The Dedication

New York, 1996

He guessed from the bustle at the far end of the bookstore that she had arrived. Across the line of heads, his eye caught a sparkle, like some distant star. He stretched a little and peered; and there she stood, smiling warmly, waving gently from the dais towards the line of waiting people. Was this maybe something like his father’s first glimpse of her, all of those 40-something years ago?

He turned and looked back across the store, pretending indifference, the way people sometimes do in queues. The line was lengthening, winding back to the voucher desk now. A lady who had just entered the store was shaking rain from her umbrella. He had felt the late October wind blowing up this morning. And now rain. Still, it was only a short subway ride back to his apartment. And he had remembered to bring a waterproof carrier for the book.

For the first time, he noticed a little, insignificant-looking guy tucked in immediately behind him, reading a copy of her book. Looking down, he saw part of a brown leaf lodged in the guy’s hair and instinctively, he almost reached back to pick it off.

"Come on, Tom," he cautioned himself, "you’ve been too long wheelin’ dad around. This guy’s a stranger, remember." And just then, as if aware of the attention, the little guy glanced up and the two men acknowledged each other with spontaneous nods.

The man closed the book, a little self-consciously. "Bought this copy here last week. Then I hear about the book signing. So I call the store. They say - well, strictly speaking, only books paid for on the day can be signed .. but OK, in the circumstances, bring it along .. So, here I am."

Tom nodded again, wondering if maybe he should tell the guy about the leaf. But the man was in full song. "Don’t you just think she’s had a fascinating life? I mean the deprived childhood, the broken marriages, the affairs; the drugs. That night in sixty-two, when she nearly died. And then that big scandal that broke the Presidency .. and nearly broke her too. But you gotta admire the way she really got her life together after that. Some great movies, great work for children, mental health, animal welfare .. and the rest. Don’t you think?"

A lady behind coughed politely, indicating that the line ahead had begun to move on, and the two men shuffled forward, at the same time taking the opportunity to open up a little more talking space between them.

There was a definite scent of flowers, now. The general noise of the bookstore was more subdued, too, deadened by the rich velvet curtaining behind the dais. Copies of her autobiography had been carefully arranged on both sides of a table in front of her. A good-looking young guy stood nearside. He was taking people’s vouchers and then passing individual copies of the book to her to be signed.

Tom picked up the conversation, a little hesitantly. "Well, yeah, like you, I do admire the lady. But .. well, I’m not here just for me. It’s as much for .. for my father, God rest him. Dad followed her life, every step. Always remembered that special day, in Korea. Twenty-fourth Army division. Nineteen fifty-four. Dad hadn’t even seen her in a movie before - just magazines, calendars. She was just electric, he said".

"Heeyy!" said the little guy, a bit too loudly. Two ladies in front simultaneously turned and glowered, and the man obediently dropped his voice to a whisper. "Now if that ain’t a coincidence. You’re not gonna believe this, but I was just reading about that trip to Korea last night. It’s in her book. Let me try to find it for you."

The line was moving forward again. Everything was now in clear view; the front of the dais softened with flowers, spare copies of the book tucked in behind, titles in a neat line - ‘Norma Jeane' Norma Jeane' 'Norma Jeane'. And there she sat, now no more than a couple of table-lengths away. She was dressed in pale pink, her hair neat, still holding that natural, warm smile. Such an aura, and this for a lady of seventy. Tom closed his eyes, and pressed his fingertips together. "You with me, dad?"

Just then there was a tap on his shoulder, and he turned, startled. But it was only the little guy again, smiling up at him, and just about remembering to whisper. "I found the Korean bit. It’s short. I’ll read it to you .. she says here ..

‘There were 17,000 soldiers in front of me, all yelling at the top of their lungs. It had started snowing and I wore just a little lavender dress, a dress I’ve always kept as a reminder of that wonderful day. Inside I felt so warm, as if I were standing in a bright sun. Up until then, I’d always been frightened by an audience. But just standing there, in the snowfall, smiling, I felt for the first time in my life no fear of anything. I felt only happiness.’ "

Tom instinctively placed his hand on the man’s shoulder and squeezed lightly. "Thanks buddy, thanks from me and dad."

And then, suddenly, he was there, right in front of the table. The boy had taken his voucher and was handing her a copy of the book .. and then .. and then Tom was just melting into her gaze, nestling in the soft music of her voice. "Thank you so much for coming today and for buying my book. Would you like me to sign to you by name?"

And then his own voice, like it was coming from somewhere else. "Yes, ma’am, if you would, that’d be just wonderful. My name is Tom, Tom Schulz." She had the book open now, writing on the flyleaf. "And for my dad, ma’am. Loved everything about you. Spoke to me about you all the time. He was .. he was there, ma’am. In Korea ... "

She looked up, curiously. "He was one of them soldiers yelling at you that day. Told me the guys just thought you were an angel from heaven; that you cared about them, out there in that God-forsaken place. Dad just talked about that till .. till the day he died, ma’am. This is .. well .." He paused, waiting for the voice to soften again. ".. this is .. for me and him, I guess."

There was nothing more he could say now and he realised with a start that she had already handed him the book. He smiled, half apologetically, and began to move away. But then he heard his name - "Tom?" - and he was turning towards her again. "Tom, what was your father’s name?"

He looked up, across the table, and he was looking into the eyes of an angel. "Robert, ma’am. Robert Schulz. He was a big guy, bigger’n me even. Had a little scar …" He suddenly realised how ridiculous he was sounding. But she was still smiling, beckoning to him to pass her the book again .. and he was still gazing in silent wonder as she handed it back to him. "Y’know, Tom .. I just can’t thank you enough for coming today. That is such a wonderful memory for me. I wish you everything you would wish for yourself."

And then, just as suddenly as it had begun, his moment was over, and he sensed himself walking back through the bookstore, back towards people, back towards the street. Little rivers of rain were running down the doors and windows of the store and passers-by were bending against the wind. He realised he was still holding the book and he reached in his pocket for the plastic carrier. Then he remembered that he hadn’t read what she had written. He leaned back against a pillar and opened the book at the flyleaf.

There was her signature, and above it she had written, simply, ‘To Tom, with thanks’. There was nothing else on the page. Had he only dreamed that she had written a second time? He turned another page; and there it was. First the printed dedication - ‘I dedicate this book to all those wonderful people who have ever loved me’ .. and beneath, in her own handwriting - ‘And I specially dedicate this copy to the memory of Robert, who helped make me happy.’

Tom closed the book softly and pressed it gently to his chest. He felt .. unburdened, somehow. Slowly he turned, and looked back across the bookstore one last time. Her profile was clear now, sharp in the focus of his swelling tears. She was leaning forward slightly towards the little guy, holding something up in front of him. It was the brown leaf. And they were laughing.

Tom turned up his coat collar and started to walk towards the door. "You got it just right, dad," he whispered, ".. electric .. just electric." He had reached the door now, and pausing to steady himself for the first blast of the sharp autumn wind, he slowly bowed his head.


Footnote: The italicised ‘extract’ in this story is closely based on Marilyn Monroe’s reported own description of her feelings during her visit to US troops in Korea in January 1954.