The Misfit

Inspired by a conspiracy theory that depicts the idea of a pop icon, who supposedly died in the 1960's, faking her death and is actually still alive.

Jamaica.

It was the perfect place to escape the American life. It seemed as though the people of Jamaica had so much faith in life, it never became something they’d fear, or run away from, or worry about. In the city it seemed as though if there was an issue, any issue, it was to be worried about the second it came up. The stress of sunset and unstoppable seconds seemed to haunt everyone’s mind because of death’s unpredictability. It seemed as though if you lost one dollar it was the end of the world, but if you made one dollar, you had ninety-nine thousand nine hundred ninety-nine more to make for it to matter. Jamaica taught me the opposite of what I’ve been conditioned to believe my entire life. People had so much faith in God and life itself, today’s issues were tomorrow’s issues, and tomorrow’s issues are next month’s issues. Life was something you wouldn’t run away from because they understood when you ran in a bubble, you’re still in that bubble. If you lost one dollar, it’s okay, you’d just hope that someone else found it and was able to make their day a little better and if you made one dollar, then at least you had something. In Jamaica, it seemed like the less you had, the less you whined about because it could always be worse. Everyone believed that everything that happened in life happened for a reason, and God was going to take care of everything, and if you didn’t believe in God, then you’d let life just happen because what were you going to do about it? Everything was slow. So slow, you had a chance to stop and actually breathe and realize that the air had a distinctive scent of fresh salt, clean soil, and liberty. So slow  you could look actually see how planes mirrored birds. So slow you could actually enjoy your physical existence in it’s own solidity. In Jamaica the days were longer; the seconds were minutes. In Jamaica I was in bliss.

It was early 2002 when I got married. January to be exact, and my husband and I choose Ocho Rios as our honeymoon destination. He was a Wall Street stockbroker, driven by the pressure of society, who remained obscure and quiet, and for all I know, I never knew who my husband was until we set foot in Ocho Rios. I finally saw him get a full night’s rest when we arrived here. It was the best rest we’ve ever gotten. We were both Columbia graduates who immediately got to work once our diplomas reached our hands. Then we saved up enough money to have a huge fancy wedding. The party was incredible, and seemed like something you’d read in the Great Gatsby. We wanted to be within ourselves for once, so we ended up in Ocho Rios. I had never seen my husband more relaxed in his life. We talked for two weeks straight. I learned the details that one wouldn’t stop to think were important in life. I learned his favorite color was green because it reminded him of his favorite sweater when he was five, and that he was a pothead hippie in the early 90’s. In those two weeks, we fell in love for the first time. As the days got closer to us leaving Jamaica, we became sadder and sadder at the fact that we’d have to go back to our mechanical lives in New York.

Two days before we left, I looked over to Michael and said, “Why must we leave? I wish I could stay here forever, live like the people here do.” He just stared at me and his eyes glittered like the ocean water at sunset. He jumped on the bed and threw a pillow to a fan and the room snowed of feathers. He grabbed his phone and called his bank. He said he wanted to take out all the money he had and to sell his condo. He then called his mother and said he’s never coming back to that God-forsaken city, and that he was staying in Jamaica forever. Without even hearing her opinion he hung up. I stared at him in glory and fear and told him, “You’re crazy.” He said, “ I may just be, but Priscilla baby I just learned what life is, and I’d be even crazier to leave it.” I couldn’t disagree. He bought a small grocery store, and it’s income is enough for us to live on. Two years and one child later, we’ve yet to regret our decision.

Every morning before our baby Livie, wakes up, I’ll ride my bike out into the town to get some fresh bananas to smash and make a puree for her, and every morning the same old woman sits on her front of her porch and stares out into the ocean. Sometimes she’ll sing, and when she does it’s the same tune. “My lips ache, to have you take, the kiss, that’s waiting for you.”

