyn’s left knee awaiting a suitable image.

After another rape she returned to live in Compton, but when Grace’s husband Doc left for a job on the East Coast Norma Jeane had to drop out of high school and marry her boyfriend Jimmy or revisit the Los Angeles Orphans’ Home.  Marilyn opted for a wedding ring. This hadn’t tickled Evelyn because any misfortune involving Jimmy or Norma Jeane brought snickers and even an impressive smile when she thought we weren’t watching.

A postcard said the two had been dating for some time and were happy until he joined the Merchant Marines and went to the South Pacific in 1944.  Al’s twinkle triggered silence from Evelyn just after Jimmy left California. Right then I decided I had to find out all I could about this guy, who wore Evelyn’s cotton wig and rayon boots.  Soon Evelyn’s voice crept back into the sun porch as an aldante, rising in volume from an allegretto to an allegro that brought another twinkle. I never saw her face, but Al’s keyboard intensity must have devastated her. 

How Evelyn met Norma Jeane or if they communicated was answered by “It’s too painful to say—that damn war—their marriage ended the day the fool joined the Merchant Marines; he just had to do it."  Nobody knew what to do about her compulsion to reveal each aspect of Norma Jean’s life or worse yet, dress pictures. Al banned her from our house during piano lessons, but I objected. Two things mattered at the Patton place: trees outside and pies within. That house was unseen; no one got inside. If you had doubted being welcomed, a look at the door locks erased it.

It was possible to earn a few dollars for pruning or bug-spraying trees while I kept an eye out for kids who flew across her yard on bikes to strip cherries. My money would show up in a white envelope jammed into an empty milk bottle on Evelyn’s back porch, but once or twice dollar bills found their way to the pocket of the driver from Wade’s Diary. My money for delivering The Bridgeport Post was never taken, Evelyn valued clippings too much. 

The success of her scrapbook meant newspapers and bugs piled up under the porch light as Norma Jeane’s years went to paper. This was good because in her absence I mastered Al’s piano fingering; Mr. Dwyer disagreed "She’s setting you up.” One week later at precisely 7:45 P.M., Evelyn began her performances. The aroma of that cherry pie can still water my mouth.   

Without Al’s intimidating twinkles, she’d confidently open her scrapbook and watch our expressions delighting in each reaction. Somewhere in her head the three of us multiplied—as she looked beyond us at the unseen multitude—to hundreds or maybe thousands.  There was a consistent finale.  "If I saw Norma Jean, I’ll tell her to figure this fame thing out. Hollywood isn’t worth it: take acting lessons, light up Broadway and dance or it’ll be the death of you."

She finished while trimming a tiny corduroy coat. "It’s just so simple."  The next night I stood by the sofa breaking in an outfielder’s glove. The Rawlings mitt was well oiled and a baseball squeezed in rubber bands would form a pocket. Evelyn exhibited a postcard with young marines standing at attention before the Recruit Training Depot in San Diego.

A few days later, as I folded papers for delivery, I read Marilyn would marry for a third time to playwright Arthur Miller whom she had met through Lee Strasberg. Evelyn’s warning about Hollywood had planted a seed.  Hopefully Marilyn would leave Hollywood behind for Arthur and Lee.  Maybe they’d think it through for her if she stayed in New York.

Evelyn was cutting and pasting mostly yellowed paper at a record pace and my mother had found discarded clothing items clinging to cat fur.  I say mostly because Evelyn had taken to skipping over postcards, telegrams and certain photos. She shielded these with a protective hand and a weak smile. It was a sticky situation; she designed the scrapbook and guided us over Norma Jeane’s pitfalls and triumphs but some things Evelyn just couldn’t share.

We flew past Norma Jeane divorcing Jimmy Dougherty—I bet he didn’t deserve her—but stalled before executives at Twentieth Century Fox on August 26, 1946, when a grown up Norma Jean signed her movie-making contract.  On the opposite page we saw recently dyed blonde hair and a studio-assigned name. Evelyn pointed out that Norma Jeane, now Marilyn Monroe, was soon forgotten after filming bit parts for Columbia and Fox.

Evelyn was pleased when clippings said Norma Jean was forced to meet expenses by returning to the still camera as a model.  Her mood turned ugly when Norma Jeane’s nude photograph on a calendar led to a minor role in a forgettable film, Scudda-Hoo! Scudda-Hay!  As far as Evelyn was concerned, Marilyn never existed.  Norma Jeane was a permanent fixation.

That brief connection this movie star and I had shared on Fire Island appeared to have rekindled a neighbor’s obsession attracting: makeup, sexy outfits and chic jewelry.  Evelyn’s face seemed prettier, her figure more sculptured and the woman looked younger. One thought kept popping up inside my brain; would millions of people be tempted to scrutinize Marilyn’s stolen innocence if exposed by the press?  If they were tempted, I dreaded what might happen.

Someone had to stay in Marilyn’s corner no matter what happened. As her past caught up with the present, I kept hearing “So long, Captain.” Those cheerful words had now taken on an ominous new meaning.  At 9:30 P.M. when I shut my bedroom window on the tongues of my black and white Converse sneakers for their nightly airing, I happened to look over at the Patton house and followed candlelight through dim rooms that ended at an upstairs window.

