Dead Stars

by Bruce Wagner

  –(A kind of crazy look) Your own money?

  –From my trust.

  –What do you mean trust?

  –For the money. For the pictures—

  –What pictures—

  –The ones you took. Of me. The photographs. Remember when you said you were going to put money away? Because you said you wanted me to benefit? You said you wanted me to benefit from your work—

  –Oh. Yeah. OK. Okay—this—this is . . . . . . . . . . . .

  –I’m not asking for your money. I’m not asking for anyone’s money but my own. And I know I might not be able to have it until I’m 21 or 18, legally or whatever, but what I wanted to ask you was if you—if they—the bank or whomever—if they could give me my money early because of my—because of my circumstances. I can even help you with it, I mean, if you need money, so you don’t have to work at Sears anymore, it would take off such a burden from everyone’s shoulders . . . or I can even take part of, like, whatever it is, I could take just like 125,000 or even a hundred—

  –(Trancelike) A hundred and twenty-five thousand . . .

  –Mom, I don’t care what it is, you can release to me whatever, it’ll just make things so much easier—I mean, so people—you & Rikki’s parents—so no one has to worry . . .

  –Jerilynn, I want you to listen to me. I want you to hear this. I really want you to hear this. For a lot of years, I raised you and your brother alone. Your father gave me money for a while & then that stopped. And I was desperate. I was very, very depressed. I felt like the world passed me by. It’s a terrible feeling to have. I started taking pictures again because it was the only thing that stopped me from spiraling down. I started taking pictures of you because you were my light, my little faerie, my little blond angel. I had no idea anyone would be interested in those photographs. Because they were really just for me. Are you listening? Because I really want you to listen, Jerilynn, you really need to listen. I was absolutely—I couldn’t believe they got so much attention, even acclaim. And it allowed me to begin a new life, it let us begin a new life. But what you need to know is that I did not become rich. Not me, not the galleries, not anybody. It was more—it’s like my career has been more—more a cause célèbre than anything else. Do you know what a cause célèbre is, Jerilynn? It’s when something’s controversial but not necessarily profitable. You know, so I traveled to England to show my work, to tremendous expense, & everywhere we went—it wasn’t cheap bringing you on these trips, that’s why I had your brother stay with Ronny in NY—there were always these little tempests when I showed my work, & it seemed that as long as the pictures were controversial, people were more apt to buy. They sold for twenty-five hundred up to $12,000. We didn’t sell too many $12,000 ones, we sold a lot in the midrange & even more in the lower, the lower prices. And the galleries took 50%. 50% . . .

  –If what you’re saying is there’s less of the money left, I already told you that’s OK, because—

  –I didn’t have to put you in a private school, but I did. Do you know how much New Crossroads cost? $23,000 a year. For a 12-year-old!—

  –Mom, it doesn’t matter, I’ll just take whatever’s there—

  –Jerilynn, I don’t even remember, but that’s not—

  –You don’t remember how much is there? In the trust?

  –I don’t remember . . . promising that—because I knew what our situation was. But that I don’t remember isn’t the point—I’ll take your word for it, & it does sound like something I would have definitely wanted to do if I could—

  –There isn’t any money?

  –Jerilynn, I’ll go over my bank statements with you, I’ll have the accountant go over them with you. Right now, I’m carrying $90,000 in credit card debt.

  –O my god. You totally lied. You totally scammed your own daughter . . . . . . . . .

  –Jerilynn—

  –O my god, I hate you————

  –That isn’t fair. Apparently, you weren’t listening when—(Reeyonna starts to SCREAM) Jerilynn—Jerilynn, stop. Stop!

  –You piece of shit! You stole money from me!

