The Death of Jayne Mansfield

I'm driving Marie in this '86 red Buick convertible, top down. I'm up. I was passing a disabled red Camaro, rear tire flat. It was a lonely road, miles of nothing, and Marie waved me down, then, after she realized who I was (her ex-boyfriend's brother) she started to blush and stammer. She made excuses that she didn't want to be a bother and she could wait until help arrived. I asked if she had called for assistance. She acted like she didn't hear me.

I said, "Marie, all alone in this road? It ain't safe. I could drive you to town. It's not a problem." She finally admitted that she forgotten her cell phone so she couldn't call AAA. I told her I forgot mine too. That was a lie.

Marie doesn't know what I know. Some people live their lives blinded by their own clouds. She points out that this isn't the way to Newbury, but I reassure her that we're taking a more scenic route, a more exciting route. We're doing about 75 M.P.H. and anything below would only be history. We just passed the waterways. The road is starting to veer and a scared buck darts behind some evergreens. It may not be a buck at all. At this speed, anything can be anything. The air is getting slightly misty.

I can tell by the way Marie is lurching forward in the seat, one hand palming the glove compartment, or the way she sometimes twists her head toward me with those gritted teeth, that she's beyond a certain point.

My last girlfriend, the one who was killed in a car accident, was like that. She was hard yet still soft in some spots. Imagine a porous body, smiling, pretending to know nothing, all that guilt oozing in your face. At the scene of the accident, while she bled out, bled until she was nothing--she kept smiling at me. Sometimes on a cloudy day, the visibility so bad you have to squint, I can see her walking towards my car, shaking her finger at me, as if I had done something wrong. But actually, she was the one with dirty hands and a fickle heart.

The air is taking on the scent of chrysanthemums. I inhale deeply. "Marie, "I say, "Can you smell that? Isn't that the finest thing you can ever smell?--I mean flowers. They always make life worth living and give the dead some dignity. Don't you think so?" She pauses for a moment; "I don't smell anything," she says, "I don't know what you're talking about. You're talking like your brother. He used to say stuff like that, God rest his soul. He kept talking this crazy talk how he wanted us to die together." I'm shaking my head. "No, Marie. Flowers are a beautiful thing, really they are. They're a symbol of everlasting love."

I'm telling Marie how my younger brother thought she was the sexiest thing since Jayne Mansfield. My brother loved to watch all her old movies. I read somewhere that Jayne Mansfield used to walk barefoot in hotel rooms and had dirty toes. My brother always wound up dating girls whose names, first or last, began with Ma. It was always love at first sight with this Ma or that Ma, then later, Ma's love would just kill him in small doses--but not with Marie. This was full injection.

And it's a small town; everybody is in everyone's business. Like the way I found out that Marie was a dirty girl. It was at a bar with some friends and not- quite-friends but more than acquaintances. The not- quite-friend said very softly for me to warn my brother. He was too drunk to be dishonest. Marie wasn't a tease, he said. She was a real heart-breaker.

We're passing a field of skinny trees with white rolling clouds near the bottom of the trunks, rolling patches of grass, some scattered houses beyond. A billboard looms ahead. It comes out of nowhere. I'm letting up on the gas, then pressing the pedal down full force. The car bucks like a crazy steer. Just to keep Marie guessing. She squirms and reaches a hand under her little black skirt. I'm watching everything from the corner of my eye. She holds up her panties, a nice pink shade, but not too bright.

"Please," she says, "I'll do what you want." I crack a smile. Talk without turning to her. "What I want is to get my brother back. I don't think that will bring him back. But I admire your taste in fashion." Her timid expression fades, "You think driving like an asshole is going to bring him back?" I answer quickly, "No. But maybe we'll meet him for lunch."

The road before us is becoming harder to see. The air is turning foggier. The mist welcomes us. I've driven through this area before. I call it Mid-way--a place between here and somewhere else. I drove through this mist almost every day since my brother died last month. It was almost as if I wasn't driving at all. I felt very light behind the steering wheel.

I kept seeing my brother standing in the middle of the road, smiling, holding a palm up to stop. At first I thought I was dreaming. But we all dream standing up--or maybe the world is dreaming and forgetting us.

