Chapter 70

Nearly seven decades had passed since that life-changing night in Byron’s studio apartment. With the end of my life now a breath away, I lay on my deathbed in my Beverly Hills mansion. My gray hair had thinned, my skin wrinkled, and liver spots dotted the backs of my hands. I stared at the young Catholic priest sitting at the side of my bed with his back straight and hands clasped in his lap. He had listened without interrupting as I spoke of my early years. The years where I, as a young girl, had discovered who I was.

Supported by three pillows propped against the headboard, I stopped talking and doubled over, wheezing and gasping. When done, I dabbed my mouth with the handkerchief I seemed to always be clutching. I checked for new blood. None this time.

“Sorry, Father,” I said, “the doctors tell me my lungs are filled with fluid. Sometimes it’s hard to breathe, especially when I talk a lot, and I guess I’ve been talking a whole lot.”

“Do you want to sleep?” the priest asked. “I can leave.”

“Please don’t leave. If I sleep, I won’t wake up. I can feel it.”

I wheezed in as much air as my lungs would hold, coughed, and folded my hands over my chest as my lungs fought for the oxygen my body craved but was deprived. The priest sat still, watching me. I finally took a couple of deep breaths and collapsed backward, sinking into the pillows.

The priest looked around my spacious bedroom and then faced me again.

“Mrs. Stinger,” he said, “the way your confession was going it sounded like your husband didn’t want to make movies. What changed?”

I gasped, this time not because of my lungs. “Did you say confession?”

“I thought I was sent here for Last Rites. I guess you needed to confess your sins first to enter heaven.”

“I wasn’t confess—” I coughed a few times and then took a deep breath and dabbed my mouth with the handkerchief. “That wasn’t a confession. I was reflecting on my wonderful life.”

“You mean wicked life.”

“The life God chose for me.”

“Our Lord Jesus didn’t choose that life for you. You chose it yourself. I assume that night in the actor’s apartment was only the beginning and, even after you married, you and your husband kept sinning.”

“Have you even heard what I told you?” I asked.

“Every word.”

“But did you hear me? My lifestyle wasn’t a choice. It was something I needed.”

“There are many people—”

“Not like me!”

My coughing started again, this time lasting longer. When done, I closed my eyes and tried to catch my breath. I was ready to meet my maker, and those might have been my final breaths, but the priest had pissed me off.

“Father, you asked about my husband making movies. Sometimes fate intervenes. I was going to hold out for another June wedding, but he got a part in a Broadway play shortly after the new year and we wanted to celebrate so we got married in the spring. April 16, 1960. And unlike my first marriage, which you probably think was made in heaven, it lasted until his death eight years ago. It was a perfect marriage.”

“You are still married to your first husband in the eyes of God. ‘What God has joined together, no human being must separate.’ Matthew 19:6.”

I was getting madder.

“Because of that bullshit,” I shouted, “I didn’t have a church wedding with Kirk!”

It was intended to be a shout, but I didn’t have the strength. It came out raspy and no way as loud as it was inside my head. And my heart. I ended up sputtering and coughing afterward. This time blood did come up. I dabbed my mouth with my soiled handkerchief.

The priest waited. There was concern and compassion on his face. I immediately felt bad. He was repeating what he had been taught.

When I caught my breath, I said, “I’m sorry, Father, please suffer an old woman’s temper. When I get angry like that, my late husband used to say, ‘Come not between the dragon and his wrath.’ That is from King Lear. Unfortunately, he had to say it too often.”

I waited for the priest to chuckle like others always had, but he sat stone-faced.

“So,” I said, “you want to know how we ended up in California. Well, Kirk had been right. His Off-Broadway play was a hit and he caught the eye of the right people. Like I said, his next role was on Broadway. And each part got bigger until Hollywood came knocking. As they say in The Godfather, they made him an offer he couldn’t refuse. So, although Kirk always loved performing in front of a live audience, most of his career was here in Hollywood making movies.”

“He was very successful,” the priest said.

“Yes. It provided what we needed. And we got to spend more time together. Not when he was filming, but between movies. We saw the world and met a lot of people who were like us.”

The priest was about to say something when he snapped his mouth shut.

“Not sinners, Father,” I said. “People who enjoyed sex. Enjoyed sex. Me, I needed it. Kirk knew that. Mrs. Russo knew that. I believe Mr. Roman knew it as well. Even though none of them knew what it was. They just knew girls like me needed sex to be happy. Others called us nymphomaniacs and, well, sinners, sluts, tramps. Today there’s a medical term for it. Hypersexuality Disorder. But back then we were just wanton women to most people.”

“Mrs. Stinger, since you are not confessing, why are you telling me this?”

I hesitated for a few moments, studying the priest’s face. His eyes. They were no longer judgmental. They were curious eyes. Compassionate eyes.

“I’ve been living a secret life all these years,” I said. “In the Fifties, society would have ostracized me if people knew. Then, when times changed, my husband became famous and the media would have destroyed us. After holding it in for so long, I wanted to get it out in the open, even if it was only to you.”

“So you were ashamed of your lifestyle.”

He wasn’t asking. That riled me. He still didn’t understand. But I didn’t have the strength to yell. I took a few deep breaths to calm myself. In my case, my breaths were as deep as my lungs would allow.

“Father, have you ever masturbated?” I asked.

The shock on the priest’s face turned to relief when I held up my bony hand to stop him from answering. But after all I had told him, he should have known I wanted the answer. If he wasn’t so young, he might have understood. My wrinkly, liver-spotted hand dropped to the mattress from its own weight.