Marlene's Gift

By Mark L. Williams

To celebrate her wedding anniversary, a retired matinee idol insists on wearing a fortune in jewels. An insurance man is dispatched to assess security arrangements. He and his shady man Friday discover the remote retirement community, a magazine reporter, the former screen heartthrob, and her servants are not, exactly, as advertised. Neither are

• Language: English
• Publisher: Book Vine Press
• Release date: Aug 20, 2020
• ISBN: 9781952835742

Mark L. Williams

Born in Ohio, Williams grew up in Oregon. After graduating from university, he served four years in the army before earning a MA in Iowa. He taught English and history for thirty years in the United States, Germany and Japan. He currently resides in Lake County, Oregon.

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Copyright © 2020 by Mark L. Williams.

ISBN 978-1-952835-73-5 (softcover)

ISBN 978-1-952835-74-2 (ebook)

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.

Printed in the United States of America.

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Contents

The Job

The Arrival

Getting Acclimated

The Mystery

Suspicion

Saturday Morning

Saturday Afternoon

Confrontation

Sunday Evening

Confusion

Monday Madness

Getting Ready for Prom

Getting Out of Dodge

Go Figure

Calling in Favors

The Gathering

Obsequies

Howdy

Quo Vadis?

What Could Have Been a Scene From One of Marlene’s Films

for

Nicholas and Kristina

and the good memories we share

The Job

Henri Bouchard began toiling for me after eight years of state work. His voice was gentle and soothing; it was the kind of lush articulation which flowed like thick syrup – slow and rich. His grammar and syntax were as polished as a rare gem. He was charming and sophisticated in the mold of a cultured European aristocrat. One could not help but like him. Indeed, like is too tame. One tended to fall captive to his civility and demeanor.

I am not immune.

He came to me with the humbleness of a penitent and the polished deportment one expects of the English old-school-tie crowd. With Henri, however, there was none of the stuffiness so popular with the class-conscience Brits. He made it clear that he did not consider me inferior or beneath his station. Curiously, he made it clear by his attitude and diction, that he did not (or would not) consider me his superior. We were equals; therefore, we could be friends.

In the insurance business, I had to be careful about office hires. The right people were difficult to get. If they met all the statutory requirements, they were anxious to set off on their own – after gleaning enough experience and commissions under my employ. Those willing enough to be my vassals weren’t very diligent about details.

I struggled with too much work for one person and not enough for two. It annoyed me to be a step behind everything. However, hiring another qualified person eager to jump ship at the first opportunity was not any part of my business plan.

In walks Henri. He promised his loyalty and vowed to provide an honest day’s work in exchange for an honest day’s wage. He could, I’m certain, charm an Eskimo into buying an upright freezer. He certainly charmed me. Not that I needed much charming. I was hip deep in alligators and desperately needed someone to help with the avalanche of paperwork. On a trial basis, I’d have hired Legs Diamond.

My eyes were wide open; I rejected his persona very quickly. Still, he carried off his performance with all the skill and élan of a legendary stage personality. It was impossible to resist. In my idle hours, I often wondered if Henri believed his own shtick. One dark and dreary evening, as he lay in repose, I might pour ice water on him just to experience the real person – and his real dialect. Alas, the man had become so much of his own creation that I held out scant hope.

Oh, I say! he’d exclaim with his patented calm. That was uncommonly abrupt and inexcusably rude!

Perhaps, one day, I could stoop to such depravity. By nature, I am curious. Once, when a young boy, I experimented by yanking ferociously at a cat’s tail. A few days later, the animal was paws up. In truth, the ancient feline might have passed over without my assistance. Regardless, I prefer to think that it was my curiosity that killed that cat.

Curiosity pricked me to hire Henri. He needed work and I needed someone to advance the pretense that I was a skilled insurance agent. In addition to his quiet persuasiveness, he possessed a sponge-like brain. During his government employment, he learned to handle accounts –both real and imaginary –and was the best man I knew when it came to the esoteric forms bureaucrats love so dearly. The money he saved me during tax season was more than enough to justify his wages.

True, there were many – indeed, most – things he was not allowed to do. Nevertheless, his advice was both sound and invaluable. He spent his evening hours learning all he could about the insurance game. Over time, he became a valued advisor. I had him study important documents. He seldom commented. When he did his critiques were both razor-sharp and helpful. If he spied the smallest ambiguity, he’d bristle. The insurance game relies on precise diction and syntax. So, alas, did Henri. He didn’t allow his friendship for me to get in the way of business.