Evelyn turned on a lamp and held up a scrapbook for me to see. The only thing missing was applause from an unseen audience, but she blew kisses from a cold-creamed face so I knew she had heard it. Twenty minutes later, she still dabbed her cheeks near a pile of Kleenex tissues. I nodded off before that lighted window ninety feet away and awoke to see images of Marilyn being lifted from the open scrapbook by fireflies and carried outside through Evelyn’s window.  

They floated in midair, thin colorful movie-star-stepping-stones, each one bordered by blinking yellows or greens. Evelyn folded her arms in front and dropped from her window onto an image dispersing its fluttering frame. A thin nightgown floated above Marilyn’s dazzling likeness that now offered a scowl.  Evelyn hang in space drawing exposed ankles under her nightgown. I began to step outside until I realized her gaze was fixed on the red and white lights of traffic moving between darkened skyscrapers.

Leaning out the window, I anchored one hand on the radiator and held out the other.  She shook her head as if wishing to fall.  Evelyn zeroed in on the sound of crickets in the background and began snapping her fingers in time with graceful swaying.

“What kind of music is that, Mrs. Patton?”

“No ideas about the tune, but it’s Afro-Cuban and heavy on maracas.”

“You might as well dance…you took lessons.”

“Not tonight, my feet are sore just thinking about it.”

She bent down pulling me to her side and we entered a sweeping dive.  The wind brought tears and a blurry cityscape rushed to meet me but I saw something unexpected.  Manhattan looked as if it was receding from the shores of the East and Hudson rivers. Everything tumbled into a shrinking grassy vortex: water tanks from rooftops and entire buildings disappeared into Central Park. Distant stars left streaks in the sky as they plunged in.  It’s easy to know if you’re caught in a nightmare but difficult to escape.  My hands smacked my face passing through flesh.   

Somehow I survived that fall to find myself beside Sgt. Ratcliff watching Evelyn leak blood. She lay as if asleep on a pillow made of my sneakers.  My fingers dipped into blood.

“Jez, it runs cold?”  

“I’ve seen this type so often it’s not worth the mention... one cold-blooded bitch.”

“What happens next?”

“Fortunately liquid helium from the brain pushes the blood out.” 

“What’s so good about liquid helium?”

“Come sunrise, it heats up to become a gas.”

“So?”

 “Her remains puff up like your mother’s corn muffins and drift out to sea.”

It made perfect sense.  Robert Wagner, the city’s mayor, never left dead people around. Sgt. Ratcliff looked to where a now intact city enclosed the viaduct that had offered a route for taxicabs and cars above bottlenecks between 40th and 46th Streets.  Cabs and cars filled the roadway honking at onlookers.  I woke up, slammed my window down and twisted the lock.

2

Evelyn’s actions at the start of my dream had been caused by Marilyn’s uncredited minor role in The Asphalt Jungle which had rekindled her career. We worried that Evelyn was on her way to a nervous breakdown since Jimmy popped up completely out of sync with her glued chronology.  Just like me, other people were drawn to that house. A fat neighbor on the far side of the Patton sanctuary, Stanley Kozak, would stop his lawn mower to march through tall grass. He’d arrive with red fingers to add his two cents to my knowledge of Evelyn even as he scanned her house.

Kozak said he knew all about Evelyn’s war years when she had left starving cats and nosey neighbors at a moment’s notice to meet Bobby Patton’s ships in Perth Amboy, Brooklyn and New Haven, even Portsmouth and Boston. “Christ, it all turned to crap in a handbag…just petered out.”  Somehow those parting words cheered him up.

Folding the next to last newspaper and thinking about that dream, I wandered off.  Wind stirred the branches and fanned weeds over fallen cherries. Newspaper pages floated in the air like those stepping-stones. Goose pimples broke out but I walked to a window. Small women, figurines from all over the world in native costumes, watched me from behind the right front window.  We all ignored the frantic hand motioning me toward the now opened front door.

Evelyn latched onto me; I pretended to look at the figurines.  At the edge for my vision an unheeded grin became exaggerated and then the robe dropped. My head was facing the window but I saw all there was to see, which was plenty. A bare foot stomped and then a door slammed. 

Later, uneasy near an intentionally naked performer, I stole a slice of pie and listening from the kitchen to how Marilyn’s appearance in All About Eve after The Asphalt Jungle had prompted another contract from Fox. Evelyn’s envy grew as rave notices for Let’s Make It Legal and Love Nest signaled success in 1951.  The miniature wardrobe department shut down in protest. The next night I hid behind the sofa as Clash by Night brought star billing in 1952 and a year later Niagara pleased bosses who had transformed a struggling actress into their sexpot.

Twinkles were needed a few nights later, when appearances in Gentlemen Prefer Blondes and How to Marry a Millionaire triggered snickers for work Marilyn completed in 1953.  Later that night, I walked along the shore looking at the lights on top of the trio of smoke stacks in Port Jefferson sixteen miles across Long Island Sound. Why was I slinging newspapers and running from nutty neighbors during my summer vacation?

Right then I made up my mind, I’d sell my paper route and be Marilyn’s Captain taking her to sea in an Amesbury dory. The stacks grew fat as Mickey Rooney, Freddy Bartholomew and I crashed through waves. Everyone should admire the boat Grand Banks fishermen had treasured in Captains Courageous.  I’d read Kipling’s book and seen the movie. Long Island Sound’s roughest water wouldn’t breech that freeboard and the gunwales could easily be pulled to the water’s edge allowing me to get back aboard.  

