The Fountain Street Ghost

A Faith Cassidy Mystery

Catherine Dain

 

 

This story written for an anthology of stories about Mar­ilyn Monroe was Faith Cassidy's first foray into solving a mystery without a cat.

 

 

"If anybody would dream about a visitation from Marilyn Monroe, Bobby would. But I still think holding a seance is a little silly." Faith had to pause for breath. The angle of the Kings Road slope was too steep to climb while talking. "I should have had you drop me off."

"It's only three blocks. That isn't worth taking the car out of the garage for, when I'd just have to put it back in and then walk by myself. You know there's no place to park around here on Friday nights. The overflow from the House of Blues lot takes up everything for miles," Michael re­sponded. "Besides, only this block is uphill. The two blocks along Fountain are flat."

"And then we reach the stairs."

Michael glared and kept walking. Faith hurried to catch up. They had almost reached the end of the block, and Fountain was level, as promised.

Turning the corner didn't change the scenery. Both West Hollywood streets were overbuilt with beige, gray, and white condominiums partially covered with massive shrubbery. The California bungalows that had once graced the area had been deemed an inefficient use of expensive real estate a couple of decades before. Aesthetics loses out to economics every time, Faith thought. She didn't say it be­cause she was conserving her breath for the stairs.

"Bobby thought the apartment was haunted even before the dream about Marilyn Monroe's ghost," Michael said. "And he denies he was asleep. He hired Frankie Fallon to conduct a seance only because he's hoping for confirma­tion. I don't think that's the least little bit silly. Marilyn did live in the building, after all, which may be the only reason it's still standing. So many people willing to pay premium rent to follow in her footsteps."

"Or whatever," Faith sniffed.

"Is that a polite way of saying that you don't understand the MM mystique?"

"I do understand. Marilyn was a tragic figure, and some disturbed persons find that romantic. I just don't happen to be one of them."

"I hope you're not going to tell Bobby you think he's dis­turbed."

"Bobby knows very well what I think of him, and my opinion doesn't bother him in the least. I'm sure he also knows that inviting me to a seance confirms it. Why—even if there are ghosts, and I don't believe in them for a minute—why would ghosts talk to Frankie Fallon? Espe­cially the spirits of the stars." Faith stopped at the foot of the stairs leading from the street to Bobby's apartment building. "I'm glad they saved it, for whatever reason. It ought to be a historical monument, if it isn't already."

"I thought you were coming with an open mind."

"I'm doing my best," she sighed, grabbing the railing.

Ornamental urns flanked the steps. The patches of lawn on either side were neatly trimmed, and the L-shaped stucco chateau beyond seemed newly painted white. White scrollwork outlined the second-story windows, which had been further adorned with tiny round decks and white iron grills. Ivy geraniums mixed with gloxinia spilled between the bars, the red and pink flowers appearing especially bright in the early evening glow. The summer sun wouldn't set for another half hour.

Faith knew they were small decks rather than large window boxes only because she had squeezed onto one of the two off Bobby's living room. Before the high-rise had been built around the corner on La Cienega, the view must have been classic L.A., all the way to Catalina on a clear day.

Another set of stairs inside the building took them up to Bobby's apartment. Faith paused again at the front door.

"The exercise is good for you," Michael said. "You must have put on ten pounds in the last six months."

"Have not," Faith snapped. "I've allowed myself a slight weight gain, but it's been ten pounds spread over a year and two months."

"Spread is the word for it."

"I'm not an actress anymore, and the worth of a thera­pist isn't judged by her waistline. Fortunately."

"Just what I was going to say." Michael smiled enough to take the sting out of it.

"Are you supporting the cultural imperative?"

"Not at all. I don't think anyone should be judged by ap­pearance, you know that, whether it's Madonna or Sylvester Stallone. Or Marilyn Monroe's ghost, for that matter. And I wouldn't choose either a therapist or a friend based on buffness. As long as you're comfortable and healthy, weigh what you like."

"Thank you." Faith decided not to give him the satisfac­tion of admitting that sometimes she still worried about how she looked. "That's why so many actresses have eating disorders, you know. They're under so much pressure to stay unnaturally thin that they react by bingeing. One ex­treme to the other. No sense of moderation. In anything."

The wooden stairs creaked as they climbed.

"How wonderful that changing professions changed your personality. Too bad MM didn't see the light and get out while there was time."

