The Animators(103)

I turn quickly to avoid spewing on Donnie. She murmurs, gathers my hair back. When I straighten, she produces a tissue, motions to my mouth. I wipe.

The morgue guy grimaces and flips the sheet back up. “That’s wonderful,” he sighs, and pulls a walkie-talkie from his pocket. “We need someone in seventeen with a mop.” He slams the drawer back into the wall. We hear a thump from the inside.

“Hey, goddammit,” Donnie says. “Watch it.”

“Now, please,” he snaps into the receiver.

“If you bruised her, so help me God, we will sue you.”

“No one would notice,” he counters. “Alcohol poisoning with a DXM overdose? They can paint her up, but she’ll still be blue.”

“I’m reporting that cocksucker,” Donnie says as she guides me out.

—

Back at the office, I am repeatedly hugged. People keep springing up to give me their chairs. Someone has taken the clothing from my luggage, washed and folded it. It is understood that I will not be going home. A plate of food is put in front of me. Mugs of tea. Assistants and interns shuffle by, gawking. Donnie ushers away anyone showing even a prelude to tears.

I see all this from a strange distance. If I try hard enough, I can watch myself from the outside, like when I had the stroke. Will myself to float to the ceiling, look at myself breathe. Sit. Stare ahead. Nod when spoken to.

Fart comes by with a strawberry pie he’s made. He tells me he grew up on a berry farm in Ohio. When he hugs me, he nearly lifts me out of my seat, clapping me on the back like a dude. Slips a fourth an ounce of bud into my pocket with a one-hitter. “We love you, hoss,” he tells me hoarsely.

It occurs to me that I never slept with Fart. I wonder why. He would have been an excellent refuge fuck. A big old friendly bear fuck. Now I’m glad I didn’t. It would have saddled this sweet moment with obligation.

There’s a balcony outside Donnie’s office. I take the one-hitter there, pack it, toke quickly. This is upper Midtown on the twenty-fifth floor. There’s traffic and Times Square and the new Freedom Tower to the south, striking into the sky.

I can feel everyone’s eyes on my back, but no one comes to join me. I inhale, wait to float out of my skin again.

—

The final coroner’s report: cardiac arrest caused by a combination of alcohol and lethal levels of dextromethorphan. Cough syrup.

The joke: Mel tried so many drugs—had, in fact, possessed such a zeal and lack of fear for substances—of course she would OD on something legal. Hick death. Something that would send a suburban fifteen-year-old to the emergency room. Womp womp. It is suggested in an otherwise reverent blog post that Mel would have found this funny. Which makes Donnie scream. But it’s not wrong.

The cremation is in two days. There’ll be a service the day after that. It’s not a funeral, Donnie assures me. It is a memorial. People getting together to remember. No music, no hymns, no processionals.

I stay in Donnie’s guest bedroom, falling in and out of sleep, sitting up every few hours to smoke a bowl and change the channel on the flat-screen. Donnie brings trays of food—poached eggs in little crystal perches, cups of tea and porcelain creamers, grapefruit split in half. “Eat,” she says. I pick at everything while she sits at the edge of the bed, arms crossed, peering at the television. When she steps out, I feed Wyatt chunks of egg. Wyatt, my constant companion, my big spoony guy.

In a memorial gesture, Animacon airs our shorts, and then Nashville Combat, on its new cable channel. I cruise right past it and find Saturday Night Live reruns from the nineties. Smoke more bowls. Am unhappily rapt for hours.

Ten times a day, I turn—actually physically turn my body—to look for Mel, to tell her something, before realizing she’s not there.

Brecky Tolliver comes to visit. I have no idea what time or day it is. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen her out of a suit. “Sharon. Hey.” She gives me a one-armed hug. Points to the bowl. I shrug. She picks it up and takes a hit and passes it to me. I toke. “What are you watching.”

“Chris Farley.”

We let that fartbomb settle before she takes the remote and turns to CHiPs.

I ask her, “So are you and Donnie, like, friends now, or something?”

“We’re actually kind of seeing each other.”

“Really. I didn’t know that.”

“Figured she wouldn’t mention it.”

“She plays it close to the vest.”

“She does indeed.”

“That’s cool,” I tell her.

“Yeah.” Brecky clears her throat, toys with the remote. It occurs to me that she’s nervous. “It was the panel discussion. She called me to apologize for Mel’s—whatever. We got to talking. One thing sort of led to another.”

I lean back into the pillows, take another hit. “I like knowing Mel’s shitfit gave birth to a high-powered lesbian love unit. Does my heart good.”

“Heh.” Brecky scratches her head. “I could have been cooler about the panel thing.”

“Dude. She dry-humped you in public.”

“Well, I provoked her. I kind of can’t blame her.”

“I can. You know how she is.”

“Uh huh.” Brecky looks at me carefully. “How are you feeling, Sharon?”