After the newspaper bundle tumbled from the delivery truck to my lawn the next day, I peeled through a newspaper to the classified section. Sure enough, there at the third column’s top, big letters blared out "AMESBURY DORY FOR SALE." I ran for my passbook saving book to discover I wouldn’t have to use oars.  Two ads burned in my pocket, one for the dory and another for a used Evinrude outboard with a five-gallon gas tank. My father, who’s dream was to own a sailboat, had built a model sloop to scale, so it was easy to sell him on a small dory. 

A day later, I pocketed twelve fifty-dollar bills, ordered a milk shake at Cindy’s across from my bank and dropped a dime into the phone on their wall. A man answered the phone and with an address in my hand, I promised to stop by at 2 P.M. the next day. My father and I wrestled a trailer hitch that afternoon. 

At night, the neighborhood spent the Fourth of July on blankets on Jennings Beach watching fireworks from Bridgeport’s Pleasure Beach down to Norwalk. Al began his own tribute to independence with his doubtful birthday. Sandwiches from Angie Mecurio’s market came out of his Hillman Minx to fight for space in our kitchen with his liquor bottles. Cherry bombs and rockets went off till 11:45 P.M.

 Sometime in the middle of the night, I woke up. A flashlight outside the screen blinded my eyes. Evelyn was standing outside in her nightgown. Next door I found Al curled up on her porch between uniformed policemen. She snatched a brass key from Al’s hand, stepped heavily on his crotch, shot a dirty look at all of us and prepared to disappear inside.

 “If you people stick you noses inside, I’ll be waiting.”

 “At this moment your police department has no interest in doing that.”

 “Then take out the garbage when you leave, Flatfoot.”

A scribbled note awaited my father as I rode up front with Sgt. Ratcliff, who stopped at the Fairfield Diner for coffee.  Downing a chocolate milkshake, I turned on the twirling blue light and sped down the Post Road towards Westport.  Al’s limp body went down the YMCA’s rear stairs to a basement room where it fell to a sagging love seat.

"This place is a rat hole. I’ll take you back home; he can get his British contraption tomorrow."  Al ratcheted upright in short bursts to survey the surroundings. He staggered toward a damaged piano bench, kicked it soundly and somehow managed to curl up on it in greater comfort.  Sgt. Ratcliff shook his head. 

"Suit yourself, Alberto."

"You’re damned right, Ratcliff.  It’s a safe bet I’m better off in my own rat hole.

“Our drunk tank has a lock.”

“Next time I hope she squashes your nuts."  

I felt no sympathy for Al, Sgt. Ratcliff had it right as usual.  Although I’d never seen a rat hole, Al’s hovel fit the bill.  On the way out the door I saw Evelyn and Al framed by the one object Al appeared to value, a polished silver frame. Evelyn sat on top of a huge organ dressed in a white long-sleeved shirt. Leotards covered the legs which were drawn up under her chin. Her fingers held silver-colored dancing shoes and their taps reflected the photographer’s flash.

Al’s legs hovered over countless pedals: short, long, slender and cylindrical that branched out under bare shins within the curved recesses of a console. His face, surrounded by black sideburns and a trimmed goatee, beamed above multi-layered keyboards. His neck had swiveled around and was pitched to one side.

"Goodnight, Ratcliff.  We’ll manage here."

"Are you alright with that?"

“Yes Sir, I’ll be fine.”

Rat holes really do stink. Burnt coffee had boiled away on top of a glowing electric ring on the cracked porcelain tank behind a nauseating toilet bowl.  This room was a combination kitchen, barroom and crapper. Cans of soup and sardines were helped near a tarnished percolator.  More cans were visible on the bathtub’s grungy corners behind a mildewed shower curtain that hid a flotilla of underwear, gloves and socks. The smell of bleach was welcomed.

 Zipping up, I held my breath avoiding the stench as a clear-headed narrative continued. "That Radio City Wurlitzer was the second coming of Christ—biggest music box made by man. It filled that truck all the way to the ceiling. Hell, they had a wooden frame built and ten quilts wrapped that sucker. The crew rode from Tonawanda upstate all the way down to the 50th Street side door. It took three gorillas pushing and dripping sweat two hours to roll that baby in.”   

Al raised the piano bench lid and slumped into a ruptured wing chair handing me a copy of Playboy. He had paid fifty cents to see Marilyn nude in the first December edition three years earlier. He waiting for my reaction and fought back as a yawn approached.  Before chin-hit-chest, he blew a kiss at the photograph.  "A happy whatever it was last night, Twinkle Toes."

Playboy offered Marilyn naked.  If anyone on Fire Island still pondered what it looked like under that bikini, close-ups held the answer.  She stayed put under sheet music tempting me to study curves, but I didn’t.  Items inside the bench made Evelyn more relevant. A postcard, addressed to Bobby’s mother in Jackson Heights, Queens—Evelyn’s Bobby—said Evelyn was sorry, but her son had lost out to Jimmy—Marilyn’s Jimmy—whom she had met with a friend.

Evelyn closed by wishing all Japanese people rounded up and sent home after the sneak attack on Hawaii.  Point Fermin Park in San Pedro was pictured on the other side. A whitewashed building on the left side displayed CAFE in black. The view was scenic; a wooden fence protected the park’s visitors from a dunk in the Pacific.