"You're being flippant, but it's true. Getting out of the business—and dealing with the ego problems that come when the attention is gone—has a remarkable effect on one's mental health. At least it was good for mine."

Michael didn't answer. Faith was momentarily annoyed, until she reminded herself that she didn't need his valida­tion.

He lifted the black iron knocker on the apartment door and let it fall.

The burnished oak door was opened almost at once by a young man with shaggy blond hair and a surfer's tan. He wore a brocade vest over a collarless white shirt and jeans, as if undecided about the nature of the occasion he was dressing for. His face was as smooth and bland as a banana-nut muffin.

"Hi, I'm glad you're here." Bobby ushered them into a large, sparsely furnished living room that seemed even emp­tier because of the cathedral ceiling.

A Swedish modern conversation group that looked straight from the Ikea showroom, complete with striped area rug, faced a white stone fireplace. Michael and Faith each took one of the low chairs.

"Traci called to say that Frankie is running a little late, but they'll be here. Do you want wine?"

"Yes," Michael said.

"Who's Traci?" Faith asked.

"Traci Sloane. She's Frankie Fallon's assistant. And she drives him everywhere. Don't you watch the show?"

Bobby tossed the question over his shoulder as he headed through the dining alcove to the kitchen. The dining room table had been covered with a white cloth. A brass candelabrum with five white candles waited under the chandelier. The setting sun had glazed the room a soft, rosy pink.

"I don't think I get that channel," Faith called after him.

"It's on channel six," Michael muttered.

"You must tell me the night and time." Faith clasped her hands under her chin and smiled.

"You didn't have to come."

"Yes, I did. I've never been to a seance."

"Here we are, darlings." Bobby set a bamboo tray with a bottle of Chardonnay in an ice bucket and three stemmed glasses on the round coffee table. A plate held a wedge of Brie wreathed with crackers.

"Tell me about your dream," Faith said.

"I wasn't dreaming, I swear it," Bobby answered, handing her a glass. "I was lying in bed, awake, when I heard a woman sobbing. The sound seemed to come from inside the room. And then a blonde in a white halter dress floated through. She glanced over her shoulder, and I saw it was Marilyn."

"Sobbing?" Faith asked.

"Well, no. But the sobbing had stopped by then. For that night, at least. I've heard it several times since."

"Have you checked with your neighbors?"

"Really, Faith. What am I going to do? Start knocking on strange doors, asking, 'Excuse me, but do you cry in the middle of the night?' " Bobby punctuated the line with his glass, almost spilling the wine.

"You've lived in this building for five years. How can your neighbors be strangers?"

"He didn't say strangers," Michael said. "He said strange."

"I sit corrected." Faith turned back to Bobby. "Don't you know your neighbors?"

"Only by sight. We nod on the stairs, that's all. But even if the sobbing is a neighbor—and if it is, why is it always at three-fifteen in the morning—that doesn't explain the vi­sion." Bobby neatly skinned the top off the Brie and smeared some on a cracker.

"Well, if the vision only appeared once—"

Faith broke off when she heard the door knocker.

"I wasn't dreaming," Bobby said, as he got up to answer it. "And I saw her twice. Then when Frankie Fallon men­tioned speaking to Marilyn's spirit on his television show, I simply had to invite him over."

"Hello, dear souls!"

A short, frail man with a halo of wispy red hair swept into the room, followed by a healthy-looking blonde half his age.

Faith and Michael stood while Bobby made the intro­ductions.

"Faith!" Frankie Fallon exclaimed, kissing her hand. "What a wonderful name! Your parents must have had a beautiful vision for their daughter to have named you Faith."

"Thank you," Faith said politely. "I chose the name my­self."

She wasn't sure she wanted her hand kissed, but she let him do it anyway. His skin was so white it was almost trans­lucent, held together by a webbing of blue veins and fine wrinkles. There was so little flesh underneath that Frankie seemed halfway to mummification.

"Even better, dear soul." He looked up at her with large, blue eyes that seemed to be focused on another dimension. "Even better."

As Frankie moved on to inspect Michael, Traci Sloane grasped Faith's hand firmly. Traci's skin seemed especially tanned and solid after Frankie's fragility.

"I'm Frankie's assistant," she said.