One dreary autumn morning, I arrived at the office late. A creature of habit, I considered punctuality as the first rule in both private and professional spheres. True, I had a legitimate excuse; I’d been helping a client file a claim. He was slow on the uptake, but he was a client and I was paid to serve. This, however, could not negate the fact that I was late.

Walking into the office, I expected a mild, if emphatic scolding. Instead, I found the normally gregarious Henri strangely pensive and obtuse. It was as if he hadn’t noticed my entry. Either he was deeply offended or deeply occupied.

With Henri, it is difficult to read emotions.

He sat at his desk with his chin in his hand and stared at the newspaper on his desk. Henri habitually folded the paper into quarter sections and diligently studied each one before moving to the next. The casual observer might mistake his perusal for a quick scan, but Henri could read Gone with the Wind from cover to cover in an hour – and recite large passages from memory. His reading speed and comprehension saved me hours each month.

Under his thick, graying hair raced a giant brain.

On the morning alluded to, he was not perusing; he was staring as if hypnotized.

I don’t think I have ever seen you so pensive, Ornery, I said, unbuttoning my coat.

I called him Ornery from the start. It was my not-so-subtle means of reminding him that I didn’t buy his French aristocrat façade. Once upon a time, I thought, he would rankle at my diction and bandy harsh words with me. Surprisingly, he never showed any hint of annoyance. In his own delicate way, he implied that my pet name for him was appreciated. Of course, by the time I hired him as my assistant, I was one of a select few who knew his identity.

He sighed wistfully for his own benefit more than mine. He gently touched the paper lying flat on his desk with the tips of his meticulously manicured fingers. He tapped it several times as if to assure himself that the daily paper was palpable.

You know Marlene Swann?

He was addressing me but speaking to the paper.

Wasn’t she the matinee idol of the early fifties?

The name rang a bell. She was billed for years as Marlene. By the time her public knew her by two names, she was washed up. The perennial, precocious but virginal teenager lost her adoring fans when violence and nudity became Hollywood mainstays. As she refused to remove her clothes or employ vile language, her movie career evaporated. After a two or three-year hiatus, she made a modest comeback as a rock-and-roll singer, but her wholesome persona fared no better with the recording industry than it did with the film pushers.

Henri sighed again.

I was only one of millions of young boys who fell in love with her. I hadn’t even hit puberty, but Marlene was, to me, the only girl in the world. It was a medieval tale of unrequited love; it was so very romantic. It was, also, enduring. Every woman I ever met was measured against Marlene. Not one of them comes close.

There followed a pause so oft described as pregnant. In Henri’s case, however, this one was laden with pathos. It was a rare glimpse of the real man. While he wallowed in his thoughts, I enjoyed my time in the presence of the real Henri.

I think I could die for her with a smile on my lips.

Henri was a hopeless romantic. This was not a put-on. Before exercising his charm in the service of greed, he’d grown up with ideals and happily-ever-afters. Reality and the law were not kind, yet, his autobiography, should he ever share it, would consist of one romantic conceit after another – up to that moment when he became Henri. Even then, his alter ego was a product of romanticism.

I was crushed when – out of the clear blue sky – I heard she’d turned thirty. Ah, me! I’d forgotten all about her. Then, one day – poof! She is thirty years old and I am struck dumb. The memories washed over me anew and I felt such suffering and melancholy for a world that had died so suddenly – and so profoundly.

His quiet but resonant tone was not wasted. I was, unexpectedly, suffering a tinge of sadness. Though Marlene was nothing to me, she lodged in Henri’s heart.

Are you reading an obituary?

Regrettably, no, he informed preparatory to another sigh. It is much worse.

He did not elaborate. He knew I must ask. I obliged.

She’s been ill for years, he explained. She is not expected to be with us much longer. I can only imagine what she looks like, but I shall always remember her as my sweet, young Beatrice.

How I ached to remind Henri that Dante was Italian, not French, and so – I assume – was his lady love. The moment did not appear ripe enough to wax pedantic. Prudence sealed my lips.

Normally, Henri was a gregarious flurry of activity. When his desk was clear, and the office routine offered nothing further, he’d search out something. Every waking hour was occupied. Idleness made him disturbingly restless, morose and petulant. Once, when I caught him picking up litter two blocks down the street, I was bold enough to ask why he insisted upon doing the labor for which the city sanitation personnel were paid.

Idle hands are the Devil’s playthings, he replied.

After that, I never questioned his work ethic.

Upon reading about Marlene’s imminent demise, Henri – for the first time since I met him – dawdled. He remained lethargic and unoccupied for nearly an hour before he forced himself to tend to business. Even then, he was slow to regain his habitual lightening pace.