  –I didn’t st—

  –My own mother actually stole money from me! O my god! O my god———I want you to DIE, you BITCH! I want you to DIE! You piece of shit bitch! You will NEVER see your grandchild EVER I would NEVER let you see her even if I had a MILLION DOLLARS! I would never let you see her because you are so SICK, you are so FUCKING SICK that you would probably take NUDE PICTURES of it & try to SELL them on the INTERNET! because you’re CRAZY you’re CRAZY you’re a fucking SICK CRAZY SLUT & I fucking HATE YOU! You are the biggest WHORE, you always make a FOOL out of yourself Steve Martin was LAUGHING at you & James Franco wanted to fuck ME not YOU even tho he could tell you were a fucking OLD WHORE! [sustained screams, then] YOU FUCKING FUCKING FUCKING PIECE OF SHIT [a sustained scream, then] you should just DIE why don’t you go somewhere and DIE you are the WORST & the SICKEST you have NO TALENT and everyone thinks you’re CRAZY they KNOW you are no one even wants to be SEEN with you all you have is how SICK you are, you are the WORST MOTHER, O my god I would rather be ADOPTED like RIKKI than have YOU as a MOTHER! You will NEVER meet my baby, you will go to your grave without seeing my baby & when my baby is older I will tell him that his grandma was a SICK PIECE OF SHIT and how HAPPY he should be that you never held him—you will NEVER EVER EVER hold him, do you understand? Are you listening? You better! You better! Because you ARE A SICK FUCKING WHORE AND I HOPE YOU DIE! I HOPE YOU DIE! I HOPE YOU DIE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

  Afternoon is the time of Woman: the Unknown

  Io ritornai da la santissima onda

  Rifatto sì come piante novelle

  Rinovellate di novella fronda,

  puro e disposto a salire a le stelle.

  —P U R G A T O R I O, XXXIII. 142–5

  CLEAN

  [Michael]

  Dancing With The Stars

  He

  was in LA, in preproduction on a film. Catherine was shooting a Fosse-themed Glee. Ryan told him that a guest stint by Catherine had been in play long before Michael sent his fan letter.

  Karma.

  . . .

  He met the little cancer gal & her mom for tea at the Peninsula.

  Then he did something that surprised him.

  Michael told the driver to take him to the little cemetery in Westwood where his half-brother was buried. (He didn’t question his instincts anymore.) Anyway, now was as good a time as any to pay his respects to the dead; he wasn’t able to make the Reaper’s recent gala, and had respectfully RSVP’d his regrets. He’d be attending soon enough.

  The actor’s asst called the park to make sure he wouldn’t be disrupting a funeral by his presence. The coast was clear. A caretaker met him at the car & walked him to Eric’s flat stone. The mood of that shitty day—Eric’s funeral—washed over him. He knelt a moment, running a finger over the grass on the grave.

  The actor meandered through the modestly-scaled tombs. It felt like a minefield. He stepped over, around & in-between the engraved invitations in a superstitious foxtrot (or minuet, holding Death’s hand like a child without knowing it), which was more or less what he’d done with cancer—with sure foot and unwavering eye, he picked his way through the cellsplitting grunge & muck that tried to abduct and to claim him, to snatch him back whence he came like an incensed parent denied custody. The fuckers on the Internet who laid virtual money that his time was nigh had already lost their shirts. He felt like Keith Richards. He’d outlive all the jackals, & have kicks along the way.

  Everyone knew that Marilyn was buried here but as he walked and surveyed, the profusion of showbiz dead surprised him. His dad’s time was well-represented: Malden & Matthau, Leigh, Lancaster, Lemmon. The manicured morgue was as eclectic as a guest list off the old Tonight Show—Capote, Coburn, Cassavetes—Gene Kelly, Don Knotts, Merv. Dominick Dunne’s murdered daughter was here and he wondered why Nick buried himself in Connecticut instead of with his chil
d. Michael couldn’t bear the thought of being separated from his children, even in death. He shook his head at the Zappa & Joplin markers . . . unfuckingreal.

  He soft-shoed between Natalie Wood and Billy Wilder, suddenly standing over Farrah. That was a tough death. It was one thing to go on Letterman and tell the world the cat got your tongue, & entirely another to announce the cat crawled up your ass and died and was taking you with it. In those first frightening months, MD thought of her a lot. He watched her documentary—all in all, a damn brave girl. Hella courage. And to have them film you like that, hella courage all around. He remembered something a friend said when the family was vacationing in Fiji. They were floating in a coral reef when a small, black&white-banded snake swam between his legs and disappeared. His buddy told him it was poisonous but not to worry, it had no interest in human beings. Michael asked where the hospital was, if you happened to get bit. “You could drive to the clinic in town,” he answered, “but I wouldn’t recommend it. It wouldn’t be the best use of the hour you had left.”

