The Animators(101)

“Boston tomorrow,” I remind her. “We fly out at three.”

She turns, points both hands at me. “Sha na na na,” she agrees, and is gone.

The writer and I trade email addresses. To the best of my recollection, I am carrying it in my hand when some festival coordinator I barely know runs to me, face streaked and teary, screaming my name. A crowd is behind him. Someone close by dials for an ambulance—I swear to God, I can hear the three numbers being punched into the phone—and he drags me to an anteroom at the end of a huge hall.

Time warps. I hear my heartbeat in my ears on the walk down that hallway, pushed and dragged by the hand, the shoulder, and I dully realize that I already know what’s happened, have imagined it thousands of times, and goddamn it all I’m going to have to rebook our flights to Logan, she’s gonna have to have her fucking stomach pumped again and this time I won’t give her hell for it. I’ll just let her sit there with it so she can become as disgusted with herself as I am. After all we’ve been through, I think, she is still pulling this shit, as hard as she can.

I’m shoved into the room by the hysterical coordinator and there is Mel, her head in the lap of some sprightly dressed girl, and her chest jumps once with effort, and then she is still. She is dead for more than a minute when the ambulance arrives.





SLEEPWALK


I am given Valium and put on a plane. I sleep through the flight, climb out onto a cold, sandy tarmac in the dark, walk JFK’s piercing Delta terminal. Donnie is at baggage claim, keys to her BMW in hand, face a soft, pale mask below her red hair.

She puts her arms around me. My knees give way. Then nothing.

—

I wake up on the couch in Donnie’s office, cocooned in her overcoat. Around me, there’s a blanket that smells strongly of her pit bull, Wyatt, who gives me a conciliatory lick on the mouth. Donnie’s voice drifts from the conference room. “That’s way out in Flushing. Why would they take her there? They live in Brooklyn. The city morgue in Staten Island would have been closer….No, we can drive out there, that’s not the issue. What?…Well, if she’s the only one who can do it, it’s going to have to wait.” Drops to a whisper. “This has hit her hard. She collapsed when she got off the plane. She had a stroke not too long ago. This is a health issue for her. Okay?”

Wyatt huffs, sticks his nose in my crotch. I push him away.

“We will get there when we can get there. I’m sorry. I’m working with limited resources here. We have put everything on hold to deal with this. Oh no. Thank you.” I hear her hang up. Mutter, “Dick.”

She knocks softly on the door, pushes it open, and peeks in. “Sharon?” Her eyes are red. “Hey. You’re awake.”

Wyatt drops his butt on the carpet, drags his way back to me. Whinnies and pokes his nose into my ear. “Wyatt, no. Bad man,” Donnie says. She picks him up, all seventy pounds of him. He hangs over her shoulder, beating his tail against her hip. She sighs and buries her face into his coat.

My thigh vibrates. I shift, pull my phone out. 22 new messages. Donnie watches, her face pinched. “Hello?”

“Is this Sharon?”

“Yeah.”

“Hey, Sharon, I’m calling from Rolling Stone. We’re doing a short piece on Mel Vaught for our website and were wondering if we could get a statement from you.”

I lie back down. The words are all ones I know, but they’re not making any sense strung together like this. “Huh?”

Donnie shakes her head, holds her hand out.

“We’re getting reports that Mel Vaught died of a heart attack stemming from an overdose. Can you confirm this?”

“Huh?”

Donnie lowers Wyatt to the ground, then takes the phone from me. “This is Donatella Sogn. Can I help you with something?” Wyatt climbs on top of me, smooches my chin. Doesn’t protest when I roll over to spoon him. “Saying sorry doesn’t mean dick, Brian. You should have been going through me in the first place.” Donnie walks into the other room, voice trailing behind her. “We haven’t seen the coroner’s report yet. We know about as much as you do. We’ll have a statement ready by this afternoon. That’s the earliest it’s going to happen.”

Donnie returns, hands me my phone. “I don’t want you worrying about anything. You’re going to handle as much as you can and no more right now. If you see a call and you don’t want to pick up, don’t. Just give it to me. I will take care of it. Okay?”

“Uh huh.”

“How are you doing?”

I shrug.

“How are you physically?”

“Okay.”

“Any headaches?”

“I’m not gonna have another stroke, if that’s what you mean.”

“I just want to check in. You collapsed at the airport last night. Do you remember that?”

I sink farther into the couch. “Is this Wyatt’s blanket?”

“It is. Sorry about the smell.”

“He keeps sticking his nose in my snatch.”

“He’ll do that. Are you hungry?”

“Nuh uh.”

“The kitchen is full of stuff. Fruit baskets and cheese plates. Someone brought a huge sandwich platter over from Citarella.”