Faith wondered if Traci wore all that jewelry on televi­sion. The left ear wasn't bad—just a gold half moon with pearl and lapis dangles—but the right ear had a cluster of gold stars hanging from the lobe, plus three small hoops running up the ridge. Three gold chains and a rope of pearls decorated Traci's pink t-shirt. A trendy floral skirt fell almost to her sandals. Faith reminded herself that she wasn't a consultant and kept her mouth shut. She managed a close-lipped smile.

"Would anyone like wine?" Bobby asked.

"No, no, dear soul," Frankie said. "Not until after the seance. Alcohol attracts too many entities, and we may not want them all."

"What does that mean?" Faith asked.

Frankie did his best to focus his blue eyes on them, and Faith found it hard to believe he hadn't consumed the major part of a bottle before he left home.

"Like attracts like," Frankie said. "And spirits attract spirits. That's why so many creative people—actors and writers and artists—become caught by the distilled and fer­mented kind. They're always surrounded by the ones who have left the flesh, but are still drawn to certain pleasures."

"Are you saying that actors drink because they're sur­rounded by ghosts who still like the taste?" Faith asked.

"Crudely but wisely put, dear soul." Frankie nodded gently, as if he couldn't remember how to stop. "Creative people are always more sensitive to the presence of the dear departed ones who remain tied to this realm. Many admit that their best ideas come from outside themselves."

Faith sniffed.

Frankie smiled benignly, still nodding. "Although saying these beings remember the taste might be more precise. They can only sense the fumes in their present state. And then there's an amplifier effect, like an echo in reverse. The more one drinks, the more spirits one attracts, and the more spirits one attracts, the more one drinks. Sometimes it be­comes hard to remember who is in control. Which is why we will call the spirits before anyone takes another sip of wine."

He held out his arms to gather them in. Traci moved ahead to check out the dining room.

The rosy sun had faded to gray. Traci pulled a lighter out of her shoulder bag and lit the candles.

"A round table would have been better," she said. "Bobby and I can sit on either side of Frankie, but that means Faith and Michael will have to hold hands across the table."

"And we will all do that," Frankie said, "as soon as we have washed our hands. I want a clean connection."

"The bathroom is down the hall to the left," Bobby said. "But it'll be quicker if those who don't have to use the fa­cility for other purposes wash in the kitchen."

Faith took the kitchen. She wanted to stay as close as possible to the dining room. Since Traci used the kitchen sink as well, she was able at least to keep her in sight. Faith began to wish she had inspected the table when she first ar­rived. But she didn't really think Bobby would rig a seance for her benefit, and neither Traci nor Frankie was left alone in the dining room.

Faith was reasonably confident that nothing would happen when the others returned to the dining room.

They sat as Traci had directed, Frankie at the head of the table, with his back to the kitchen, Traci and Michael on one side, Bobby and Faith on the other.

"Take hands, dear souls," Frankie said, reaching for Traci and Bobby. "And shut your eyes."

Faith felt awkward, stretching her arm across the table for Michael's hand, but she managed. She didn't like shut­ting her eyes—that was giving an opening for someone to set something up—but she did as told.

The soft, clean hands in hers seemed to form a water seal, bonding her to the circle.

"We ask for a cone of white light," Frankie said. "We ask that only spirits of goodwill come within this room. We would like to speak particularly with the entity who was once known as Marilyn Monroe. Give us a sign when you're here, dear soul."

Faith opened her eyes to slits and tilted her head to check the others. Everyone was sitting with head bowed and eyes closed, presumably holding hands.

A faint breeze wafted across the room. Faith saw the can­dles flicker. She struggled against a rush of anxiety, but it faded as the flames steadied. Michael's eyes popped open.

"Thank you, dear soul," Frankie said. "You can all open your eyes now, or leave them closed, as you wish."

Traci and Bobby opened their eyes. Frankie stayed with his head bowed a moment longer.

"I have the spirit of Hedda Hopper," he said, finally opening his eyes. "She wants us to know that Marilyn won't be coming tonight because there is someone in this room who doesn't adore her. Marilyn didn't like to attend gather­ings where one person didn't adore her when she was still in the flesh, and she sees no reason why she should do so now."

"Oh, God, Faith," Bobby moaned. "I knew I shouldn't have invited you."

"I can leave," Faith snapped.

"No, no, dear soul," Frankie said. "The circle is formed. Hedda can tell us everything we need to know."

"Has Marilyn been here?" Bobby asked.