Alongside a crushed cigarette pack in the bench was the image of a headless girl in a tight sweater and overalls in front of a factory. Letters on the brick spelled out Radio Plane Munitions. That body belonged to young Norma Jeane, certain parts pointed higher then. Evelyn was nuts; she hadn’t dumped Bobby Patton for Jimmy Dougherty, she’d married Bobby and Norma Jeane had married Jimmy only to divorce him later—scrapbooks can’t lie.

After the piano bench yielded its secrets, I was ready to go home. That piano looked lonelier than I felt. The keys were tobacco-yellow with dirt-filled fissures. Worn pedals and cigarette burns were silent reminders of a hard life. Under the piano’s lid an undersized harp lay on its back ready for felt-tipped wooden hammers. Cigarette stubs were spread out amid rubbish and two were upright. The instrument had collected gum wrappers, beer bottle caps and tobacco spit.

I was poised for Chopsticks when church bells sounded 4 A.M.  The sound of a running shower ended my sleep later. Shortly thereafter I piled into the front of my father’s four-door Plymouth Savoy expecting a scolding, but Al couldn’t stop talking. His head shot back and forth from the backseat as he roamed Vaudeville during the war. As we crossed into Fairfield, he recalled gigs in the Village where he had found Evelyn dancing somewhere on Bleeker Street.

Later she joined him as a Rockette in Radio City Music Hall where Al said he tickled the Wurlitzer’s keys as femininity raised a rumpus among other things. “One dumb hoofer, that’s all she’s ever been.  Bobby risked his ass on high seas while her dumper took in paying guests uptown. A whore in Harlem, it’s that’s simple.”  My father didn’t care. "It isn’t worth hearing." 

If I’d seen Al’s runny nose and puffy face in the rearview mirror I’d never have asked, but then again, I had to know. “What happened between you and Mrs. Patton in New York?" I turned to look into prolonged silence, but he composed himself quickly with the skill of a practiced liar. "Carried off by a stage-door Johnnie, the worst kind, a black mechanic."   

The thought was scary, suppose that steely-eyed gangster forming in our minds was still in business? It seemed plausible when I noticed my father’s tight jaw. Al fell silent slumping in the backseat, so we wouldn’t know which Johnnie she had met or when it had all started. Al perked up as we approached the A&P’s liquor store on the Post Road, but it was too early.

Al claimed that when Evelyn settled next-door; she took trains to New York returning that night or sometimes weeks later. Twice months had passed until the lights came on and a suitcase disappeared behind her door. Al volunteered that she frequented Times Square after shows and hopped Duke’s “A” Train to visit favorite haunts but I didn’t care.  She was nuts and Al was close behind, besides I had a boat to buy.

That afternoon, my father and I drove past Greensfarms into Westport. Within sight of the recently completed Connecticut Turnpike we turned left over a narrow bridge onto a dirt road that ended at a green, silk-topped wall. Between corn and an old barn lay a new farm house alongside a brook that vanished into cattails on its way to salt water.

Birdseed was scattered on bare planks on the porch. Bright red-winged blackbirds and drab starlings, making the most of shimmering neck feathers, swarmed resident chickens. A Cocker Spaniel puppy danced behind a screen door. I knelt down to pat the space between flapping ears that made tracks for my father. Paws scratched my father’s legs; his mouth was wide open.

"Hello, Captain! You’re too late; I sold the last ferry hours ago."  Marilyn stepped outside. Plastic curlers wound blond hair above an ecstatic face. She wore a white terrycloth robe and walked barefooted. Joy was thriving amid the antics on the front porch where birds zoomed, a puppy leapt and a boat buyer shook his head at an immobilized parent. She introduced herself to my father while I rushed toward the barn.

There in the open doorway on an aluminum trailer sat the most elegant Amesbury dory I could have ever conceived of in my wildest dream. Marilyn had bought it in Cos Cob months ago but had never been out on Long Island Sound.  Between photo-shoots, acting classes and falling for Arthur Miller, sea voyages had lost out to bare-footed walks among stalks. Somehow she had finished Bus Stop, which critics pointed to as proof Marilyn was more than a sex symbol.

Director Josh Logan’s and acting coaches Lee and Paula Strasberg’s dedicated student had won rave reviews as Cherie in the movie. She had left Don Murray’s side to sit in a barn rowing towards recognition as a talented actress. We knew she hated to see her dory go; it must have been a sanctuary because Marilyn had trouble surrendering her oars.

"Four-hundred and Milton will want his trailer back." I handed over the money and she disappeared inside while we connected the trailer to the hitch.  Marilyn returned in dungarees tying blue shirttails in a knot before a tanned stomach. Curlers hit the ground, she’s going with us? She turned and ran inside shouting "don’t you dare leave." Minutes later she arrived out of breath at the Plymouth with a paper bag full of vegetables. 

"Can I go for a real ocean ride…sometime?" 

“Of course I have your phone number, I’ll call you.”

Then it hit me, worse than it had inside Adies on Fire Island.  I dreaded the silence Marilyn left in her wake. My father caught a hint because he told me he’d come up with the dory’s name, The Buxom Lass.  It was a struggle to think of anything cheerful. It had to be a million miles from Point Fermin Park and that headless photo. Sniffing coconut butter only made things worse.