I got out and tried to embrace my brother. My hands went through him. He said in a sarcastic tone, "Please give Marie, my love. You know, brother, I could never hold her the way she needed to be held." My brother disappeared. I jumped back into the car and drove through the mist, the Mid-way. Marie leans forward in the seat, squinting her eyes. "Where did this fog come from?" she says. "How can you see anything?" I pat Marie on the knee and reassure her that I have good vision. I'm a good driver. What I don't say is that I can see through people too.

Coming from a family with three dysfunctional deer hunters, Marie made it a point to always come out on top, to walk away with a prize of some kind. Me? I spent three months in rehab, mopping floors, trying to cleanse them of everyone's shadows, speaking to the counselors in soft words that were not my own. When I got out, I learned how to run crooked but talk straight.

Marie rolls up her panties, crunches them in her fist. She tosses them out the window. "I'm sorry for all of us. Everybody wants something," she says. "Ain't it the truth," I reply.

Now take my brother. He was a soft-headed idealist. He equated sex with love. And beyond a certain speed limit, they both will kill you. The problem with my brother was that he was too clean. He never wore wrinkled clothes. He polished his shoes three times a

week. He believed that the heart was a superhero. He believed the world was clear. And he loved, loved, Jayne Mansfield. Thought she was the prettiest girl who ever lived-- until Marie came along.

The funny thing about my brother's funeral was that it was a closed casket. It was the way I wanted it. That way I could remember him the way he was--youthful and energetic--so terribly naive about life. He was just too simple for people like Marie.

Marie kicks off her shoes, pulls her knees up to her chest. Shakes her head then buries it between her knees. "It's not going to bring him back," she mumbles. "Marie, darling," I say, "put your shoes back on. Your feet are dirty." She's not listening.

The mist lightens up somewhat. It's getting easier to see. But a mist can fool you. There are holes in a mist. Just there are evil spots in otherwise good people. I go heavier on the accelerator. At 60 M.P.H., it seems like I'm losing wind. I tried telling my brother that in this life, all of us at one time or another were members of some kind of Church of Satan. He told me that I'm always so melodramatic--over the top.

"Slow down," Marie says, leaning forward to look in the rear view. "I want to put on some lipstick." Her eyes grow dullish, unfocused. One corner of her mouth pinches back into smooth skin. Her lips rub, open slightly. "Why?" I ask. "Because I want to look good. I just want to look good."

"What color lipstick?" "A plum color. A shade of plum. It's a cream lipstick. They say cream lipstick is good for girls with small lips."

She fingers her bottom lip, traces the subtle curve. "Is that so? You learn something new every day." My brother had hazel eyes and was quick to catch a joke. He would rather avoid than inflict--never understood that in this world, everything comes in shades, or at different speeds. My brother will someday be a myth.

We're coming up to a ramp. At 80 M.P.H., I don't think we're going to take it. Marie is trying to unlock the door and with the wind massacring her bouffant hair until it's all in her face, I don't she think she's gonna jump out at this speed onto hard pavement--too scared shitless to scream. She might try trusting me for an instant, as if her life depended on it, and it does. She hopes I'll slow down, and maybe we both might get off easy, not wind up like a crushed ball of tin foil. Or like my brother--flattened by the weight of a dream that didn't break clean. You don't want to wind up like Jayne Mansfield.

The mist is getting heavy again. It's like white clouds flying against the windshield, passing over us. It lightens up again and there he is, my brother, standing right before the ramp, the exit for Newbury. He's smiling that boyish grin, holding his arms out. He cries out "Marie! Marie, you and I can be pure again." Marie, scared shitless, finally does what I didn't think she could--she jumps out. I stomp on the brakes, ignoring the ear-spitting screech, and turn around. I feel the

back tires run over something hard. Again, my brother is not there. I imagine that in some strange way, they are reunited, he and Marie. There is a trail of blood on the ground, near Marie's head. She is nothing more than road-kill. I imagine her eyes closed, no longer opaque. In the rearview mirror I see Jayne Mansfield waving to me. In this Mid-way, nobody ever dies or is dead. Or it could by my ex- girlfriend. She had a nice figure too. It's hard to tell in a mist. I head back to Newbury--my foot goes lighter on the accelerator. If Marie were here, I'd tell her one more time that I know she has dirty toenails. She really shouldn't walk barefoot, not even in a mist.