I knew she wasn’t from here. She, for starters, was a white woman, old and glamourous. Her hair was always well done, her lipstick always red and well intact, and one single line of eye liner across her low hanging eyelids, very fifties. Michael always thought she’d resemble someone, but he could never place his thumb on who. She was clearly from the United States for her accent while she sang was smooth and for some reason, this blurry cloud of americana surrounded her aurora (although that could simply come from inevitable ageism).

After some time I learned that the locals called her Mrs. Mortenson, she was the one person, people here weren’t homely to. I would wave to her sometimes when she was singing, and it’d seem as though when I’d wave, her day was made. She’d give a very, ‘pageant queen,’ wave back. She’d smile as bright as she could as if she were on stage or something. She had quite a poise and structure that had a soft taste of social resistance in the most lewd of ways. I couldn’t tell what it was, maybe it was the way she sat up straight that would emphasize a young girls body, or maybe it was simply in her being. Whatever it was about Mrs. Mortenson, I believe she was an interesting being when she was younger. Maybe she was a wannabe socialite in the fifties and early sixties. The ones who were defiant of social norms yet somehow defined what a woman of that time was supposed to be like. The ones who’d fall in love with the works of Arthur Miller and Tennessee Williams. Or she was a Janis Joplin looking hippie with the long hair and the repellent, distasteful, eroticisim and simply changed as she got older (as most hippies did).

The people of the town stopped waving to her. Many just walked by and would ignore her. The people of the village loved to assume that the one reason I continued to give her attention, was because she was white and American. Truth be told, I wanted to know her. For some reason, I felt sorry for her, and I just wanted to know what I was sorry about. I’d ask the locals questions about her. Where did she come from? Why does everyone ignore her? What kind of person is she?

The answer to these questions became entire stories. Some say she claims to be from Los Angeles, Others say she was from New York. Some say she’s quiet and mysterious, others say she is sweet but a conversation with her was a day long activity. Those who actually got a chance to talk to her claimed she seemed to be just another dumb American at first, but she actually wasn’t if you spent that day with her. But the story that kept coming up the most that everyone seemed to agree on was that she was indeed, Crazy. She says she was practically a widow to a U.S. President, but she’d never say which one. She claims she was important, she claimed to have changed history, and everyone just laughed at her. No one believes her, and with accusations that big, I’m not sure I would either. So like the rest of the locals, Michael and I would refer to her as, “That crazy american lady who lives by the beach.”

One morning I walked into town with Livie, simply to get her some fresh air, and there she was on her porch, singing the same song she always does, except today she sang it differently. She sang it in a lower note and a slightly more melancholic tune. “Momma may scold me, because she told me,” then she took a long breathe as if the next part hurt for her to sing, “It is naughty...But then…” she saw me.

“Morning Stranger!” she called out to me smiling and waving.

“Good morning Ms. Mortenson,” I called out waving and smiling back.

“Morning Stranger! Do you drink coffee...or tea?”

To say that her offer scared me, is a bit of an over exaggeration, however it did shock me in a very hair rising way. But how much harm could a little old lady do?

“I’ll take some coffee,” I said as I walked towards her porch. Perhaps it was careless of me to sit with a stranger with my baby in my arms, but then again how much harm could a little old lady do? Her steps were slow tiny but her walk carried quite the physicality and swagger. She stood so straight you could almost imagine the kind of body she had when she was younger. She walked into her wooden white cabin; It was very cute, very vintage, but it’s epoch carried a dark sense on reminiscence, as if she just couldn’t let go of that time. It looked like something I’d see in ‘I Love Lucy.’

A couple minutes later she came back on the porch with a tray and beautiful china cups. She had tea for herself and coffee for me.

“Can’t drink coffee Ms. Mortenson?” I asked her.

“Oh no, coffee won’t do me no harm, it just stains your teeth… Not to say your teeth are not attractive, why darling your teeth are just marvellous! But that’s very risky, and I’ve taken too many risks in my life.” She had a very sweet graceful tone to her voice, very chirpy and very smooth. I could see why people would think she was dumb, her voice screams it, but it also sounded very… Holly Golightly.