Deep inside I knew I’d never talk to her again.  Casting a fuzzy outline on the gravel outside the Plymouth, I was certain she could hear thoughts. Teeth bit my lower lip and a vision broke through my defenses. Jimmy walked with Marilyn in Point Fermin Park. Soon their two shadows emerged into one on the wall of the cafe. Evelyn was busy; San Pedro’s skyline was being outlined in brightly colored canyons as if the world was her scrapbook.

Fear raced forward on my invented film. On a storm-tossed Pacific, a torpedo rammed into Bobby’s ship and flames broke out. Covered in oil, he sank to his graveyard. I spat it out.  "Did Jimmy love Evelyn?" Marilyn’s didn’t move.  Her silence grew painful.

"Evelyn loved Jimmy—he loved me more—so I helped her think." My grip on the dashboard tightened. "Do you think she ever loved Bobby?"  Marilyn quickly linked thoughts, the ones that had provoked my sympathy for Evelyn all summer long. "She’s a born dancer, a gifted singer and should have been the actress, but she can’t figure things out. I set limits for her on one thing in particular, but then she’d turn against me and say very mean things about me to our friends."  

Marilyn leaned in and the answer to my question about Evelyn’s love for Bobby was a soft kiss on the cheek. Then she held out her hand for us to admire the latest wedding band. She’d married Arthur Miller on the 29^th of June. That wonderful smile appeared to dim the ring’s luster. She danced with the puppy through birds and waved goodbye. Two days later, we returned Milton’s trailer. The screen door didn’t open—Mrs. Miller wasn’t there.

The third week in August after swabbing decks, I cruised from the small boat dock to the Pequot Yacht Club to fill the gas tank and grab a soda.  Howard Burr, the town harbormaster, had recommended me to several yacht owners the year before.  I thought keeping boats in Bristol condition was better than a paid vacation but that afternoon I took a needed break.

The dory’s bow was high in the water as I rounded the bell buoy at the entrance to Southport harbor. With the throttle wide open, the Evinrude purred. The Buxom Lass settled down to plane about a foot off the surface all the way to Port Jefferson. Blonde hair didn’t fly in wind nor did pink sunglasses drip salt, but my sister saw Marilyn next to Joseph Cotton playing Rose Loomis.

That evening Evelyn had plastered 1953's Niagara billboard across two pages. I was nervous as Evelyn gathered speed towards insanity. Two days later, when I returned from Sasco Beach to the Southport harbor’s entrance. Tritona’s twin engines were pushing the seventy-five foot yacht closer to Florida. The sky grew darker and Tritona’s navigation lights disappeared fast. The hurricane season was coming, that meant my summer was almost history.

I’d miss James Milton, the yacht’s owner, who sang with the Metropolitan Opera during its summer season. Whether scrubbing Tritona’s decks or hugging its wake, Mr. Milton lifted my piano scales past suds or the gurgles of heat-exchangers with a heaving chest. We piloted stinkpots to the dismay of Southport’s elite rag-and-stick men. On windless days our boats left the narrow channel bordered by stone walls to explore the Connecticut shore. 

Trinity Church’s white steeple, standing in trees, disappeared as we’d run the Gold Coast past Westport’s seaside estates. I took my first swim off Cockenoe Island off Norwalk while Mr. Milton’s Funiculi, Funiculi boomed before Manhattan’s barely visible features.  Fresh oysters from a silver platter disappeared as I heard the history of Peppino Turco’s and Luigi Denza’s 1880 effort. There was opulence aboard Tritona to last a lifetime and yet there was more waiting.

As Tritona’s stern grew smaller and anxious about summer’s end, I spied the 1952 Rolls-Royce Silver Wraith that had been Mr. Milton’s winning car at the New York Auto show a few years earlier—without a doubt his pride and joy—gleaming at the bottom of the empty pier’s gangway.

The right-hand drive, four-door saloon’s sable-colored hood was spotless, there wasn’t a seagull dropping in sight. The long bonnet was encased in wax as was the burgundy-colored body that curved from the sloping front wing to the stylish boot. Chrome-spoke wheels centered in white-walled tires supported the masterpiece.

Mr. Milton’s had told Howard that H.J. Mulliner, Mr. Milton’s favorite Rolls-Royce coachwork designer, had eclipsed his brilliance with the edition. Minutes later, I wheeled my bike into Howard’s tool shed for the night. The Rolls was on its way to freight forwarders in New York City but not before I rode on its fawn-colored leather.

When we arrived at my house, the walnut tray table had been opened, monogrammed glasses in the recessed bar had been smudged and not one gold-etched dish had evaded fingernails. I did guard the silver-plated brush and comb inside the felt-lined grooming kit.  Mr. Milton’s chauffeur retrieved a gold plated writing instrument, which I had called a mere pen. It regained its rightful place just as the police car and ambulance arrived at Evelyn’s house.

A tall, thin, colored man in his fifties was headed straight for the Patton place. The man was unimpressed with the Rolls; he lifted his gold-rimmed sunglasses slowly but averted my inspection. The head dropped and he proceeded unsteadily until he stopped before a barrier of uncaring observers. After neighbors had begrudgingly given ground, he sheepishly continued to the front porch of the Patton place through the growing gap. It was obvious he might play a role in any drama that might unfold.

He wore a red-felt fedora hat that was creased lengthwise down the crown and pinched in the front on both sides. The hat had a purple four and one-half inch hatband with a bow. A rust-colored suit, which my sister said was sharkskin, shimmering over suede shoes matching his hatband. The face, tinted a copper color, looked as if it was back on familiar but foreign ground.