"Yes, dear soul. Hedda says that Marilyn's spirit has in­deed visited this building where she once lived."

"Does she want something from me?"

Frankie was silent. Faith was annoyed to realize that they were all trying to hear whatever Frankie listened for.

"Hedda says that Marilyn's visits do not concern you di­rectly, although she is pleased that you cared enough to in­vite this humble channel." Frankie was staring at a spot on the far wall of the living room. Faith fought the urge to turn around to check for ghosts.

"Is she here for the crying woman?" Bobby asked.

"Hedda believes so, but she says she has no information on that entity."

"Why not?" Faith asked.

Bobby glared at her.

"Some things are not revealed to us, dear soul," Frankie said. "But Hedda does have a message for you. She says your grandmother Myrtle, who wanted to be an actress in life, is enjoying the company of many from the Hollywood community now that she has passed on. Burt Lancaster is especially fond of her, and Myrtle is happier than she dreamed possible."

"What?" Faith was so startled that she would have dropped hands if Bobby and Michael hadn't held firmly.

Frankie ignored her. "Myrtle is pleased that you pursued her dream even though it didn't quite work out as you wanted, and she hopes that your new career will be re­warding. She says you will have a new client soon."

Faith was too stunned to respond.

"Does Hedda have a message for me?" Bobby asked.

"Yes. Marilyn is so pleased with you that someday, when you need a prayer answered, she will see that it is granted."

"Wow!"

Faith kept her grip on Bobby's hand.

"Hedda has another message for one in our circle," Frankie said.

"I hope this one is mine," Michael said.

"Yes, dear soul. The message is from your grandfather, Thomas. Thomas knows that the Lord takes care of the lilies of the field, and will surely provide for you, but he neverthe­less wishes you would devote more time to your psycho­therapy practice. He reminds you that you have gifts that are needed by others, and he hopes you will make use of them."

"At least that was good advice," Faith muttered.

"Hedda has one last message for the company, this one from James Dean. He says you are all very talented people with the potential for great success, as long as you don't drink and drive."

"More good advice," Michael whispered.

The candles flickered in a new breeze.

"Another spirit wishes to speak with us. Jean Harlow says that she does have information about the crying woman." Frankie nodded at something in whatever un­earthly realm his eyes were focused on.

"How did Jean Harlow get into this?" Faith muttered.

"Jean Harlow felt a kinship with Marilyn, and occasion­ally checked on her while she was living here. She still maintains some contact with the building because she finds it so entertaining," Frankie answered. "Jean says the woman is married to a musician, and the reason she starts crying at three-fifteen is that if he isn't home by then, he isn't coming at all."

"That makes sense," Bobby said. "Although crying about it isn't going to do her any good."

"Why doesn't she just leave him?" Michael asked.

"Jean says it's a karmic tie from a past life, and the woman isn't able to change the pattern without help. She says that's why Marilyn has allowed herself to be seen in this building, to draw attention to the situation and get help for the woman. Marilyn hopes one of you will interfere."

"That's for you, Faith," Bobby whispered.

"Why does Marilyn care?" Faith asked.

"Hedda says that Marilyn is improving her chances for a happier incarnation next time by doing occasional good deeds while her soul is in energy form. This crying woman is one of her projects."

"Celestial community service?" Michael asked.

Everyone ignored him.

The candles flickered one more time.

"Hedda says goodbye for now. And so does Jean." Frankie continued to stare in the general direction of the living room wall a moment longer, then blinked and smiled at each of them in turn. "Are you happy, dear souls? You can break the circle if you wish."

"Thrilled," Bobby replied. "Would anyone like wine now? Except Traci, who's driving."

"We would love to spend some time with you, dear souls, but we have another engagement this evening," Frankie said, patting Bobby's hand with the one that had been holding Traci's.

"Don't blow the candles out," Traci said. She stood up and rearranged her shoulder bag. "Let them burn to the stub if you can, otherwise snuff them."

"I'm so grateful," Bobby said, dropping Faith's hand to double the clasp with Frankie. "I hope we can do this again."

"Any time, dear soul, any time."

Faith and Michael stayed in their seats as Bobby showed the medium and his assistant to the front door.

"Well?" Michael asked.

"I'm sure it's all explainable," Faith answered.

"Then explain it out here," Bobby called from the living room. "And don't blow the candles out."

Faith was tempted, but she refrained.