“Why, I think it’s just marvelous that you decided to sit down with me!” she exclaimed when she realized she said too much about… coffee…

“Of course Ms. Mortenson, thank you for having me.”

“Well tell me about you, I know you as ‘morning stranger,’ but I sure do hope that isn’t your real name!” she chuckled.

“Priscilla.”

“Priscilla! Why, that’s a marvellous name!”

“Thank you Ms. Mortenson.”

“Why, call me Norma,” she smiled.

“Alright then, Norma.”

“ Please, I want to know about you! Tell me, why are you here?”

“It’s an interesting story actually. My husband and I came here on our honeymoon and we loved it so much my husband threw the pillow to the fan and decided he wanted to stay here.”

“Threw the pillow to the fan?”

“Yes.”

“Why that’s an odd saying, what does it mean?”

“It… It doesn’t mean anything. He actually did it.” She threw her hands together and  shouted with laughter.

“Why that’s just thrilling isn’t it!”

“I thought it was too.”

“Well where are you from?”

“New York. City.”

“Oh, isn’t that marvellous? I spent a lot of time in New York as a young one. Why it was quite the city.”

“I was told by some people you were from New York.”

“Oh no, no, no,” she quickly jumped at, “I could never, the city was a nice place to visit but my fragile soul couldn’t be from there. I’m from California. Los Angeles to be exact.”

“Others did tell me you were from Los Angeles.” She stared out into the ocean and smirked slightly as if it was a painful memory. It began to frighten me, and suddenly I wanted to leave. I began to get the feeling that she actually didn’t want to be here and she was here because she had to.

“Word does travel quickly does it not?” she said attempting to conceal the wretched feeling succumbing her. He tried to smile and wrapped a strand of hair behind her ears exposing these beautiful diamond studs.

“It is also a small town. You tell one person something, and everyone else is bound to know eventually.” I replied making her smile authentic.

“Oh, it’s like telephone! Did you ever play it? It was a marvellous game I used to play when I was much younger, as far as my memory goes back!” she looks at Livie who is reaching into the air. “I was probably as old as you were when I was taught that game,” she said smiling in Livies face. She held up one finger and Livie grabbed onto it observing every vein, every wrinkle, every pore, every mark.

“You seem like you’re good with kids.”

“Oh, I have my ways,” she said still playing with Livie. “You know, when I was your age, I didn’t want kids. Why I couldn’t handle myself let alone a child.” she said laughing.

“Did you eventually come to having kids?”

“No, I never actually did. My last marriage only lasted five years and ended in 61. I was supposed to get married later on  in the 60’s, but that’s a different story. Anyways after the 60’s my life changed, and when I realized that I wanted kids it was too late. It’s been 40-something years since I felt the touch of a man.”

“I’m sorry to hear that…”

“Non-sense! I have you now! We’re friends right mor-... Why your name… you just told me…”

“Priscilla.”

“Right! Such a marvellous name, how embarrassing of me to forget!”

“It’s perfectly okay, and yes, you may call me your friend.”

“How marvellous!”

“Is that why you’re here? In Ocho Rios? If you don’t mind me asking?”

“Well what do you mean?”

“The heartbreak of the ‘60’s? Or whatever it was that happened in that year.”

“Oh…” her voice got sad, “yes, that has something to do with it.”

“Was it serious?” I asked. I was curious, something wasn’t right about the woman I was sitting in front of, and a part of me felt a desire so strong it was a necessity to know.

“Well what I did happens all the time, every four years, and in marriages every seven years. I was no criminal, just lonely.”

“You had an affair?”  I asked her.

“I had multiple affairs in my young days. I was beautiful in ways that changed the world. Why look at me bragging about my young self! You must think I’m silly.” she chuckled.

“No, I don’t think so. Everyone’s got a story, some books have more tension than others, yours might just be better written than mine.” I said trying to gain her confidence.

