Dead Stars

by Bruce Wagner

  “Turner. It’s called Beyond. Tina’s a Buddhist, no one really knows that, she doesn’t talk about it. She made a CD of her own personal chants, it is so beautiful. Barry almost produced it.” (Gwen knew she was close to Barry Manilow.) “Will you promise me you’ll download it?”

  “I will.”

  “He’s also an incredible jewelry designer. He’s basically become Donna Karan’s jeweler and spiritual advisor!”

  They reached a table that was empty except for one man. (The show was about to begin and the bathrooms were being used en masse.)

  “This,” says Suzanne, “is Montenegro. Montenegro? Meet Gwen.”

  Then she leaves.

  He’s sixtysomething, ruddy and sweetsmelling, impeccably turned out. He too is larger than life: big white wolf teeth, big wide beard, big wide spicy eyes. One dangly gold earring.

  “Please! Sit.”

  She does. And right away he takes her hand.

  “You’re suffering. Because you want to—need to—tell someone you love more than life a painful truth. And he—she?—she has already suffered so much. Too much! And for what? But there is no choice, you cannot live in lies, you can only live in truth. You need to live in truth or you’ll cause more damage, more harm. Not just to the one you love, but to you. The truth will be the gift you can give her. Do you understand?”

  . . .

  How, how did he know those things?

  And why did Suzanne Somers lead her to him?

  She felt like a ruin, dizzy, all clogged up.

  She’s had enough of herself, she’s just had—enough.

  There goes Steve Martin to the stage, there goes laughter and applause, there go the doctors, doctors and more doctors, there go the tributes to the doctors, and now there goes a short film projected on the giant wall panels featuring herds of bald children w/eyes big as Montenegro’s. There goes Young Hollywood—& more awards . . . she tells Phoebe she can’t take much more. But she does not tell her she wants to die.

  She’s been thinking about dying, about dying and taking Telma with her.

  Suddenly Catherine Zeta-Jones is onstage in top hat and tails, singing at Michael.

  “ONE singular sensation, at the bot-tom of the tongue—”

  Gwen tuned in long enough to recall reading something about how furious Catherine was at all the American doctors for missing it, how close their bumbling bullshit came to killing him, triggering another internal jag (one more in a series) of Gwen’s . . . motherfuck American doctors, boy o boy could she relate, a person had a better chance of surviving heart surgery in the fucking Sudan, she was determined one day to bond with Catherine over mutual nightmares. But at least theirs had a happy ending . . . . . . . . . .

  Gwen looked up at the monitors. The camera was on Michael watching Catherine from his table, eating it up. He loved his wife’s passion and mischiefmaking.

  “—THREE wrongful di-ag-NO-ses, every test that he takes!”

  Lots of laughter, a bit awkward in that doctors never quite warm to indictments of their own . . . so many things could happen . . . those tumors were so hard to————Gwen reverting, retreating into her fog, Michael accepting his award, Michael with tears in his eyes, Michael stressing the importance of head&neck checkups . . . so so foggy. She looks around—Aleisha and Telma already gone, and Phoebe too. Phoebe probably saw the condition she was in & made an executive decision to be one of the adults accompanying the kids to the green room backstage where they would be wired for sound and generally prepped for their tearjerky rockstar finale. Gwen wants to be with them backstage, waiting in the wings for their cue, wants to be with Aleisha&Melanie, wants to be supportive, propping up her own sweet tragic maimed and mutilated daughter but doesn’t for the moment have the strength to move from her chair.

  Beyoncé!

  sings a medley when she gets to

  “Single Ladies” the audience EXPLODES and then she begins Run the World (Girls), kickass tribute to the upcoming Telma & Aleisha . . .

