The Sweetheart Read online

  You blow over your tea: the surface ripples; steam escapes. There’s a question beneath this observation. Why are you doing this? You’re not sure what the fishing expedition is all about or why he should care; perhaps he’s trying to gauge your desperation level in order to aid the negotiations. Maybe that’s why the heat’s cranked up: for interrogation purposes. You stay close-lipped on the implied question and answer only the overt one: “Tomorrow.”

  “We shouldn’t waste time, then. Do we need to talk money?”

  “I need to leave here with a hundred dollars.”

  “But you know I only pay fifty an hour.”

  “Right. Two hours.”

  “Two hours is more than I need,” he says, leaning back into the upholstery, “but I’m willing to pay more for a little something in particular.”

  “Mr. Henderson,” you say, “that is not on the table.”

  David chuckles at this; Betsy smirks. Apparently, your naivete is hilarious. David smiles and waves his hands in front of him, showing his desire to resolve a misunderstanding. “No, no. That’s not what I meant,” he says. “I’m afraid those days are long over for me.”

  He is no sexual threat—his disorder has made certain of that—and it seems important to him that you know this. This is likely one of the reasons Betsy is here: to make you comfortable, to contribute to a safe, amiable atmosphere. But, as you will soon learn, it’s not the only reason.

  “No,” he says, smiling at Betsy. “I had something else in mind.”

  • • •

  Once the deal is struck, Betsy escorts you into a spare bedroom, the same one you used when you were here the first time. Everything is just as it was before—the atomizers, the dress form, the trunk—and yet different, their connotations now sordid. She closes the door, squats in front of the trunk, and unlocks it with a key she retrieves from her dress pocket.

  “Let’s see if we can’t find something that will work for you in here,” she says.

  From the recesses of the trunk, she retrieves an assortment of props and tosses them haphazardly onto the quilt-covered bed while you take inventory of the items: underbust corsets, garters, a riding whip, a dark-haired wig, a pair of patent leather knee-high boots. With every new item, you reach a new level of anxiety. This is most definitely not going to be the kind of photo session you imagined last night, one inherently more benign, with you lounging in a restful, if nude, pose. Alone. The best you can now hope for is that the boots, one of which you pinch by its tongue and hold out in front of you, aren’t intended for you. On top of looking horribly uncomfortable—pointy toes, stiletto heels—they are certainly made for a much smaller woman. You doubt you could get more than half of your foot into it.

  “Everything okay?” Betsy is by your side now, watching with concern as you absorb the scene.

  “I don’t know,” you lie. You are decidedly not okay. You drop the boot, take a seat on the corner of the bed, and put your head between your knees.

  “Take your time,” says Betsy. She takes a seat on the bed next to you, extends her legs out for a minute and relaxes them again. When you still don’t surface, she begins rubbing your back.

  It shouldn’t be surprising that Betsy treats you with this level of patience and maternal tenderness. She is probably old enough to be your mother—her own teenage children aren’t much younger than you. What is surprising is that, despite all her compassion and borderline goody-two-shoed-ness, she will be posing for these pictures as well, and with what appears to be utter comfort and poise.

  “You’re awfully calm,” you say, resting the side of your face against your knee. “Have you done this before?”

  “Nope.” She stops rubbing your back and leans back onto her extended arms. “First and last time, just like you.”

  “But you’re not nervous?”

  Betsy shrugs. “I’m flattered, to tell the truth. Seems like an exciting thing to do while I still can. I don’t see what the big deal is, really. Lots of people do it. Here.” She springs off the bed, reaches into the chest, and pulls out a thin paper bag. “I’ll show you something,” she says, sliding out a new men’s magazine and flipping through its pages, past the editorial describing the magazine’s intended clientele (gentlemen who enjoy inviting in a female acquaintance for a quiet discussion on Picasso, Nietzsche, jazz, sex), past the story purchased from the estate of the late Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, until she finds what she’s looking for. When, finally, she hits pay dirt, she turns the magazine around and holds it open, spread wide and at your eye level. “Check this out.”