“That’s such an interesting way to look at things Priscilla. Speaking of writing, you know, my last husband was an author.”

“Was he any good?”

“Why he was the best of his time! Very smart, why he was from New York as well!”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yes, Harlem to be exact. It seemed like everyone in New York was smart, or just so happened to know what they were talking about.”

“That’s interesting. What happened between you guys? If I may ask?”

“We were just fighting a lot. More than two human beings in love should ever fight. The difference between us is that he was willing to fix things, but he couldn’t help me. I was trouble for him. So we filed for divorce. I loved him. I still do. He had a family, he had kids, and for those five years I swore they were mine. And when we divorced, why it felt like someone had ripped them right out of my arms.”

Wow…

“Wow… I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry for me! I’ve had plenty of that. I’m telling you so you can listen to me, feel me, because everyone just hears.”

“I just couldn’t imagine how I’d react if someone took Livie away from me.”  I said. She smiled and looked down to her.

“She is beautiful.” She said.

“I became very lonesome after the divorce. He’s all I had. Until I met a man of power. He was quite the looker. I was invited to some sort of political event, why I can’t even remember the cause! He was running for president when I met him. He was a senator before hand, whatever it is they are. Anyways, he was with his wife, who claimed she loved me, which surprised me. She was pretty, but your average pretty. Anyways, that’s how I met her husband. Poor woman didn’t know what she was getting herself into.”

“What do you mean? Politically?”

“Politically, realistically, amorously, call it what you want. Her husband was a terrible man.”

“What was he like?”

“Selfish. He didn’t care about anyone but himself. He’d say one thing and preach it, then actually believe in another. He claimed to believe in peace but it felt like there was nothing but mayhem. I a fool, didn’t care about politics. And because of this, he found me appealing. We had a “don’t ask don’t tell,” kind of relationship that worked out well because I didn’t care for his job, and I especially didn’t care that he was the most important man in the world at the time…”

She went on explaining the kind of man he was, in bed, within friendships, with his wife, with his kids, then with her. I however got no information on who the man was by her intimate stories. I was just waiting for a name. I began to run through my knowledge on American history. Who was president in the 60’s? There was Kennedy, Johnson, and Nixon. I tried to look for clues but the only one I could think that was relevant was He claimed to believe in peace but it felt like there was nothing but mayhem. Nixon? He claimed to fight for, “peace and honor,” by sending everyone to Vietnam and his whole thing with drugs being the “public enemy” (when it was he who introduced crack into the black communities). He was a bad man, and I have read a couple of articles claiming he wasn’t the best husband. He was a senator. She had an affair with Richard Nixon?

“ Why the man was attractive for a politician. He gave me the attention I needed. We spent a weekend together, just him and I and it was the best weekend I had in a very long time. He would tell me silly things such as, ‘If I don’t have a woman for more than three days I get these severe headaches.’”

Where have I heard that from?

“Everyone knew he was a dog. But he knew how to treat a woman and make her feel special. That’s why his lovers would often ring up the white house like there was no tomorrow. Everyone wanted a piece of his time, and since he was a young man, he had all the time and energy in the world to give.”

Richard Nixon was most definitely not young when he was in office, and in that moment it actually occured to me that the man she was talking about was no one else but John F. Kennedy. I never thought I’d live to see the day I’d meet one of Kennedy’s lovers (out of the many, many of them) I was shocked to say  in the least.

“May I take a guess on who the man was?”

“Why go ahead.”

“Was it President Kennedy?” She got very silent as if she knew she shouldn’t have said anything. I was a complete stranger, but when she wasn’t looking at me, she’d look at Livie in my arms, then look back up at me, and her gaze emitted faith.

“He was quite the man,” she smiled. “I was supposed to marry him you know? He was going to leave his wife for me. That’s what he told me. But it seems as though he told that to many other of his mistresses. I just felt like he was different with me. With everyone else it was desire, raw rough n’ tough desire. With me I felt love, and companionship.”