Al sat on the front steps with his head in his hands and then Sgt. Ratcliff requested a cigarette from Al which I’d never seen before. Minutes later, men in white wheeled Evelyn’s body covered in a spotted green sheet outside. It bounced down the steps and out into the street where Sgt. Ratcliff waited to identify the corpse.  A peek over Sgt. Radcliff’s shoulder left me swaying. That pretty face was gone and what had taken its place was gruesome.

The head was a ghoulish color partway between green and blue and it looked like the entire skin was doomed to inherit similar hues. Normally I avoided cigarette smoke but in this case I recycled Sgt. Ratcliff’s puffs. Who knows what caused that ungodly stench? The eyes were sunken—I needed to get closer—and brown fluid had congealed around the lumps that had once been a nose and mouth. The smell came from lower escape routes. All sorts of living things must have found a place to thrive inside that bloated stomach—she looked pregnant.

Sgt. Ratcliff must have been aware of my presence because he shifted his weight.  Time was about to run out, at any second he’d turn around.

“I’ll tell you once, back away.”

“Do I have to?”

“I‘m pissed already…don’t press your luck.”

“Yeah, but some black killer may want another victim…me.”

The uniform stiffened and he anchored his feet. Somebody grabbed my arm and spun me around. Regaining some balance, I found myself inches from Kozak.  His bulbous nose, laced with blue veins and festering blackheads, was in my face.

“You’re always where you don’t belong.  Go home.”

“I’ll go where I please…I’d back off if I were you.”

The next week offered hot, humid days and the realization that people had disappeared: Marilyn to Arthur’s care, Evelyn to a coffin, Mr. Milton to the Atlantic and most importantly— that nameless man to Harlem—the man who might complete Evelyn’s puzzle. Several weeks passed before someone else would disappear.

Howard shook his head leaving the red telephone booth near his tool shed and motioned for me to take a phone call.  The outboard sputtered to a stop and I ran up the ramp from the dock.  Al in a raspy, panicked voice competed with sirens in the background. He told me to hop the next train to Westport and ended with "Sears and Roebuck and their bullshit appliances can go to hell.  The Y’s sprinkler is flooding my rat hole."

Al flagged the conductor on the way in, and with his back turned, bought tickets. We took empty seats across from a ripe lavatory that held passenger waste. It reeked, sloshed and vanished from consciousness when Al leaned closer. "She called me, said she had no reason to live—so I slept on it—how was I to know she’d do it?" He reached into the inside pocket of his sports coat to produce a white envelope. My name was sprawled from one corner to the other in Evelyn’s unmistakable scribble. 

"Wade's driver found it.  He dropped it on my lap in the Ship’s Lantern." 

"When was that?" 

“I give a shit about when?”

Al lunged forward trying to snatch the envelope back.  "Christ don’t open it here…that’s her will! Don’t screw this up; the black mechanic had his hooks in her and there’s no telling what he’ll do to you—now."  Endless minutes passed and then Al straightened up in the seat, an unnatural self-confidence rose to the occasion. He settled back, but the strain of forced relaxation gave rise to a strong left jab that stung my shoulder.

“Listen, I care more about people than you think.”

“You hurt people. Who wants a nasty twinkle or a stupid jab?”

 He hadn’t sound like his old self, there was a phony guise.  Someone up front lit a cigarette and a ghostly ribbon of smoke sent Al to the bottom of a crushed Lucky Strike pack.  Pride visibly stifled self-control: lanky legs wandered under the opposing seat, slouches were more pronounced and soon what little eye contact had existed ended, a victim of rising tears.

 We rode in silence, him behind his Daily News sniffling, me mumbling to the burned rat hole that materialized in a wet splotch that spread over dripping glass. After we crossed the trestle into Hell’s Kitchen, I plucked my ticket stub from the back of the seat facing me; it was one-way to Grand Central Terminal.  A piano smoldered among floating socks and sunken cans as the air-conditioned cars screeched at the 125th Street Station above the Park Avenue Viaduct.

Al snatched the stub, tossed money and with a scowl creasing his face, left the car.  Embarrassed by prying commuters, I sank deeper to study Al’s ten-dollar bill.  Alexander Hamilton wasn’t a President, so why was he gawking at me?   I had nothing to be ashamed of.  Looking beyond polished tracks a woman, seemingly chained to a hot ironing board, stole a glance at a radio, flowerpot and mattress intended to heighten her fire escape’s appeal on hot nights. Peering between tenements, black people ran from hot asphalt to gushing fire hydrants or cooler bars. Had Evelyn’s taps shifted sawdust before a jukebox below? 

The train darkened.  We went underground. Tiny green and red spots grew bigger the farther in we went. Minutes later, passengers left cold cars to trudge up a grooved ribbon of concrete into the vast terminal where I jumped on the express to South Ferry.  Heat from the city rose past a hazy skyline into scarlet clouds. At the bow of a Staten Island ferry that cut deep water, I greeted chilly air.  Harlem was still alive at 12:30 A.M.; I never saw Al’s or any white face.

3

Two months later, I awoke at dawn. Frost glistened on grass under crimson branches. Trash had been heaped at the curb before the Patton house during the night and two men were loading it into a garbage truck. Dressing quickly I cautiously approached the back of a man in a full-length black leather coat. Everything about this man told me he was fragile and when I recognized that honey-red hair which had been combed into a high pompadour it was too late.      