  MD wondered how he’d behave in the face of losing numbers: that was the real Hitch-22. (Jesus, losing Christopher was a loss. What giantsized balls the man had.) He knew the producer in him—the warrior—would never want to concede, but the actor just might . . . He agonized over the question: When do you stop NetJetting to clinics in Switzerland, South Africa, Brazil for experimental treatment? When the only result is twitter rape, videos of your emaciated bodyhusk struggling in and out of vans, your haunted, anguished huffin and puffin visage HuffPosted to the world. Ryan O’Neal had stayed by her side, steadfast & true. MD laughed a little, thinking: he won’t be by my side, least not if I can help it. There were so many things you’d lose control of once you crossed a certain threshold . . . Ryan had leukemia himself, for the last ten years, same type Ali had in Love Story. And now he’s got prostate. It’s Cancer’s world, we just live in it. At least Ryan was still alive. Wasn’t he?

  He headed toward the car, pausing at another stone:

  DOROTHY STRATTEN

  FEBRUARY 28, 1960—AUGUST 14, 1980

  IF PEOPLE BRING SO MUCH COURAGE TO THIS WORLD THE WORLD HAS TO KILL THEM TO BREAK THEM, SO OF COURSE IT KILLS THEM . . . IT KILLS THE VERY GOOD AND THE VERY GENTLE AND THE VERY BRAVE IMPARTIALLY. IF YOU ARE NONE OF THESE YOU CAN BE SURE THAT IT WILL KILL YOU TOO BUT THERE WILL BE NO SPECIAL HURRY

  WE LOVE YOU DR

  Strange. He wondered if the mom had written it. Maybe. In a raging delirium of grief, no doubt.

  Star 80 was probably Fosse’s best film. His most director-like film, anyway.

  She was only twenty. Star 20 . . . . . . . . . .

  Some were made like his dad, royal tortoises mobb deep in guardian angels, while others breathed ICU nursery O2-tank air for a few mayfly minutes before expiration.

  One needn’t be a philosopher to grasp the insignificance of temporal goings-on; one needn’t even be pretentious (tho sometimes that helped). In the design of things, there was utterly no significance in whether you lived an hour, a year or a hundred years—the span of human life was cloud graffiti. Michael couldn’t remember the context, but one of his doctors in Montreal used a wonderful word, blessure, which meant injury to tissue, a break in the skin. (The actor rearranged it in his head as “surely blessed.”) Last night as he fell asleep, he meditated. If every soul who’d ever lived and died on Earth—Yahoo! put it just over 100 billion—were to suddenly manifest & vaporize, the Unknown* would have no more awareness of the thunderous lamentations accompanying their collective outgoing breath than an insect would have knowledge of a microblog devoted to its industrious ways. The unfathomable cessation would incur no celestial blessure, the Ineffable not suffer the slightest bruising whatsoever. Something he read in his college days at UC Santa Barbara stayed with him all these years, something one did have to be a philosopher to have said, or a philosopher-poet, anyway. “Life is the rarest form of death.” Wasn’t that wild? The old joke of life being a near-death experience. Was that George Carlin? Or Mr. Nietzsche?

  MD came out the other side of his catastrophe with the firm belief that cancer was his teacher. Cancer had urged him to accept (or die trying) earthly life for the dream it was—fleeting, as they say, tho such a perception seemed impossible to achieve (if one could call it an achievement) for anyone but saints, idiots & visionaries. Yet since the diagnosis, he strove to live in that blissful, acquiescent state, that unreachable cliché of presence in the moment, yes, in this moment, not moments past or moments to come. This moment was all he had. In this moment, he was alive & cancer-free. In this moment, from a cemetery, he conjured his wife, beckoning. In this moment, he could see his children crying, laughing, sleeping. In this moment, he had more money than he could spend in a hundred lifetimes.

  By the time a too-close bird ended his train of thought, the actor’s tour was almost done. It wouldn’t have been complete without Marilyn.

