Dead Stars

by Bruce Wagner

  At this point they’d usually invite them in, it being impolite to keep them afoot on the porch like that. Once settled and properly provided with food & drink, the Double T show-and-tell’d photoshop pics of Rikki with Nelson Mandela; with Jimmy Carter; with Barack & Hillbillary. She even had huge War Child International decals on her attaché, o shit she was tight. They took turns raiding the house, at 1st excusing themselves to use the bathroom but over time one of em would simply disappear while the other kept the mourning whore engaged. Before the bust, they fenced about 225K in jewels/gold. Tom-Tom couldn’t prove it but was fairly certain it was Cherokee who dropped the dime. She was looking at 7 years; reduced to 3 for ratting out Rikki.

  . . .

  His father was a jailbird who left when he was a baby, and now Rikki had done the same to his own. The irony wasn’t lost on him. His parents visited and it pained him to see the look of anguish on Dawn’s face. He thought long&hard about it and told Jim he would understand if they wanted to sever parental rights. “No,” said Jim. “I appreciate your sensitivity in the matter, but there’s not a child on Earth who deserves that to happen to him once, let alone twice.”

  They brought Nikki to see him. It was just like some of the A&E docs where the family brings babies or toddlers to visit the incarcerated dad. He felt something in him shift. Maybe he’d go to school & become a drug counselor when he got out. (That was what Reeyonna wanted to be, if she couldn’t make it as a medical examiner.) He’d talk to Dr Phil about that when he got out. The bottomline was, he wanted to step up to the plate, like the judge said. Handle himself like a man, not a punk. He remembered everything that judge told him. Being arrested like that made an amazing day into one of the worst in his life. Second to ReeRee dying of course.

  He was determined. He would change.

  Fake it til you make it.

  . . .

  Rikki had a cellphone in his cell. A cell in the cell hahahaha. They were easy to get from trustees or guards if you had the money. His parents always kept his account topped off at $200. For snacks & cigs & shampoo and shit.

  The reception was shitty but sometimes you could actually go online. He got a Lana Del Rey youtube & jacked but didn’t want to come. He’d jack a while then try to get a pornsite then fail and go back to his Lana jack. After 5 or 6 tries, he got on & pulled down his pants & put his hand on the gluegun. He was in the lower bunk but his cellie was out exercising or whatever.

  One of his faves, http://behindthecastingcouch.com . . . it was hard to hear the dialogue but they were pretty much all the same. He never saw one with a pregnant girl before, & he jacked a few minutes before realizing with a shock that it was Reeyonna.

  He hit PAUSE.

  Reeyonna was so freaked about money, much more than him, probably he thought because of the grudge deal she had going with her mom for cheating her out of her shit. Ree was more practical than him too, & ahead in the nesting dept. Rikki knew how much she wanted to be independent, & the motherfucking casting motherfucker played on that. It was irrational, but he suddenly got angry with himself for never having told her about the shammy site; if he had, she’d never have fallen for it. But why would he? He never even thought about it. She probably went down there around the time Tom-Tom the cuntsnitch was pressuring them to pay rent. He remembered her coming home one day looking fucked up, & how she stayed in bed a bunch of days & wouldn’t tell him what was wrong. He thought he remembered her being worried she was bleeding a little from her pussy too, not a heavy flow, not too worried, but still. But then it stopped. That would have been right around then.

  He hit PAUSE again and watched Reeyonna blow the piece of shit motherfucker. Man, this shit was sad. Rikki closed his eyes and shook his head. If a year ago someone told him he’d be in jail looking at porn on a contraband cellphone & the porn would be his dead pregnant fiancée giving some sorry-lookin motherfucker head, he’d have fucking laughed. Now he was cryin.

  When he opened his eyes, ReeRee was on the desk on her back, being hardfucked. The cam was right in front of her face & she winced as she got pounded. The phone crashed/he lost the signal. Too much of a hassle to get online again. He didn’t have it in him to even try. Besides, she wasn’t going anywhere. She’d be getting fucked by that lying scumbag forever, until the end of the world, until the end of time.