  ———WTF Gwen’s arm is grabbed HARD by Jesselle, who says there’s a problem. Gwen follows her to the far side of the ballroom then down, almost sprints to keep up, she’s saying Telma won’t go on, she’s refusing, she won’t sing unless Aleisha comes on before, Telma said everyone in the audience Michael Douglas and Khloé Kardashian read the program and thinks SHE’S closing the show. Gwen is mortified . . . “So you know what?” says Jesselle, with contempt. “That’s what we’re going to do. Aleisha will come out and sing ‘Smile’ then Telma will sing ‘Somewhere Over the Rainbow.’ OK?” It’s a testy rhetorical question, Gwen doesn’t say anything because if Jesselle’s already made up her mind Gwen doesn’t even know why she went and grabbed her or what she’s supposed to even do, unless Jesselle just came up with that now, of Aleisha coming out first and Telma going after, but Gwen is surprised to find herself thinking there is just no way, this has gone too far, Telma’s going to go on BEFORE Aleisha or not at all because darlin you’re just too young to be a diva—————————————O SHIT there they are! Aleisha’s mom’s Zen grin turned to mush, Telma crying/stomping her foot in deep rhythmic tantrum, Aleisha watching her, watching Telma’s alien movements so closely, still devoted, still in awe, still helpless—

  “What is the matter with you!” shouts Gwen. She takes Telma by the shoulders & shakes her. Telma: unplacable, opaque, insistent. So wounded in so many ways. Gwen angry, then remembering the mutilation—angry, then remembering—angry, then remembering. But the words come out Don’t do this to her Telma it isn’t fair————but nothing NOTHING moves her, & it’s

  T I M E

  SHIT! A hush falls like silent snow, everyone knows what’s coming, it’s in the program, it’s Telma closing the show, that’s what the program says, the Courage people (mostly Tiff Koster) had the idea for Aleisha to sing but it was too late to change it in the program, they hadn’t even printed up inserts, the plan was for Telma to go out there and do “Somewhere Over the Rainbow” and at the very end (as abortively rehearsed) Telma would intro “my new BFF from Ontario Canada” (Tiff Koster’s awkward wording) but now that wasn’t going to happen, the trouble was that Steve was still going to intro Telma as planned (as written in the program) but because Telma refused to go and sing “Somewhere Over the Rainbow” and at the end of it intro little Aleisha, now little Aleisha was going to be the one who went out onstage as Steve intro’d Telma, which would require some quick explaining (by Steve or someone), you know, like, as you can see this isn’t Telma, before we bring Telma out please meet our very special guest who flew all the way from Ontario Canada to be with us tonight, she’s actually the youngest breast cancer survivor in the world and she’s going to sing “Smile” but how was THAT even going to work unless Jesselle practically walked out onstage with Aleisha and used the mic for her remarks before handing it off to the beleaguered child . . .

  . . . NOW Steve Martin says, We have someone very special with us tonight, I’m sure she’s familiar to many of you in her official role of the Mayor of St. Ambrose’s (already in the script, & written by Tiff K) . . . ladies and gentlemen, without further ado . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . TELMA BALLENDYNE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!——————

  “Telma, you are NOT going on after her! You are NOT!”

  ——————Aleisha & her mom walk onstage prematurely, Melanie confused, Jesselle too distracted to stop them, everything’s going to hell, plus the collective gasp at how tiny Aleisha is also gives way to murmurry puzzlement, as 15% of the audience knows this is not Telma. Jesselle walks out after them to make the proper intro, the audience laughs at the sweet nonpro logistical snafu but lovely, the laughter with them in their ordinariness, their simple sacred commonplaceness, the heroic example set by their most uncommon commonplace courage which is what the ball is about TAKE COURAGE Steve Martin’s eyes already look like they might be tearing up, so moved how can you not be moved—Ladies & Gentleman says Jesselle, having been handed the mic, w
e have a very special guest from Ontario Canada, Miss Aleisha Hunter the heart is unlonely hun——Aleisha was diagnosed with breast cancer when she was 2½ (AUDIENCE GASP) now she’s five, she’s the world’s youngest breast cancer survivor (Gwen forever of course by Telma’s side, now paranoid/reading Jesselle’s words as deliberate salts in the wound of your bitch daughter) (THE AUDIENCE ROARS, HALF OF THEM ON THEIR FEET IN OVATION, THE REST SAVING IT ALSO NOT WANTING TO SPOOK THE LITTLE ONE WHO IS VERY LITTLE). In the clutch, Melanie has reacquired her Zen game face, the audience now fairly gasping with the sentimentality&grandeur/impossible bravery of the moment——————Mama Melanie leans down to her baby & whispers Are you OK? meaning, to be alone by yourself onstage? Aleisha nods & Mom walks off————more than half the audience dies a little because they didn’t want Mom to go, someone should have told Mom to just stay, the child looks so stranded, so vulnerable, so perfect, so———————the orchestra begins, a small not overbearing arrangement, Aleisha makes a tentative start, a few fits starts & hiccups then audience tenses, tears rolling already, audience WILLING her to be OK, for everything to be all right she will be, won’t she? She’s a trooper, right? The powers that be would not have thrown her to the lions, would they? I mean she must have done benefits before, performed at benefits before, no? Right? The whole room straining with her, rooting for her, dying in their lonely flooded unhunted hearts for her, then