“The show starts at three, but maybe I can sneak you in now."

"You knew her?" 

"No. I married her.”

“I’m Clyde Hawkins, you be that boy next door.

We passed the front hallway into the living room. Not a stick of furniture or a figurine remained in the room only a closed red velvet curtain farther into the room. The kitchen was bare, but it yielded hints at its purpose: it retained a faint cherry aroma and my fingertip left a line on the flour-coated countertop.  

He led me into the living room towards a locked door that he opened with yet another key. Inside the small room were three metal pipe racks holding dozens of dresses, woman’s slacks, sweaters, jackets and coats. The walls were lined with a brigade of shoes.  A pair of dancing shoes, like the one I had seen in Al’s picture frame, led each brigade.

I followed him to the hall moving up a narrow stairway with my eyes glued to the wall that held Marilyn’s movie posters. “That’s damn sad ain’t it?” I gave no answer he could have a thinner skin then the one on display.  At the top of the stairs he paused, took a deep breath and lurched forward toward an unseen hazard.  That scary door was a pale pink.

The doorknob was turned and he stepped back.  Knowing he couldn’t muster an invitation on his own, I entered. Twin cribs had cellophane wrapping. Pink sheets and baby blankets were folded against each headboard and two bassinettes held identical stuffed animals. A closet revealed pink baby dresses and sunbonnets. Sympathy for Evelyn forced me to leave.

"She would have wanted you to have them things.”  We stood there for a full minute and I realized I’d held my breath, so I exhaled slowly.  "I don’t want her stuff." We moved down the hallway both dreading the next door. Gathering what must have been unexploited strength from somewhere, he punched his right fist though the hollow-core door.  The strength of that hand said I’d underestimated the danger. 

The odor of decayed flesh hit me like a brick wall, but he kept his sudden composure. Disgust simmered below the surface as he approached a raised circular bed in the darkened room. The walls were empty spaces until he hit a switch and a rotating ball’s mirrors spewed colored light onto the walls and ceiling. Wispy shards raked a single bed on a metal frame at the window.  Dark stains and newspaper clippings littered the inside of Evelyn’s discolored robe.

“That’s where…?" 

"She pulled the plug on living.  Snipping wrists will do that."

The Savoy’s horn summoned, so I flew down the stairs with my Pez candy dispenser pressed against me like a mustache.  Something had to be done about that blood-spattered robe and mattress upstairs; I just wasn’t up to it. To tell you the truth, I was too scared because this guy was either a great actor or simply slow on the uptake. That smashed door never had a chance.  Darting into fresh air he heard, “See you at three, Clyde."

Things went downhill when I got into the car. My sister handed me four messages which I crumpled up and tossed out the window.

“Hey, I wrote those down and you didn’t even look at them.”

“Who cares?”

She predicted that Al, known for persistence, would be outside with his own flashlight.  That did it, I told her to let me out. An hour later, Dr. Brown’s Novocain wore off, so the drilled tooth throbbed.  The sky had collected a lid of heavy clouds, a perfect shroud for a bad day that I was ready to pack in.  The way home would take me past the historic Burr residence on the Old Post Road.  Howard was rumored to be a direct descendant of Jehue Burr who had turned out patriots including Vice President Aron Burr.

The sky opened up and I waited under an oak tree out front.  The ghosts of real American heroes, right there inside that colonial house, were not about to be dishonored by a coward with sluggish lips.  Even Alexander Hamilton knew I had to deal with that black man. Time was against me so I stuck out my thumb and caught a ride home.

There was a blue Buick with New York plates and Sgt. Ratcliff’s patrol car waiting next door. Kozak sat in the back of the patrol car with a bloody face. He turned away as Sgt. Ratcliff waved me over.

"What’s going on?"

"Her lawyer's inside. Get in there, you’re thirty minutes late.”

"What happened to my fat neighbor?" 

"Kozak pissed off the new owners, the Hawkins clan.”

Three heads turned as I opened the front door. The attorney sat in a camel’s hair coat holding up his copy of the will which he slid into a manila folder. “(Uh) Okay, then...I represents the deceased whose known to all of you’s here present. I been waiting on you’s (uh) long enough.  I’m hitting the parkway for the Bronx, lovely, just a lovely ride…that one.”

As far as I was concerned that accent should have stayed in the Bronx. He arose with a nod to two beautiful, light-skinned, teenage girls. They were the only twins I had seen in person. What really stood out were the green eyes and auburn hair. The trio departed, but Clyde jumped from behind the drapes to bar my exit.

While he locked both deadbolts from the inside, cars were pulling out. I grabbed the drapes and looked outside. He jerked the drapes together and pushed me to the velvet I’d seen earlier.

“I got a mind to plant your butt on top of hers."

"What did I do?"

"She was fine, till your skinny, white ass messed her up." 

Without a warning, his hand grabbed my shirt to drag me through red velvet. A sheet, at chest level in the darkened space, held my bequest, Evelyn’s last scrapbook. There wasn’t time to catch up with Mrs. Arthur Miller; Clyde’s hand was inside his coat reaching for a bulge. My life passed before me pressing the scrapbook to my face.  My free hand slapped the bare wall, I wasn’t dreaming and Clyde was deadly serious.