  He lay back on the cot, & couldn’t stop his brain from playing the fucked-up images over and over in his head. Prisoners were shouting. Some had conversations, cell to cell. Some were selling wolf tickets, some for real. Others sang, or talkshouted but to themselves. Rikki replayed the ambulance ride in his head. He tried to remember the last words she said to him, but couldn’t. He flashed on that scene in the hospital room when he 1st saw her dead. And that dress, she was in that dress, which now that he thought about it was fuckin weird. Fuckin ReeRee’s mom, what a sick bitch. Criminal motherfucker. Basically, she turned her daughter out. Took her $$$ & made her waddle into that fucking “casting office”——— then oh fuck

  suddenly started beating faster, seeing her in mind’s eye splayed across that desk

  & he takes himself

  in hand

  CLEAN

  [Jacquie]

  Dead Stardust

  In

  the months following her daughter’s death, Jacquie was hired for a ½dozen portraitures. Two were in private homes. One of them was an 8-year-old girl with cystic fibrosis.

  Jacquie thought of moving away. She talked about it with Dawn, who gave her blessing. It was understood that Dawn & Jim were going to raise the girl, & Jacquie felt guilty about that. She had no desire to be a parent again and questioned whether she ever did. Dawn comforted her, tho one can only be comforted so much. Jacquie knew she was depressed but resisted Dawn’s suggestion to medicate. She went on the Internet & learned the possible side effects of antidepressants were “new, worse” depressions &/or suicidal thoughts and attempts. Jacquie never heard anything so insane in her life—a pill you took for depression that walked you to the gallows!

  . . .

  Pieter came to town.

  This time, they didn’t sleep together. Albie joined them for dinner—the boys got along like a house on fire.

  Pieter said he’d be spending more time in LA, working at Gagosian. He didn’t bring up Beth Rader nor did he ask Jacquie about her “avocation,” for which she was grateful.

  He brought her a gift, a beautiful book of full-face black & white portraits. The text was in German. Pieter explained that the artist, a man in his 70s named Walter Schels, had permission from his dying subjects to document moments before and after death. On the left side of the book, the subject stared straight into the camera; on the right, he was dead. Pieter said the pictures were often taken mere hours apart. One was of a young boy who looked so prosaic in life, so beautiful in death. Another reminded her of the photograph she took of Jerilynn & her granddaughter, only in perverse negative: a mother sat on a couch cradling her dead baby in one arm, with her remaining child, a living toddler, riding her hip. The nasal cannula that supplied oxygen to the baby still hadn’t been removed. The lovely thing about the portrait was the duality—parity—of the living & the dead. The mom’s serene indifference reminded that the opposing states coexisted, were in fact interchangeable. She looked like she was in a trance. The handsome woman gazed off-camera, like she might have been listening to someone, perhaps someone posing the question, Which one is alive, you or the baby? Jacquie thought the woman might have got it wrong.

  . . .

  She put the house up for sale.

  . . .

  She cooked Pieter dinner and got drunk.

  He stayed over.

  The sex was dirty and bruising. She couldn’t remember having so much fun in the sack.

  During breakfast, Pieter announced he happened to be “au courant” on her postmortem work. The only person who could have talked to him was Albie; in that same instant, she was certain that Albie had told him about her portra
it of Jerilynn as well. Pieter played dumb and she could see the bind he was in. Asking to see the Cedars picture would egregiously violate Albie’s confidence—it was one thing for Albie to have spoken in general terms, quite another to have shared about that. Such a sensitive revelation might threaten their friendship, and Albie would have known that. While Pieter didn’t want to detonate his own relationship with Jacquie, she knew he was willing to carefully navigate any kind of minefield whose end result was being shown the memento mori of her baby.