  Smile tho yr is aching

  the tiny tiny voice but NO! something’s wrong with her mic! A technician elegantly creeps onstage, fixes it in a jiffy, now garble of terrorstricken loving anticipatory sounds that Gwen’s never even heard from audience or crowd or anything ever——whalish sounds of primal anxiety&love&fear&primal love

  Smile even tho it’s breaking

  ———& that. is. it.

  The child can take no more.

  The nightmare moment the audience thought would never come

  is here.

  Aleisha stares into the wings stage right, from the ballroom audience a ¼viewable spasmy clump of people is discernible there. Melanie. Gwen. Phoebe. Jesselle. Stage manager. Others. And Telma: unblinking, unstomping, uncrying, raging no more. Recipient of Aleisha’s beaten begging onstage eyes.

  It happens so quickly, it’s only seconds, she was about to rescue her daughter, Jesselle was going to go out there too, hell even Gwen was but Telma tamped the mom’s arm & took the stage. The audience has not exhaled. They know this is no longer scripted. No one knows what’s going to happen, not even Gwen, but more than a few think they do: the big girl’s going to help the little girl walk offstage

  NO.

  Telma kneels to enfold her. Aleisha trembles.

  Loud silence, then Telma begins

  :) tho your heart is aching

  Smile even tho it’s breaking

  . . . . . . but won’t go any further without her, her new BFF from Ontario CN. The silence grows louder. Telma gets behind her, still on her knees, arms enfolding/encircling her like a necklace, protecting, soothing, loving—& begins again—warbling whispering entreating lullaby-beseeching in Aleisha’s ear—MOTHERING—Gwen out of her fog now and into a dream, all of it dreamy——————after a few false starts Telma gets her to talk—then talk-sing—then sing, her voice a thread of love entangled with Aleisha’s protecting loving loving LOVE

  [they sing lyrics describing weather,

  suggesting that as long as

  there are skies above, one may persevere]*

  Masterfully, the accompaniment recedes (quickly, plaintively, breakingly) the conductor must’ve made that decision) until there is only

  a

  single

  violin.

  {Telma&Aleisha (together)}

  [they sing lyrics suggesting

  to remain steadfast

  thru difficulties, the gloom

  may lift and the

  sun come out again]*

  & then it’s over.

  Telma holds Aleisha

  Aleisha holds back

  burying her face in Telma/s blasted lambasted chest.

  The mothers take the stage

  & then:

  pandemonium.

  CLEAN

  [Bud]

  Fall Guy

  Dolly

  fell again. This time she sprained an arm and got what the doctor called a scalp hematoma; she bled beneath the skin. She got lucky, though, yet again—nothing broken. Nothing broken, nothing gained, said Bud aloud, in front of the caregiver with the worst English.

  Bud sat on the edge of the bed. Mom looked all played out.

  “Do you know what this is?”

  “This?”

  “This phase.”

  She sounded almost lighthearted. Jaunty.

  “No. What is it?”

  “This is the deterioration-death phase. It’s old age. That’s what it is: the deterioration-death phase. If there was a coffin, you’d just crawl right in.”