"Didn't you have to pay him?" she asked, after they had regrouped by the fireplace.

"Credit card over the phone when I made the appoint­ment," Bobby said.

"If he's such a good psychic, you'd think he could sense the deadbeats," Faith said.

Michael tried to shush her, and Faith regretted the com­ment. A true psychic would indeed ask Bobby for a credit card in advance.

"How would you explain the breeze?" Bobby asked, ig­noring the comment.

Faith took a sip of wine. It was a little too warm, but drinkable. "Some kind of air pump in that shoulder bag, triggered by Traci's foot under the table."

"And the names? I gather you have a grandmother named Myrtle."

"He could have gotten my grandmother's name from records somewhere. Everything's on the Internet now."

"Everything but why the woman cries," Bobby replied. "I don't know why you have to tear down the curtain, Faith. Why can't you just accept that we aren't in Kansas anymore?"

"Where's Kansas?" Michael asked.

Both Faith and Bobby glared, and he shrugged his shoul­ders.

"Sorry," he added.

"Wherever we are, I don't believe ghosts are hanging around to give us advice," Faith said.

"Then I think you should stay the night." Bobby stated it firmly, punctuating again with his wine glass. He licked off the few drops that fell on his wrist.

"What?"

"Oh, for God's sake, Faith, that isn't a proposition. You can sleep wherever you like, as long as it isn't with me. But I think you should find out for yourself what's going on," Bobby said.

"I agree." Michael nodded, clearly enjoying the situa­tion. "I think you should stay and find out for yourself. After all, Jean Harlow said Marilyn wanted someone to in­terfere."

"Frankie said, you mean," Faith said, ready to argue.

"Frankie said Jean said Marilyn said," Bobby chanted.

"Faith, you know you want to," Michael said.

By the time the bottle of wine was gone, Faith had de­cided they were right.

"I'll stay out here, in one of the chairs," she said. "I don't want to fall into a sound sleep. I want to be alert."

"Call me tomorrow and let me know what happens," Michael said, kissing her on the cheek.

"I may have to call sooner than that—my car is in your garage."

"Take a cab home if it's before ten. We'll have lunch, and I'll get you back to your car."

Bobby saw him to the door.

"You don't have to amuse me," Faith said when he re­turned.

"I'm just picking up the glasses," he replied. "And then I'm going to snuff the candles. I have Tetris on my Nintendo, if you want to amuse yourself."

"Do you have a book?"

"I have a week's worth of the trades, plus the current Dramalogue."

Faith shook her head. "I don't do that anymore. I'll just sit here and brood until morning."

"Suit yourself."

Once Bobby had gone to bed and the lights were out, Faith understood how the apartment could inspire visions of ghosts. Pale light from the high windows cast shifting shadows on the walls.

If there is a ghost, she thought, it ought to be Peter Cushing's.

But it was Marilyn Monroe who danced at the periphery of her mind, just out of reach. Faith was wide awake, cer­tainly, when she tried to focus on the haze in the corner, inches beyond the moonglow. How sad she felt, how sad that she couldn't quite see.

She almost jumped out of her skin when a hand touched her shoulder.

"I thought you weren't going to sleep," Bobby said.

"I wasn't asleep."

"You were. I had to shake you. You haven't heard the crying, have you?"

"What—" Faith started, then stopped. She hadn't heard it consciously, but that had been the source of her own feeling of sadness. The sobbing.

As she listened, the low sobbing crescendoed to a high wail, filling the room.

"It must be the woman downstairs," Bobby said. "I've tried to figure out where the sound is coming from, and it has to be rising through the heat vents."

"Well, time to meddle."

"Are you sure you want to?"

"No, but I think someone should. If I were crying like that, I'd want someone to help me. And so I guess I have to try to help her." Faith struggled out of the chair and stretched her stiff legs.

"Your grandmother said you were going to have a new client soon."

"Frankie said that. And it was a safe prediction, since he didn't say how soon."

"Well, good luck. I'll be waiting."

Faith ran her hand through her hair and thought about a mirror and some fresh makeup, but a new wail set her moving toward the door.

The hall was quiet and dimly lit. Faith moved quickly down the stairs.

She leaned her ear against the door directly below Bobby's and thought she could discern muffled sobs. She rapped the iron knocker sharply, and the sound stopped. While she was trying to decide whether to keep knocking or leave, the door opened a crack, held by a chain.

