He stands on the far side of
the cemetery with hands jammed in pockets. The coffin is covered with
roses, but one falls off as she is lifted into the darkness of the crypt--a
black screen at the end of a film. Dudley picks up the 
trampled rose, holds it to his
lips, stares at the vase that Joe DiMaggio arranged for a half dozen
rosebuds in perpetuity. Dudley imagines that when the world ends, when
human life has passed from this planet, Marilyn's rose supply will
cease--an outfielder's concept of immortality. The crypt above Marilyn is
still vacant. A salesman rides a Lawn Boy and turns down the engine for
Dudley, who writes the phone number on a trembling wrist. 
The padded elevator makes him feel
right at home. On Lillian Way a woman and a couch make love in the glow of
television. Framed by a shade, a window, and a kitchen door, a pair of
hands revolve on the breakfast table, fingers spread, palms flat,
clockwise in timeless motion. Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs surround a
newspaper on the narrow lawn. Cinema General is peeling like early summer
skin. Hogan's Heroes and Mary Tyler Moore are fading stencils caged in
concrete. Through these doors celebrities passed to have their
lives sprung at them like a lady or a tiger.