"Knock off that slapping shit.  Put that craziness down, I want to finish this.” I heard the CHINKS of metal pieces being joined; of course a silencer—he’d need that. Was a 38 stub nose cocked?  The sheet’s descent to the floor accompanied a pounding heart; he had plans for me. Peeking around the scrapbook, I saw him take tools from a leather pouch on the Steinway. 

“Lift that blind at the window, I does my best work in well-lit rooms, always have. That cop says a black hired gun—which ain’t me—is fixing to put slugs in you. Let’s see, trusty gooseneck, tuning hammer and stand-by fork—course I got four rubber wedge mutes. Oh yeah! We got us a three and five-eights inch muting felt to keep the bass section gleaming." 

He kissed the piano and apologized to the Steinway for not bringing the best tools for a more precise adjustment to tuning pins. As he pampered his inheritance, I learned Evelyn’s daughters had become wards of the state after her second stint in Bellevue. Kozak, who had purchased the Patton place, and Al had teamed up to keep Evelyn addicted. No wonder those arms and ankles were never seen.

It turned out Evelyn had a collection of stolen Rockette outfits, but Clyde had purchased the baby clothes at Bloomingdales. The gift Clyde couldn’t afford, Al wouldn’t play and Evelyn wouldn’t surrender had arrived that morning. Neither of us had the slightest idea who was responsible. The guessing game dominated a relaxed conversation. No one had the guts to mention those upstairs activities which funneled money to Kozak and Al.

My shared intimacy with Evelyn allowed Clyde to blow his own horn. He had left school after the sixth grade, wore out platters made by somebody called Fats Waller between shoe shines and watched another musician who called himself Thelonius Monk. Later he was the hand-picked piano tuner for the guy at a place called Minton’s Playhouse.

“Who were these people?”

“They be creative masters of the jazz-piano—Fats saw his maker 13 years ago. Monk, he be a pain in the butt, but the man teached me a skill.” 

He said tuning pianos had lifted his family out of poverty. It was clean, inside, work that gave him one up on the shoeshine boys. It was rough: no father and a mother on the dole who, he said “lost respect selling her woman-goodie on the streets.”

“Your people came from Harlem?”

“Them days with Bird and Chan be golden. I’m taking East Village, 151 Avenue B, between East 9th. and 10th.  Eyeball a city map, look for Thompkins Square Park.”

Clyde looked to ceiling, his chest heaved slightly and he took in a wheezy, sporadic lungful of air. His trembling jaw was quickly braced by a right hand. He hovered above the piano bench losing the battle to smother emotion. My heart when out to him, here was a grown man excited about a fabulous gift, frightened he would lose respect if he exposed his deep-felt loss.    

“Evelyn had the twins on the first floor with Chan at prayer.”

“So how did you meet Ev…Twinkle Toes?”

“Damn that fool Ginny to hell—I won her heart—he got his jollies smashing it.”  

Thinking I could tempt him to play, I flopped down ready to serve up my new and improved Chopsticks. Before my fingers found keys he placed a hand on my shoulder. “It seems you cared about my gal, so you oughts' to know how we got us hitched.” I learned Clyde had convinced Russell Markert, the creator of the famed chorus line at Radio City Music Hall, to grant a personal audition to a self-conscious young dancer anxious to please.

Clyde had expected to play, but my missing virtuoso, Alfredo Cappelli, had insisted on accompanying Evelyn.  Allowing a black mechanic to enter the domain of well-paid white pianists wasn’t in the cards. Clyde should have stopped there, but he dredged up memories: begging for studio gigs when alimony or rent was due and working as an underpaid or never paid piano tuner.  The heaviest load was losing the mother of his children to drugs and a stunted life at the hands of whites in a well-to-do suburb.

“Tell me about your music.”     

“It be Be-Bop.”

“Mr. Monk must have written some great Be-Bop arrangements.”  

“There be no written arrangement and it be small: trio, quartet or quintet, just two horns. Monk he slice up chords, drive a fast tempo and come out with them mystifying licks.” 

Duet time has arrived; my index fingers were poised over the F and G notes. Clyde sat down and somewhere; I’d like to think beyond Fire Island’s breakers, he turned Chopsticks into green-eyed perfection. Our spirits were reborn as he baptized keys from A to G along with every sharp and flat. His twins should have seen him: no droop on squared shoulders, no shades on bright eyes and a grin wide enough to bridge those hollow places inside.

Autumn had chilled to a frosty February when I read about Marilyn’s press conference in New York City where she signed a contract for an upcoming movie, The Prince and the Showgirl. Milton Greene had purchased the screen rights to Terrance Rattigan’s play The Sleeping Prince for Marilyn Monroe Productions.

It looked like she was on her way to managing her persona, talents and remaining years. My hope was that Arthur Miller, Milton Greene, Lee Strasburg, and Lee’s wife Paula would help her think.  Channel 4, WNBC in New York City, showed the small packed room where one of Marilyn’s black velvet dress straps broke diverting all eyes to her.

Olivier and the press forgot all about the forthcoming production.  In England, the filming worsened in reports I read that winter detailing the struggles which played out inside the Pinewood Studio.  On August 5, 1962, Marilyn’s 36 year old corpse replaced Norma Jeane forever inside their home in the Brentwood section of Los Angeles.

A powerful sedative, which we’ve all seen in liquid form in many films, that went by the name Mickey Finn and a barbiturate used in executions in Texas, Arizona and Oklahoma, ended her life.  If Evelyn was around, she would never have been able to color Marilyn gone.