Henri is old-school. As a child, he and millions of other boys were in love with Marlene. Most grew out of this pre-adolescent crush. Henri, however, never did. His adoration and love for Marlene was as true and constant as the northern star.

From 1953 through 1959, Marlene was the featured player in seven box-office bonanzas. When not appearing as the not-so-innocent innocent, she took her established persona to television where she guested in dozens of productions. Though her character was better suited to comedy, she did win a prestigious award for her portrayal, on one of the popular lawyer shows, as a murder suspect. The script, of course, confirmed her innocence which – Henri is certain – prevented street riots. Similarly, her appearance on a dozen more variety shows was a guaranteed ratings boost.

The dawn of the new decade was the sunset of her acting career. She continued to appear on TV, but fashions and mores had changed. She no longer looked like the cute, chaste teen in the modern, more-daring dresses. Aside from the fact that she was losing her youthful glow, she looked (as one critic pointed out) promiscuous whenever she appeared in jeans or pants. Rather than change her wholesome image, Marlene limited her TV appearances and the offers dried up.

In 1965, she began a second career as a rock singer. The record jackets always reflected her wholesome side as did the lyrics of her songs. For a time, she managed to ingratiate herself with a completely new fan base. The youth of America embraced her, but only momentarily. By 1970, Marlene was reduced to one-night stands in third-rate clubs catering to nostalgic crowds. Two years after appearing on the club circuit, she dropped out of sight.

At the age of forty, she married a wealthy developer ten years her senior. Amazingly, it was the first marriage for each – and the only one as it turned out. Seven years later, she became a wealthy widow. After her husband died of a heart attack, Marlene became a recluse in her luxurious Malibu home.

Shortly after Marlene was diagnosed with – something – she sold her stately palace and retired with a small, dedicated retinue to her former vacation home near an artistic commune in the high desert of New Mexico. There, she passed the days – and years – in seclusion and relative anonymity.

The astute reader might well ask how it is that I can relate such biographical information about a woman who was a heart throb before my time. I was never in love with her. Indeed, by the time I knew of her existence, both of Marlene’s careers were behind her. She was relegated to the dusty archive of my brain where she remained, undisturbed, until I found Henri awash in melancholia.

I know certain details of Marlene’s life because it is part of my job to research clients and potential clients. It is a habit of long standing. Some call it snooping. I prefer to think of it as protecting the company. The company, in turn, keeps me on the payroll. The minute I curtail my snooping, my retirement will commence.

This gets rather complicated. In fact, you won’t believe it. Ergo, I shan’t tell you. Let me state simply that R _____ Mutual Insurance Company decided to limit itself to clients east of the Big Muddy. As one of their agents, I was forced to switch companies shortly after the corporate wizards abandoned the western states. This denied agents from negotiating and selling new policies. However, R_______ Mutual could hardly renege on policies contracted prior to downsizing.

I modestly report that I was once the proverbial fair-haired boy on the West Coast. The reasons are so bizarre that I decline to go deeper.

Let us resume the narrative: the phone rang three hours after my late arrival. Henri came to work first. By the terms of our tacit treaty, he was entitled to leave for lunch first. That left me holding down the fort.

Georges’s Insurance, I announced as always. This is Gene. How may I help you?

Brian Ely here!

The voice boomed through the receiver and forced me to hold it six inches away.

Once upon a time, Brian and I were West-Coast distributers of R______ Mutual health, home, auto and whole life policies. We had offices hundreds of miles apart, but our paths frequently crossed. He was a cigar chomping bull of a man who always dominated the conversation. Should he be invited to the White House, the President would be very lucky, indeed, to get an edgewise (with which to sneak in a word). Unlike others of a similar overpowering personality, however, Brian had something to say. In fact, he was the kind of man one wants to listen to. I learned so much about the insurance business, and a great many other things because I had the good sense to listen to him.

When the company pulled in its horns, Brian relocated to Hartford. One of his many sterling qualities is loyalty. He started with the company and he wasn’t about to leave them even if they, literally, left him. He’d stick through thin and thinner. The only thing that would sever the bond between them was if the company started shafting policy holders.

Brain Ely and customer satisfaction were, and remain, synonymous.

Brian? Long time.

A decade, at least, he assured loudly enough for the world to hear.

Are you still with the company?

Oh, yeah!

Are you serious? They haven’t got wise to you yet?

Sure, they have, but they can’t fire me now. I know too much.

I had to laugh. Brian Ely never had two nickels to rub together in all the time I knew him.