  Jacquie already forgave Albie in her head. None of it really mattered anymore. She was getting out of Dodge, bound for Marin. One of her portraiture clients had offered her a guesthouse for as long as she liked. Jacquie thought she might use it as base camp for traveling the world. Hell, the guesthouse was three times bigger than the house she was trying to unload.

  “So—do you want to see it?”

  He played dumb again.

  “It’s hanging in the garage.”

  . . .

  A week later, Beth Rader called. Jacquie knew that she would.

  Pieter probably told her to wait a respectable few weeks before checking in. Jacquie cut her off at the pass by saying she appreciated her interest but was in the middle of a major move. Beth said Pieter mentioned she was relocating to Mill Valley and that it was one of her favorite favorite places, she grew up in Petaluma/Cazadero, bla.

  Then she made her play.

  “OK, Jacquie, I don’t want to take much more of your time. I’m going to be straight up because that’s the only way I’m going to feel better, that I was at least upfront & tried my best. And I hope you’ll be OK with it because I assume if you’re anything like me you prefer just hearing the truth instead of someone just rambling. Pieter told me about the picture of your daughter. And her baby. & let me just say I feel privileged just—that he shared it with me. And that you, of course, shared it with him. & you need to know he told me about the photograph in the most respectful way. The hair on my neck stood up; it’s standing up now. It so moved me, Jacquie. I just had a nephew pass—of lymphoma—he was just 14, & I wish there’d been some way to memorialize that. Not for me but for the mom.

  “What I really want to say is you’re a great artist. You have a body of work that should not be ignored. That you’re not better known, more collected, is criminal. I don’t think you’ve ever had representation up to the task—that is my opinion—I don’t believe you’ve ever had anyone in your corner who really understood the world of Jacquie Crelle-Vomes. The aesthetic, the palette, the precision, the narrative. This new work you’ve embarked on—& make no mistake, it is your new work, whether you choose to show it or not, & I don’t care what you decide, it’s your choice, I think it would be a shame for people not to see it but that of course is 1000% up to you. Goya had his ‘black paintings,’ he did them on the walls of his house, never wanted anyone to see them, and they didn’t until he was dead and gone. So you can leave them to the wind but whatever you do, it’s still art. Because art is something you can’t help but make. That’s what you do, Jacquie. You make art.

  “I think you’re ready for a show. I really do. Everyone at the gallery does. A retrospective, with the bonus of the new work—again, should you choose to show it. I think it will arouse tremendous interest. About where you’ve been. & where you’re going.

  “All right, I’ll shut up now.”

  “Beth, it’s very flattering. And you may be right—about everything. But I’ve closed that door. What I do, I do for me. I know you’ll understand.”

  “Absolutely. One hundred percent. At least I’ll sleep tonight—I made my little pitch. Best of luck, Jacquie, and you know we’re always here. And good luck with the move! Kiss Marin for me!”

  . . .

  She awakened in the middle of the night thinking about Fergie, the Mill Valley girl with cystic fibrosis. She remembered something her little sister said.

  After she died, the mom tried to explain things. Well-intentioned friends had been coaching her to talk to the sister about Fergie’s journey, how one day we were all going on the same journey. Right after Fergie passed, a close friend even held the mom in her arms and said, She’s begun her journey. So later that night when the mom tucked her in, the little sis said, Where did she go? The mom said, Back where she came from. Where all of us came from. The girl said, Where? The mom nodded toward the ceiling. Where the stars are. She went to where the stars are. The girl asked if Fergie would be cold. The mom said no, she didn’t think so. Did you know, said the Mom, that people are made from stardust?

  dust?

  That’s right. People are made from stardust, from all the light that comes from the s & the sun.

  Mama, do stars die?

  Everything does.

  But where do they go?

  Well, stars live a long, long time. And even when they die, they keep giving out light.

  But how?

  They just do. It’s their nature.