Faith caught a glimpse of a single puffy eye, and then the door slammed shut.

She lifted the knocker and let it fall one more time.

"I thought you might want to talk," she called.

She had started back down the hall when a woman's voice stopped her.

"Wait—don't leave yet."

The woman standing in the doorway had the anguished look of an abandoned child. Dark hair hung limply around a red, swollen face. She hugged a stained flannel bathrobe close to her thin body.

"I'm sorry," she said. "For a minute I thought you were Marilyn's ghost. But you're too old, and your hair isn't blond enough, and she never appears in her frumpy period, the way she looked when she was married to Arthur Miller. I guess you have to be real."

"Marilyn's ghost?" Faith was too stunned to comment on the rest of the woman's reaction to her.

"Yes. I've seen her several times. She lived in this building, a long time ago."

"I know Marilyn lived here." Faith stared at the woman, not certain how to continue.

"What did you want?"

"A friend of mine lives upstairs. We heard you crying, and I thought you might want to talk. I'm a therapist."

The woman wiped her eyes with one hand, then looked at Faith again. "Maybe I do want to talk. I don't know." She shivered for a moment. "Not now. Do you have a card or something?"

"Upstairs. I left my purse upstairs."

"Stick the card through the mail slot. Maybe I'll call you."

Faith was trying to think of something more to say when the woman shut the door.

Bobby had kept his promise to wait up. He even fixed Faith a cup of tea while she called a taxi. She told him briefly what had happened.

"Do you think you'll hear from her?" he asked.

"I'll have to wait and see," she answered.

By the time she met Michael for lunch the next day, Faith had more information.

The woman had already made an appointment to talk.

"Why did she decide to trust you?" Michael asked.

"She had asked Marilyn's ghost for help, and for a mo­ment she thought I was Marilyn's ghost, answering her prayer. Then she realized I don't look much like Marilyn Monroe." Faith decided not to mention the word frumpy. "She still thinks Marilyn's ghost answered her prayer."

"Are you ready to revise your opinion of Frankie Fallon yet?"

"Not really. I asked Lily—that's the woman's name—if she had ever heard of him, and it seems that she had called him one night after hearing him mention Marilyn's spirit on his television show. Probably the same one Bobby saw. She told Frankie that she was praying to Marilyn's ghost." Faith put on her glasses to study the menu, but she could feel Mi­chael staring at her.

"Are you suggesting that Frankie Fallon set all this up to make it appear as if Marilyn Monroe's ghost was answering Lily's prayer?"

"I think it's possible."

Michael put his hand on the menu, so she had to glance up at him over the top of her glasses.

"If you're truly convinced he's a bad wizard, then you have to admit he's an awfully good man, at least when it comes to providing for the lilies of the field."

"Your grandfather mentioned them."

"Frankie mentioned them."

"I remember. Let's eat."

"And the ghost?"

"Maybe it wasn't a ghost." Faith gently removed his hand. "Maybe it was an angel. Who knows?"

AFTERWORD

 

I heard that Marilyn Monroe was dead on Sunday after­noon. A friend called me, crying, to pass on the news that Mar­ilyn Monroe had committed suicide the night before. I was stunned and puzzled and, at least to some extent, despairing. If Marilyn Monroe couldn 't find love and happiness, what hope was there for the rest of us?

I was living in New York that year, studying acting at Neighborhood Playhouse. I thought Marilyn was funny and charming and sexy, and if she wasn't taken seriously as an ac­tress, well, so what? Neither was anyone else except for Kath­arine Hepburn and a few old Brits. I envied her fame—especially when it brought her the opportunity to sing "Happy Birthday" to President Kennedy. (I didn't envy Jackie Ken­nedy. And I still have trouble believing that only people in the entertainment industry knew of her husband's escapades.) I wondered what it would be like to be Marilyn Monroe, and still to fall victim to the dark night of the soul.

Since then, she has become my own private metaphor to de­scribe the difficulties that uncommon women have in main­taining relationships: Marilyn Monroe was home alone on a Saturday night when she killed herself. (Where have you gone, Joe DiMaggio?) Arguments that she wasn't really alone or that her suicide might have been abetted only beg the question. Mar­ilyn Monroe had no "significant other." And who were we women in 1962 unless we were with men?

With that in mind . . . what would Marilyn's ghost be doing today?

2007.05.19/MNQ

5,100 words