  There it is: Tom Kelley’s five-year-old photograph, a once-anonymous bit of calendar art entitled “Golden Dreams.” The backdrop: plush red velvet. The subject: Norma Jeane Mortenson.

  “Is that—”

  “Uh-huh.”

  You reach up to take the magazine and lay it out over your knees, incredulous and awestruck. It’s her, all right. And just look at her, Gwen. Angled across the fabric, her still-long, not-yet-platinum hair waving behind her, her leg and arm extended toward opposite corners. She looks like an angel, or a superhero in flight. She seems the very picture of self-possession, and why wouldn’t she? As far as you know, everything is coming up roses for her. Very soon, Photoplay will name her Best Actress; before that, she’ll walk down the stairs of a San Francisco courthouse with her new superstar husband. In time, you will learn that the real story is much different. Waiting on the perimeter of all those yards of fabric are more than her fair share of demons. But you don’t know this yet. As far as you can see, she’s as invulnerable and assured as any woman has ever been.

  You toss the magazine onto the pile on the bed, walk over to the vanity, and hold your hair up behind you, the way Kay did the night before she ground your toe into the mat. What was she talking about? You don’t bear the faintest resemblance to the popular actress. If anything, you are built more like Jane Russell and sweater girl Lana Turner than the petite star of Niagara and Gentlemen Prefer Blondes. If it weren’t for the naturally fair hair, she would never have made the association. Plus, Kay wasn’t exactly concerned with truth, was she? She was only doing what she does best: saying precisely what her audience wants to hear.

  “Tell you what,” says Betsy, putting her hands on your shoulders, her image joining yours in the mirror. “Don’t pay attention to all that stuff behind you, okay? Let’s start smaller. Maybe you could just take off your top and see how you feel.”

  “Just my top,” you repeat.

  But just your top is a lot, of course, and so you snail-pace your way through its removal while Betsy takes a seat on the bed and busies herself with those painful-looking boots. In the time it takes you to unfasten each button, remove your arms from the sleeves, and fold your blouse neatly over the top of the vanity, she has managed to pull both boots over her thin calves, yank the laces taut, and secure them with bows.

  “Ready?” she says.

  “No,” you say, but you close your eyes and reach behind you regardless, and, on the count of three—here goes nothing—unhook your brassiere.

  “Look at you!” you hear Betsy say. “You’re such a knockout, Gwen. What I wouldn’t give to be young again. Not that I ever had your assets.”

  You open your eyes again and look first at Betsy’s reflection in the vanity mirror. She pulls her shoulder-length blond hair tightly behind her and ties it into a bun while she smiles down at you, her face dominated by that oversize front tooth. Eventually, you shift your gaze and sneak a peek at your own image.

  “What do you say?” Betsy asks, holding up the brunette wig. “You think you can do the rest?”

  You’re too busy fighting off the urge to put your top back on to even consider removing anything else, so you avoid the question by pointing to the wig and asking, “Is that yours or mine?”

  “Mine.” She pulls it on over her own pinned-back hai
r and studies herself in the vanity mirror. “I’m Secret Agent U69. You’re the damsel in distress.” She straightens the wig, tucks a stray tuft of blond hair out of the way, and returns her attention and imperfect smile to you. “Today, you get to be the face.”

  “The face?” you ask, crossing your arms over your chest. You’re beginning to understand the white nylons now, how they fit into the narrative. “That’s a change of pace.”

  “See?” Betsy grabs the collar of her shirtdress and yanks; the snaps pop open one after the other, as swift and disquieting as machine-gun fire. Out from the shapeless dress comes someone else entirely: half flesh and half patent leather, round in the hip and severely cinch-waisted. You bleat out a hard, fast gasp and quickly cover your mouth. Betsy shoots a cross stare at you, but when she looks down at herself, she sniffs a little laugh.