  The plaque on the drawer of the cinerarium bore only her name, and the year of birth & death. Thirty-six years-old at the age of blessure . . . A long time ago, a businessman bought the space right above her. He told his wife to make sure they buried him facedown, in the missionary position—just for the kamikaze cosmo-comic eterno-skeleto-fuck jokey thrill of it—an inspired wish that his widow evidently wryly carried out. Then bogeyman Madoff swindled her and she had to auction off the spectral fuckpad penthouse, she got five million for it (if memory served) & buried him elsewhere—exhumation in flagrante postmortem delicto. It was common pop-cult knowledge that’s where Hef was going, years ago he bought the crib beneath Monroe, so he could properly stick his candle in the wind. Karma was a funny thing: Norma Jean was molested as a child, & she’d be molested in the afterlife. It was ironic too that Dorothy Stratten always wanted to hang at the Playboy Mansion; now, Marilyn and Hef would be partying, with Dorothy just outside the gate, for all eternity.

  The Wheel of Karma kept on turning.

  MD understood those people who thought burial was for squares, for whom cremation was the magic word—to be sprinkled here & there, over the ground or into the wind & water of a place one loved. He understood the feelings of those who were stingy/proprietary about recycling theirs or loved ones’ organs, even those who thought there might be bad voodoo in signing the donor’s form on the back of a driver’s license. He understood how a person could feel in their untransplanted heart that mutilation—that posthumously violent, nonconsensual blessure—regardless of the alleviation of the suffering of the living, just wasn’t the way to go.

  He didn’t care about any of that now. They could scoop his eyes & pluck his corneas, whittle his kidneys, grand theft his thorax, fry up his liver, & harvest his skin on a special edition of Piers Morgan. They could tear off cock&balls at the root and laminate them for teaching hospitals. They could feed him to the dogs & piss on him, because by then his soul would be in another dream.

  He was over it.

  CLEAN

  [Gwen]

  Ctrl + Z

  Tea

  with Michael Douglas was heaven.

  Gwen was on Cloud 9, she’d had a crush on him forever. Telma wore her new Marc Jacobs dress and was so excited that getting a part on Glee was hardly discussed, even though she couldn’t believe his wife was actually guest-starring. OMG! It was all so adorable, watching her daughter interact with the legendary star, & Gwen thought he couldn’t have been more charming. Sylvester Stallone, Tilda Swinton & L.A. Reid were in different parts of the sunlit room having tea. It was beyond beyond.

  When Telma got her diagnosis, a few people told Gwen that cancer was a gift. She wanted to strangle them, but now she understood.

  . . .

  A few days later, she got a call from an attorney who said he represented St. Ambrose. He wanted to talk; when Gwen pressed what for, he said it was a matter best discussed in person.

  Century City was walkable from the house. The request for a rendezvous was strange and slightly mysterious. On the str
oll over, she had fleeting, preposterous fantasies of why she’d been summoned. She had a feeling it was a good thing.

  That feeling changed when Dr. Bessowichte entered the conference room. After a cold, rabbity greeting—no shake of her hand—his wan smile withdrew, skittering under a rock. “Dr. B” (St. Ambrose happened to be the patron saint of bees & beekeepers, and schoolchildren too) had been with them from the beginning, right there in the trenches. He was the ex officio tsar of Telma’s Troopers, whose equanimity & genius for decision-making sustained them through all manner of bloody, crazy-making stratagems, artifices & bombardments of the cancer wars. In Gwen’s eyes, he was the single person most responsible for having saved her daughter’s life. He never retreated, not once. He was part of their family.

  Something awful had happened . . . it came to her head that he was going to announce that he was sick, that he was going to die. But why wouldn’t he call or just come to the house? Why wouldn’t his wife Ruth have called? They could have asked her over to their house—they were all that close, it was that kind of bond.

  Why would a lawyer call with that kind of news?

  Nothing she came up with in a handful of seconds made any sense.

  “What is it?” said Gwen. She was trembling now. “What’s wrong?”

  A sudden, monstrous shift within, as she thought the unthinkable.

  “It’s Telma . . . is it Telma? Did the cancer come back?”

  But if it did, why are we here in Century City, why aren’t we at the hospital, why aren’t————————

  An attorney began to speak (there were 3 in the room), but Gwen stopped the world by imploring Dr. B with a beggar’s brutalized eyes.

  “No—no! Nothing like that,” said the doc.