marilyn [h.s.]

chapter twenty-four

AUGUST 5th, 1962, 9:00 AM

"Hurry up, Devon," Gemma called behind her shoulder as she dodged another vendor shouting in her face about buying the pickled tomatoes, pink shoes clicking faster, faster, fastest, stay strong, be quick, be smart, never stop, never stop, never feel, never think- "We're going to be late for school!"

"I'm trying, Mummy," Devon whimpered, feet moving faster and Gemma knew he was going too fast already and that she was just nitpicking but life seemed out of proportion, now... didn't it.

They stopped at the edge of the sidewalk and waited as dozens of cars, trucks and taxis whizzed by-everyone on their way to work, and for a moment Gemma wondered if any of them were having a bad day. If any of them had just lost someone very dear to them. If any of them weren't sure if they'd ever see her again.

"Mummy," Devon whispered, tugging on Gemma's sleeve. "Mummy.... Is Auntie Norma coming back?"

Looking down into the eyes of her son, the small little boy who was usually happy-go-lucky, without a care in the world, Gemma saw the same fear, anxiety and worry in his eyes that she knew was mirrored in her own. Sighing, Gemma knelt down onto the pavement and cupped Devon's pudgy little face in her hands, pinching his cheeks lightly and trying to hold back the flood of tears she could feel rising within her. "She... Well, she..." With a desperate and exasperated sigh, she closed her eyes and felt two tears escape from their captivity and onto her cheeks. "She promised she wouldn't hurt him."

Suddenly she wasn't talking to Devon anymore, suddenly she was sitting on the sidewalk, legs stretched out into a puddle of rain water, rocking back and forth silently, crying quietly into Devon's hair, whispering again and again, "She promised she wouldn't hurt him. She promised..." The rain started to fall then, dripping down Gemma's spine, as if it understood, as if could sense the foreshadowed doom looming over them like a dark shadow, red lips, silk bathrobe, Chanel N5 perfume, forget, forget, forget.

"She didn't hurt him," her son was saying, sounding much wiser than he was. "Not intentionally."

Gemma stared at her son and sighed slowly, shakily, without making a movement. Her gaze fell to the pavement and she nodded, rising to her feet and brushing off her coat from the grime of New York City's sidewalks. "You're too smart," she commented as they crossed the street and stood outside Devon's school. "Too smart for your own good."

"Keep saying that and I'll end up in Harvard."

Gemma laughed quietly, kissing Devon on the cheek and winking at him. "Have a good day in school, sweetheart."

"You too, Mom."

Gemma watched as her little boy entered the school building and sighed, wondering how it was that her little boy- the one she'd cradled, raised, fed, nurtured and cherished was becoming wiser than she was.

-

"That'll be two dollars, ma'am," the butcher said slowly. "And twenty-nine cents."

"Thank you," Gemma said softly as he passed the brown paper to her, filled with ribs that would be used for that night's supper. She tried not to think about how Norma would've added her secret ingredient. She tried not to think about the music they wouldn't listen to and the fact that Norma wouldn't be there tonight. She tried not to think about how that made her feel.

"Have a nice day, madam," the butcher called as she exited the shop. Pulling on her sunglasses, she gazed around the small sidewalk when she saw a small crowd gathered around one newspaper boy. He was shouting something... Something....

"No." The word left her mouth in a rush of air and feelings and emotions no, no, this isn't happening. "No!" the words were much louder now, as they hunk of meat fell onto her hands and onto the pavement- the newspaper boy turned just in time to see the brown paper be ripped open and the remaining red blood from the uncooked beef seep out onto the sidewalk. Gemma tried not to think about how much that reminded her about death.

"Paper, ma'am? These things are going like hotcakes. Marilyn Monroe died in her bedroom this morning and it's getting printed like wildfire."

With those words, Gemma's entire world crashed down around her. With another strangled no, she pushed her way through the crowd and ripped a paper out of the boy's hands.

There it was.

Marilyn Monroe- found dead.

It was like she couldn't breathe; but everyone else could. She couldn't hear anything except for flashbacks, memories, her own heartbeat pounding in her ears. She could feel herself crying but didn't have the strength to wipe the tears away. She could see the boy's lips moving; vaguely hear him saying, "Ma'am? Ma'am, are you okay?" and then another man in the small crowd laughing and shouting, "What a shame, Miss Marilyn Monroe dead in her own bedroom. She musta slept with da wrong kind o' people, then," and she can cloudily remember her fist connecting with his nose in a satisfying punch- she can sort of remember the cheers of the men and women as he falls to the pavement, his blood mixing with the spilt ribs, but what she did remember was the sound of her heels carrying her away from the scene, away from the butcher shop, and down- back to their apartment.

She will always remember the one thought that ran through her mind.

She promised she wouldn't hurt him.

-

Her feet carried her all the way home in record time, still clutching the paper with one shaking, trembling hand and the other banging on the door of their apartment, screaming, "Harry!! Harry! Let me in!!!"

There was no reply.

With a shaky sigh (and the realization that her entire body was convulsing with tears), Gemma backed up and rammed into the door, successfully breaking the knob and letting the door fly open.

There he was.

Sitting on the ground, in the middle of the kitchen, rocking back and forth and back and forth, clutching the goddamn necklace in his fingers like it was a rosary- back and forth, back and forth- and he wasn't even crying, but Gemma knew he'd already heard the news, so she let the paper flutter out of her hands onto the floor.

"Harry?" She whispered slowly. "Are you okay?"

And what a stupid question to ask, she thought later. Of all the things to say- when her brother is sitting on the ground, trembling with emotion, she asked are you okay like she totally couldn't tell he wasn't.

As she approached him, she could hear broken, tumulted phrases coming out of his mouth- "You're okay. Breathe. Just breathe. Open your eyes. Come back." And it hurt like hell, to watch him as he rocked back and forth, thinking he could save her. Thinking he could bring her back. "It's ok. It's over now. You're ok. This is not ok. When will it be over? Wake up. Please wake up darling. Please. Don't do this to me." And that's when he started to cry- when he saw the paper, lying on the floor- Marilyn Monroe found dead. "Don't do this to me. Don't leave me. You promise you wouldn't leave me. I love you so much. Come back."

Come back.