  “Yeah, I guess it is pretty outrageous. Better get it out now, though. When we walk out of this room, we have to be these women.” She takes a seat on the edge of the bed and rests her hands on her knees. “Go ahead, hon. Get undressed. When you’re done, I’ll help you with the corset.”

  She’s exactly right, Gwen. You’ll have to do more than just take off your clothes; you’ll have to become someone else entirely, however temporarily. You know what David Henderson wants, and if you want him to pay you, you’ll have to give it to him. But if you can pull this off—if you can play this role for this moment—you can pull off anything. You’ll be able to do what Kay and Marilyn do: be anyone and anything that anybody could ever want. Sure, nearly every instinct you have screams for you to stop here, get dressed, and get out, but if you’ve learned anything from all your training, it’s how to put your natural instincts in their place. So, after another breath or two, you stand up and begin to remove your skirt.

  • • •

  In the short time you will be in front of his camera this afternoon, Monster Henderson will fill two rolls of film. The set of pictures he develops from them will survive intact into the next century, largely because they will be held by very few hands, nearly all of them women’s. When I last looked at them, decades after they were taken, I was surprised by how precious they seemed—the tone no more overt than might be found in an advertisement for, say, cologne or blue jeans. More than that, I was struck by their amateur quality. The subjects, always in the dead center of the frame, were washed out from overexposure. In one, the faces were obscured by a giant finger. But the product isn’t what matters. Not yet, at least. What matters now is the process. This experience will change you, and not in the soul-crushing way one might have assumed, given both the era and the girl. This will be a much more remarkable transformation.

  FOURTEEN

  The next morning, you are physically standing outside of your room and in front of the car trunk, the dawn-lit pine straw crackling under your feet, your suitcase hanging from your fist, but in every other way, you are still in Monster Henderson’s house, simulating acts you hadn’t known existed but now will never forget. All these hours later, the session—the bite of the corset, the sweat at your hairline—are still so immediate, so palpable, it seems hard to believe it is over. And yet, it must be. The cash that Monster Henderson pressed into your hand last night is on its way north, and soon, you will be, too.

  “All set?”

  When Joe says this, his gloved hand clasps your shoulder, his eyes peer through his dark-rimmed glasses and search yours. If he is seeking reassurance, if he wants to know how you are faring after his especially harsh dose of tough love, he need not worry. As far as you are concerned, he has done you an enormous favor. Sure, he could have been your hero; he could have bought your goodwill and loyalty for the low, low price of a hundred stinking bucks. Instead, you got to be your own hero. You are expected to take care of your own business and, as it turns out, you can. The icing on the cake: you don’t owe anybody a damn thing. And so, after you slide your suitcase on top of his and Mimi’s and seal up the DeSoto, you have no trouble meeting Joe’s gaze and saying, with conviction, “All set.”

  He leans back and breathes. “Good.” He yanks on the end of your ponytail in his playful way. “Okay, then. Let’s get rolling.”

  Joe heads in one direction; you take the other, walking around to the passenger side. As you expected, Mimi is already firmly planted in the front seat, her head pressed against the window. It’s the backseat for you, Gwen. But that’s okay. You don’t mind climbing back there today, because this is the last time you’re going to take a backseat to Mimi Hollander. After all, you left Monster Henderson’s house with something better than a hundred bucks: you left with a plan.

  • • •

  At the beginning of your photo shoot with Betsy, portraying the emotions of Sweet Gwendoline, desperate for rescue, did not require a monumental stretch. The concern etched into your face would have been there even if it didn’t fit the character. The getup certainly wasn’t putting you at ease: heels wobbly on the carpeting, underbust corset tight-laced. Still, you were doing it. Despite all your reservations, you remained composed through the entire first roll of film. While David switched it out for a fresh one, Betsy stepped into the spare bedroom to tuck a few stray hairs into her wig, and you pretended to adjust your nylons while you took a few calming breaths. When you looked up again, David had finished preparing the camera and was staring at you.