I tried to search my mind and memory of any, Norma Mortenson. I had no memory of her name. It didn’t ring a bell in the slightest.

“You must of had a lot of money and power to have met the president and maintained a close relationship with him.”

“I did.”

“What did you do? If I may ask?” The chuckled, and her chuckle screamed, “f**k it.” She seemed like she was holding back on this big secret and was just relieved that it was coming out. She seemed scared yet thrilled to be having this conversation.

“I was an actress, an important one too.”

“No offense but I’ve never heard of any hollywood classic starring Norma Mortenson.”

“Oh darling, yes you have. I’m not one to brag about my career but I’m seventy eight years old, and darn it, I think I’m allowed to do so… You know that god-awful cliche, ‘you never know what you have until you lose it?’ well I that’s how I feel with my career if I am to be honest with you. And that’s why I speak of it highly now. You probably know me as The Girl.”

The Girl?

“So if you were as great as you were, why’d you leave all that behind. And come here?”

“I didn’t want to. I loved America. But I had to, I was forced here. When John didn’t pick up Robert did, and he filled the lonely void in my heart. Oh my, he was marvellous, but some people, who shouldn’t have, found out, and the two brothers found me a national threat. So they had his people send me away, without much of a goodbye or an apology. They did it quietly so no one knew the truth. It was easy for me to do because I had no one back home, but yet to have anyone here.”

“I’m sorry but I’m just having a hard time believing all this,” I said sternly.

“ What’s hard to understand about it?” she asked confused not knowing the holes in her story.

“If you were this great movie actress and you just disappeared there would be people looking for you. The public would demand the truth.”

“Yes darling you are right. Oh my! I understand why this is confusing for you darling I left out a small detail. Yes, well everyone believes I’m dead. They made me fake my death. See as my marriage was falling apart, I was under so much pain, I couldn’t sleep at night, so I’d take some pills to help me fall asleep. One night I took one too many and they had to send me to the hospital. Everyone who knew me knew about this. So they tried to tell the public that I had another one of those incidents but the ambulance didn’t make it on time. Once they proclaimed me dead, everyone who actually knew me started to say that I was not right in the mind, so it made the scenario seem more real.”

“So no one knows your down here?” I asked her.

“No one except for the government. And if there is anyone else that does know then I’m pretty sure their life is  under threat, as is mine.” She looked at me and her gaze seemed sincere. In that moment I swallowed air, air that felt like glass. Why would she tell me this? Was I now under threat? I wasn’t as nervous or scared as I should have. I didn’t want to believe her because her allegations were so serious, but I was also very compelled to. Her story made sense, I’ve just never heard of a “Norma Mortenson.”

I discovered that when people claimed talking to her was a day’s activity I realized they were right. You could look out into the ocean and the tide began to come in, and the sun looked like it was getting ready to set, and Livie was beginning to get irritated. I told her I had to leave, and she told me to come by another time. She grabbed my hand and thanked me for spending time with her. She asked if we were friends again and I promised her we were. She looked into Livie’s face and said, “Now you remember the name Norma Jeane Mortenson.” Now why did that name sound familiar?

I began to walk off her porch and into the street until I finally heard a youthful American voice yell, “goodbye!” I turned around and there she was in her prime. She held onto the rails and stood on the tips of her toes. I saw that iconic smile, that pageant wave, that grace, that poise, that voluptuous body and unforgettable blond hair, her low hanging eyelids and the whitest of teeth. I saw Norma Jeane Mortenson. I saw The Girl, Sugar Kane, Lorelei Lee, Roslyn, and Pola. I saw Kennedy’s lover, as I did Marlon Brando’s. I saw Arthur Miller’s ex wife, I saw a woman of graceful pain. Why, she may have been Norma Jeane Mortenson at her core, but I couldn’t believe that in front of me stood the one and only Marilyn Monroe.

The End.

Author's Note

I am open to all constructive criticism, however I'd like to focus more on the style of writing and wording rather than grammar.