ONCE REALITY, in the embodiment of Jonas Fricke, slapped Del in the face, he knew he’d never keep his home. Though he wouldn’t need to evacuate the premises for several months, he’d begun packing possessions in boxes, those treasured memories on which he’d want to keep a close eye. The movers would pack the rest.
Not that he’d found a home to move into.
Del browsed a list of houses on the market along the southeastern coast of Florida, narrowing his search to Jupiter Island, Golden Beach, and other high-end areas. The houses were impressive, but he didn’t want to live in them. His heart resided here.
As he searched, he listened to an old David Rose album, despite the bittersweet memories it brought. He had set the album to repeat, and its title track, “The Stripper,” began again. A tune about a working woman in the midst of a tease. What a precise embodiment of Marilyn Monroe. While she had viewed herself in an artistic light, countless others saw nothing more than her body.
When his cell phone chirped, Del reduced the volume of the music and answered.
“Del! Max Yeager here.”
Another legendary director. No doubt about it: Del Corwyn was the man of the hour. Even interest in his old films had skyrocketed, both in sales and on-demand streaming. Directors and producers had begun to pursue him with projects. Minor parts, but stepping stones nonetheless. He needed to wade with caution.
“Listen, Del, I’m lining up a film that you’d be great for. A small role, but a choice one. We’ve scheduled production for early next year. I’d be thrilled if you’d consider.”
Del was flattered. “Of course, Max. Send me the script and I’ll take a look.”
“Good deal. Oh, hey, while I have you on the phone, what’s the latest on the Marilyn project? How close are you to a deal?”
“We’re still considering offers. Regardless of how it turns out, though, I’m interested in your film role.”
A pause on the other end of the line. “Yeah…sure, Del. Let’s see how the Marilyn project goes, then we can talk. How’s that sound?”
Del’s instinct reverted to skepticism. He decided to save face for himself.
“Sounds good, Max. We’ll talk soon, okay?”
“Yeah. Keep me updated on the status.”
“Will do, Ma—”
Del heard his phone beep, as though the director couldn’t wait to end the call. Motionless, Del stared at the phone in his hand.
The hesitation in Max Yeager’s responses lingered in Del’s gut. That familiar pause. It made Del nervous. Come to think of it, whenever conversations veered toward a potential resurgence for Del’s career, he had noticed a pattern: the uncomfortable pause, followed by evasion and noncommittal.
Del’s mind continued to churn. The whole purpose behind a deal should be to honor his friend’s memory. He considered the screenplay’s content, and all it revealed about her. It ran contrary to how most people perceived her—in that respect, the buzz was accurate. According to her letter to Del, when she put the script into his care, she sought protection from others. Was it possible she sought, in fact, protection from herself? Was it possible that, by putting the script into Del’s hands, it would prevent Marilyn Monroe from allowing her personal torment to become an event for individuals to salivate over? To prohibit audiences from munching on hot-buttered popcorn and watching as her heart rent before them on the silver screen?
Would selling this piece of her honor her memory, or had the prospect become all about Del Corwyn? Would the sale enhance her memory or damage it?
Del’s mind churned faster. He replayed his phone conversation with Jonas Fricke. Even the sale of Del’s home had morphed into intrigue about the starlet. Someone she’d never met schemed to profit from her life—or, rather, her death—all these years later.
As Del considered these things, a realization hit him.
Del Corwyn wasn’t on the verge of a career comeback.
And he never would be.
All this media attention, all the pandering, all the ego strokes—they didn’t want Del Corwyn. They wanted something in Del Corwyn’s possession, and they needed to go through him to get it.
Del felt like a battered suitcase. Bang him around, drag him along the street, as long as it didn’t affect the money generator.
Was this how Marilyn Monroe had felt?
Once this script deal occurred, these people would relegate Del to obscurity once again. No doubt, he could line up a role for himself in the Marilyn project as a contractual provision when he sold the rights, but after that, he would fade from the spotlight as quickly as he’d re-emerged into it. And afterward, he would never resurface again.
Nobody gets a third comeback.
These people had no use for a guy of his nature, no matter how young he felt, regardless of how he carried himself. No rationalization, no fitness level, no activity on Twitter, no young woman would alter that truth.
Suppose he portrayed a role in the Marilyn film. Suppose Bernard Schulman was correct and Del won an Oscar. What was next for a guy who was almost eighty? A string of roles as a leading man?
Del Corwyn, the hottest property in Hollywood.
These people didn’t want Del. They wanted something only he could deliver. They would use him until they had what they wanted, then they would disappear. His phone would quit ringing. His contacts would hide in alleged meetings like they did a few months ago. Del’s calls would go unanswered and unreturned.
Then again, what if he was wrong? What if he defied the odds and became a legend in his own right?
Sure, he needed them. But they needed him, too.
And he couldn’t let go. Not now.
Del caught himself rotating his cell phone in his hand, around and around, as he contemplated.
Then he laid the phone on his desk and closed his eyes.