  It was not the first time you’d caught someone staring at you and it wouldn’t be the last. People have always stared at you, men in particular. You are used to being (pardon the pun here, Gwen) sized up quickly.

  But this: this was different. Perhaps it takes a man like David Henderson to understand that a person can play the role to which her body lends itself, and yet be more than this caricature would suggest. His gaze was not reduced to lust. Yes, that was part of it, but so was curiosity, compassion, admiration, even gratitude. If posing for him cost you anything, it was a fraction of what you got in return. In that moment, you felt confident, beautiful, beloved. And all of this is to say nothing of the money you would receive. The roll of film David switched out represented the halfway mark, which meant you’d already earned fifty dollars: the same amount of money you’d been paid, post expenses, after two grueling weeks on the road.

  Maybe you’ve been thinking about this all wrong. For better or worse, you are stuck with your figure. Isn’t it high time you turn into this skid?

  • • •

  You intend to answer this question here, in St. Louis.

  The plan, like all good plans, is both simple and elegant: you’re going to take advantage of the national appetite by copying the looks and manners of a certain blond bombshell. After all, there were droves of men out there who couldn’t care less about the sophisticated lifestyle Playboy advertised, but had nonetheless paid their fifty cents for Hef’s definition of Entertainment for Men because they simply could not resist the revelation of Marilyn Monroe. What better way to show off your new attitude than to pay homage to the woman who most epitomizes it? By your own admission, the resemblance is shaky at best, but if Kay could con you into seeing it, who’s to say a few subtle suggestions wouldn’t be enough for everyone else?

  And that’s why, on your first morning in St. Louis, you sit in a beautician’s chair in a downtown salon, fingering your ponytail for the very last time.

  “Sure now?” The stylist talks to you through the mirror, her scissors hovering in the air. She’s feeling you out, ensuring you’re not making the mistake many women do when they can’t change anything else in their lives. She doesn’t like the mournful way you’re stroking your hair; she doesn’t need any tears today.

  “I’m sure,” you say, planting your hands firmly on the arms of the chair. “Do it.”

  “Here goes.” The stylist gathers and smooths the first lock of hair, clamps it with her fingers, and snips; it falls onto the floor.

  Sure, you’re sure. You’ve never been surer o
f anything in your life. No more driving the tiger. From now on, you are the tiger.

  • • •

  Later in the afternoon, you race along a narrow, one-way street clogged with cars. You’re late. You were supposed to meet Sam (it’s been forty-­three days!) ten minutes ago. After the beauty salon, there was one more matter of business to tend to, which took much longer than you imagined. But when you get to your meeting place, he’s not there. Have you missed him? You check the hastily scribbled note in your pocket, the one he slipped beneath the crack of your door sometime late in the night, which included his schedule for the day (nonstop press appearances all morning), a window of time when he’d be free (perfect for a late lunch), and the street corner where he would meet you. While you search for confirmation that you are in the right place, a convertible, shiny-new except for the occasional bug splatter, honks two, three times as it creeps past. The window rolls down and a head pops out, followed by a long arm, which scoops the air.

  “Quick! Get in the car!” Sam yells. “There’s no place to park in this city!”

  You break into a run. Your heels clack against the sidewalk; the shopping bag from Stix, Baer & Fuller bangs into fellow pedestrians. Sam stalls at the yellow light at the cross street. You barely have enough time to hurry in and close the door before he turns off. The light turns red as you roll beneath it. Angry motorists yell and shake their fists.

  “I almost didn’t recognize you,” he says, reaching over to take a fistful of your new bob.

  “What do you think?” you ask. When the stylist spun you around to see your new do in the mirror, she said, “Now this is some serious glamour.” Not that you needed convincing; it had been obvious to you, too. But Sam seems to be grasping for phantom wisps. Maybe he doesn’t like it. You hadn’t considered that possibility.