Misfit by Adam Braver

it, and tries to steady her breath. Maureen’s tension only makes her more nervous. Reaching into the coat pocket, Marilyn mumbles, “I brought this,” covertly pulling out a fifth of Jack Daniels. “Just in case, like me, you don’t take your coffee black.”
    Almost all the seats are taken. The level of chitchat rises and echoes up with the leftover prayers into the old church rafters.
    The two women stand together, sipping their coffee and whiskey. Given the chance, they would wait forever.
    Strasberg’s voice cuts through the room’s din. Then the house quiets.

    Maureen says, “Okay, I guess we’re just about on.”
    â€œThen we’d better take our places.”
    â€œYes, we better.”
    â€œMaureen,” Marilyn says.
    â€œYes?”
    â€œI know them.”
    â€œYou know them.”
    â€œMy lines.”
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    It’s a relief when the scene ends. Strasberg already is calling out that it was terrific. Extending his arms. Standing up. Clapping his hands. But she doesn’t feel it. And though she knows she isn’t supposed to think of the scene as an audition or performance (just a “protected environment”), she’s aware that Lady Macbeth has slipped that much further away.
    When she walked onstage, Marilyn became aware of her steps being too heavy. Her feet felt like they thudded the boards, making it almost physically impossible to reach Maureen. She worked to compensate. Tried to lighten her exterior. Bring an added delicacy to her movements. A controlled hush to her speech. By the end, though, she wasn’t sure she ever found the control. But at least no lines were dropped.
    She and Maureen step into a shadowed area, away from Mr. Strasberg. Away from everybody. On the stage, it was as though they were nothing more than two people occupying a single space, jabbering alternately between pauses. Now they’re like strangers who
have endured a common disaster, forever connected by the shared experience. They try to congratulate each other, laughing at how a collision of nerves can only result in an implosion. Marilyn says she’s going to return the Jack Daniels, claiming it was clearly a defective brew. They take each other’s hands and then let them drop. Turning to leave, they simultaneously wipe their palms on their respective hips.
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    When she returns to Hollywood, they will talk and talk about her New York ways and her so-called method acting, trying to bend her back into their premade Hollywood shape, and then get furious when they discover she is not that pliable. Some will accuse her of a newfound pretension. But she’ll be focused in a way she’s never been before.

Spring 1956: Los Angeles
    Arthur is afraid of what his association might do to her career. Joe McCarthy’s committee has been breathing down his neck, promising a subpoena that will compel him to name his friends in order to save his reputation and livelihood—not to mention save himself from going to jail.
    He could just stay in the desert forever, he says to her over the telephone from the phone booth at Pyramid Lake. She’s in Los Angeles shooting Bus Stop ,
awaiting the summary divorce that will be awarded to him after the mandatory six weeks it takes to become a Nevada resident. Then they’ll marry. But maybe he just won’t come out of the desert, he says. There are cowboys he’s met who live in holes in the desert, he tells her, and unless you know exactly where those holes are, you’ll never have a chance at finding those men. All completely off the grid. They come up only when there’s a chance for work. “I could do that,” he says. “Only you’d have the map of where to find me.”
    â€œDon’t be silly,” she replies. “You’re from Brooklyn. You’re not going to live in a hole in the Nevada desert.”
    â€œHave you ever imagined what it would be like to