Free Misfit by Adam Braver

entertainment world, and he’s been trying to get her to
do the same, clinging to the belief that once she’s freed from the industry they can reunite. It’s a ridiculous task. Sisyphean. Because no matter what, the woman he believes he knows was created from an Adam’s rib in a studio office in Culver City.
    Â 
    Frank Sinatra waits in the private driveway to the right of the casino, proud owner of the Cal Neva Lodge, there to greet his guests and apologize for needing to run off so quickly. He kisses Pat on the cheek and drapes an arm around Peter’s shoulder. Tonight after his show, he says, they’ll all catch up. Shoot the breeze. He laughs, telling Pat that he’ll be giving her a bit of advice for her brother. Frank then sends the Lawfords off with a bellhop, leaving him alone with Marilyn. He says he’ll come by her cottage later; he wants to know how she’s doing, talk more about this bullshit lawsuit from the studio. Her mind goes numb when people talk about the suit, as if it’s being waged against someone else. Frank says something about it again, wants to make sure her lawyers are hitting back. Marilyn’s too distracted by Joe watching, imagining him shaking his head, disgusted by the company she’s keeping and knowing she’ll never shed this character as long as she keeps herself as a part of the cast.
    After Frank leaves, she turns her back to the hill, following the concierge toward her tan lake-view cottage, number three. He talks nervously, explaining that Mr. Sinatra needs to run the band through a rehearsal
for the evening show in the Celebrity Room, and that she should have time to just relax for the next hour or so. But she’s not listening. It’s hard to hear anything with that stare burning into her back.

3:15 PM
    She’s kept the curtains half open, leaving a partial view of the lake. The cabin’s almost dark. And smells of it, all closed up and stale with the scent of the shut-in. When she followed the concierge into the cabin, she looked once over her shoulder toward the hill. She couldn’t see Joe. Couldn’t even see the hill. But she can still feel him watching. His disappointment and hurt stream down the slope.
    The bedsprings are tight. They barely give. She’s on her back, her shirt bunched up at the bottom of her ribs, sinking into the red comforter. In the high altitude, her heart pounds hard, like it’s trying to nail her into the round mattress. She closes her eyes, imagining Marilyn fading.
    She sits up when she hears a knock on the door. “You can just leave it,” she calls out. “Whatever it is.” Her voice doesn’t seem to carry. Her mouth is dry. So she tries again. “On the doorstep.”
    The knocking won’t stop. She stands, tugs down her blouse, and then moves in small steps, arms straight at her sides.

    Frank waits in the doorway, a bottle of Dom Pérignon tucked into his side, two glasses in his hand. “Room service,” he says, deadpan, but unable to hold back a smile. There’s a red napkin knotted around the neck of the bottle. His stance and expression come right from his stage show.
    She’s squinting, trying to bring him into focus. The vista behind him barely has shape. Like looking through someone else’s prescription lenses.
    â€œAnd let me really see you now,” he says, pushing his way past her into the cabin. He leaves the bottle and glasses on the rattan desk in front of the window and yanks the curtains open all the way, spotlighting her. He steps in front of her, slight, his shoulders and hips still boyish. His size is in his swagger and confidence. But the showy demeanor disappears. Face to face with her, his presence withdraws, tightens. “Let me really get a good look at you,” he says.
    â€œNo, look at that lake,” she says, peering past him. “Now that’ll cure the meanest of blues.”
    â€œI can