  “I can have one here tomorrow.”

  “Go fuck yourself.”

  They watched TV together, then Bud flipped through channels while Dolly slept. Reality show after reality show; the world was overdosing on reality. Once faddish, the New (filmed) Reality was the norm. Bud’s little theory was that the “blooper” was to blame. When he was a boy, he remembered John Wayne dropping by The Tonight Show with a blooper reel from his latest film—take after take of the Duke unable to make it through one scene or other without laughing. When he finally regained his composure, the virus had already passed to whoever was acting opposite him and the cycle began again. That sort of thing used to be a goof, a bonusburger you’d bring Johnny for kicks. It was fun, the folks at home liked the idea of being “in” on something plus it was sexy watching the squeaky gears of fame machinery at work. But when they started using blooper reels as “stingers” at the end of big feature comedies (a montage of mistakes, gaffes, and unprovoked hysteria over final credits), it was like climbing into a Philip K. Dick short story: the beginning of a fatal reality leak. If reality was the PDF, the blooper reel was the end of PDF inviolability, a gateway drug that hacked into reality to produce a highly addictive hybrid—reality programming—more potent than tired old reality itself. Cinematography died and gave birth to the photography of everything. Footage of the DP waking up in the morning, taking a shit and arguing with his wife before leaving for work (as DP on a feature film) was now as or more compelling than whatever fictional narrative he’d be hired to shoot. Formal storytelling no longer existed outside reality but had nestled inside; writers gave TED talks on creating narratives that could be altered by the shake of an iPad. The wiki page on bloopers said the English called it “corpsing”—trying to make the live actor playing the corpse onstage laugh. Well, someone had hacked into fiction and contaminated it with reality; now fiction was the fata morgana, the ghostly relic on the laptop screen; the untampered PDF was a fanatical construction, at last thankfully extinct.

  He stopped on a TNT doc about John Ford. There was a montage of men, galloping on horses. Suddenly the narrator was talking about horses that were specially trained to fall without injuring themselves. They called them—what else?—falling horses. He pictured Dolly on one, strapped to the saddle on the cover of an Hermès catalogue.

  . . .

  Bud knew Michael would be jetlagged and was surprised when he agreed to meet. He said he needed to force himself to stay up because they were throwing a long-planned dinner party tonight for a writer who just published an acclaimed translation of Madame Bovary. Michael suggested the Coffee Bean, on Larchmont.

  As it turned out, all the fuss in New Zealand was nothing more than—surprise—the actor wanting more to do. So Michael wrote three new scenes and elongated five more, without leaving the actor’s trailer. All the bullshit between star & director went poof.

  “Wendy said the movie’s called Misericord . . .”

  “That’s just a working title. Did Ooh Baby close your deal?”r />
  “Yeah. I’ve already commenced.”

  “I told you. What did I tell you?”

  “Yes, you did. And I really thank you.”

  “It’s from Biggie’s story? What they want you to adapt?”

  “Kind of. It’s a real story that Biggie found on the Internet. He made a few . . . changes.”

  “Have you seen the two of them together?”

  “Yeah, at the cancer thing.”

  “Right! There’s something about them—the two of them, together—that’s terribly moving. Biggie’s sick, you know.”

  “Something with his head?”

  “They thought it was NPC, Niemann-Pick, but it isn’t. They don’t know what it is. If it was NPC, he’d be having seizures, & probably be fairly incapacitated by now. But he hasn’t had any seizures. Physically he seems to be fine. It’s a mystery.”

  “Wow.”

  “The doctors told him it’s going to look, smell & feel very much like Alzheimer’s. I mean, in the end. Whenever that is, also something no one seems to know.”

  “Gee, you know I’d rather write a script about that.”

  “Yours is not to reason why.”

  “Michael . . . I know you just got back. I know you did a lot of writing over there, and that you’re jetlagged. But I just wanted to tell you the story. Can I tell you this story they want me to adapt? It’s a very weird story. I mean it’s compelling, but . . . I guess I just need to talk it out. Maybe you’ll have a take on it.”