  When a baby dies in the mama’s stomach, is it a dead star?

  No, said Mom, on the verge of losing it. When a baby dies, its dust goes back to be with its friends again. The other stars.

  If Fergie’s back with the stars, & all the s die, even if she dies too, then will she give out light?

  Yes.

  For a long, long time?

  That’s right. Now it’s time for sleep.

  . . .

  “Hello, is this Jacquie?”

  “Yes, who’s calling?”

  “Steve Martin.”

  “O hi Steve! What a nice surprise.”

  “I usually don’t do this—Beth Rader gave me your number. I should add I was holding her at gunpoint.”

  “Hahaha! No, it’s fine—really.”

  “I was trying to remember the last time we saw each other.”

  “I think it was—wasn’t it at the Central Library?”

  “That’s right. Gee. Beth said you’re moving away?”

  “Yes! To Marin.”

  “I love Marin. I just called to say that Beth showed me some images you took that I thought were extraordinary. The young couple with their stillborn.”

  “Mmmm. Yeah—she’s quite taken with them.”

  “So was I. I know your work, by the way. I’ve always been a big fan.”

  “Thank you. Back atcha.”

  “I’ve always regretted that I never collected you. I remember how controversial you were—those images of your little girl––––––––––––wait. You didn’t happen to be at Gus’ opening in London at the Gagosian. Gus & James Franco?”

  “Gee, I don’t think so. But if you find proof that I was, please let me know.”

  He laughed.

  “Your new pictures: I saw Arbus there, but what amazed me is there wasn’t that aspect of the grotesque. What you’ve done is so tender—transcendent—& completely unsentimental.”

  “That’s very kind, Steve.”

  “Beth said you weren’t interested in selling any images & I completely respect that. I didn’t want you to think that’s why I was calling, because it isn’t. I’m going to be in LA next week, & was hoping—I’d be honored if you’d show me some prints.”

  “Next week? I’ll probably be up in Marin–––––”

  “O–––––”

  “––––––but I can come down.”

  “I can come to you . . .”

  “No, it’s fine. I’m gonna be commuting for a while, at least until I sell the house.”

  “That would be lovely,” he said, humbled. “& thank you.”

  “Did Beth mention any of my other work? New work?”

  “I don’t think so. She did say there have been more images taken since the ones I looked at.”

  “There have . . . Steve, I don’t know if you know that my daughter died a few months ago.”

  “She did tell me that. I’m so sorry.”

  “I took some pictures of her in the hospital. Pictures of her alone,
& of—Jerilynn and the baby—which is healthy and blessed, by the way. She gave me a beautiful little granddaughter, Nikki.”

  “It’s hard to find words.”

  “I made a series of prints—large-scale, 50 by 60. Is that something you’d be interested in seeing as well?”

  “Yes, I’d be honored. And frankly, Jacquie, I’m interested in anything you’d like to show me.”

  “Let me give you my email.”

  “Perfect. And would you mind if I bring a friend? I know that James—Franco—would be thrilled.”

  “Not at all.”

  “He’s become quite a collector. He’s gone on an Eggleston bender.”

  “I saw him not too long ago. He actually may own one or two of my early pieces. The 1st Jerilynn nudes.”

  “Do you know what I actually think might be great? I’d love to throw you a little dinner party. Just eight or ten people.”

  “That would be lovely.”

  “Larry would want to co-host. He’s got a beautiful new house in Bel-Air he loves showing off. Beth said he’s very excited about the new work. What if we did something small? I think the Ruschas are back from Paris . . . Laurene Jobs . . . Joyce Carol Oates and her husband . . . Bob might even come if he’s not touring—Dylan. Larry showed him at the gallery in New York. And Tina Fey. We’re doing an event at the Nokia—”

  “Tina Fey is the funniest woman who ever lived.”

  “She started collecting. You’d love her. But whether we do a dinner or not, I’d of course love to come see whatever you’ll show me.”