Page 44 of The Last Days of Marilyn Monroe

She’s climbing the steps of City Hall in San Francisco, answering questions from the pack of reporters who have finally tracked down the elusive celebrity couple on their actual wedding day, January 14, 1954.

They’ve had a little help.

Marilyn had called Fox Studio PR head Harry Brand. Clearly, the Fox press agent couldn’t resist leaking the news. Or was it Sid Skolsky? Her good friend certainly deserved the scoop. When she couldn’t reach him directly, she’d also left word with competing columnists Louella Parsons and Kendis Rochlen.

“All right, fellas,” DiMaggio says, “I don’t want to rush you, but we’ve got to get on with the ceremony.”

He’s brought six witnesses—brother Tom, Pacific CoastLeague baseball manager Frank “Lefty” O’Doul, and business partner Reno Barsocchini, along with their wives—into Judge Charles S. Peery’s City Hall chambers. Five hundred other people have also pushed their way inside the building.

“That’s the problem with spontaneous weddings,” Barsocchini grumbles as he stubs out his cigarette. “Nothing runs smoothly.”

Marilyn clutches a bouquet of three fragile orchids as she stands in a demure brown suit with a white ermine collar, waiting for the chief clerk to find a typewriter.

“Okay, let’s get this marriage going,” declares DiMaggio, rubbing his hands together.

The clerk opens the window to let in some air, only to distract the judge with the excited chattering of the crowd below. Judge Peery hushes them just as Marilyn’s sweet, breathy voice promises to “love, honor, and cherish”—“obey” being no longer fashionable in 1954—the baseball hero who’s becomeherhero. She smiles as DiMaggio slips a family heirloom ring onto her finger. There’s been no time to buy a new one.

They pose for a kiss in front of the judge’s law books, then sign the register. Though DiMaggio gives his correct age of thirty-nine, Marilyn suddenly loses two years by stating that she’s twenty-five.

Crowds milling in the corridors are blocking the exits. The couple rushes toward the real estate department. It’s a dead end. Deploying a few sharp elbows, Joe’s friends finally clear a path toward the elevator car.

At street level, an explosion of photographers’ flashbulbs and reporters’ questions awaits.

“Marilyn? Have you married your millionaire?”

“I have certainly married a brilliant baseballer and my sweetheart,” she coos.

“Hey, Joe! What are you and Marilyn going to do next?”

When we got together in the bedroom,DiMaggio thinks,it was like the gods were fighting; there were thunderclouds and lightning above us.But that’s private.

“Are you going to have children?”

“We expect to have one,” replies DiMaggio.

“I’d like to have six,” says Marilyn, who has a loving relationship with DiMaggio’s young son Joey—in many ways, the twelve-year-old boy is closer to his new stepmother than his distant father.

“We’ve got to get going,” Joe interrupts. “We’ve got to put a lot of miles behind us.”

One last question. “Where are you going on your honeymoon?”

“North, south, west and east” is all Joe will say.

First, they go to church.

As a backdrop for their wedding photos, they’ve chosen the steps of Saints Peter and Paul Church in DiMaggio’s native North Beach. It’s a far cry from 1939, when twenty thousand fans turned out at the San Francisco cathedral, site of DiMaggio’s first wedding.

Not only has the couple, both previously married and divorced, been denied a wedding in the Catholic Church, but DiMaggio’s technically been excommunicated for marrying a second time. If he’s bothered by the move, he shows no sign of it.

The press celebrates the “Romance of the Century” on front pages nationwide.MARILYN WEDS JOE IN FRISCOtrumpets theNew York Daily News,captioning the front-page wedding photoDIMAGGIO SIGNS WITH A NEW MANAGER.

TheLos Angeles Herald & Expressgets clever, pairing the famous couple’s “uniforms”—Marilyn’s calendar girl “birthday suit” with DiMaggio’s “baseball suit.”

If only they had a better hideout than his dark blue convertible Cadillac. They drive south along US Highway 101 to the California central coast town of Paso Robles and pay $6.50 to check into the Clifton Motel for their wedding night.

“Oh, Joe,” says Marilyn as they walk slowly to their bedroom. “Look at that.” She still carries her wedding bouquet, now wilted. “They’re all dead and broken.” She turns to look at him, slipping her hand into his. “Promise me something.”

“Anything.”

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