Bruce Wagner - I’m Losing You

Something brought her back. Cold in the tube. Why was she going through with this Easter cyst hunt? Why wasn’t she arranging for her child’s protectorship in the world, after she was gone? Because I am a whore . Nothing could stop her death, yet like all cowards she submitted to the asinine men and their pain machines. Instead of building a palladium for Zephyr, ensuring his safe passage, there she was in the bowels again, Zev’s basement again, all the useless old torments. Ziggy (what a madcap) had already told her the treatment for lesions was medieval: skull shunts, with medication poured right on the brain.

She flinched at images of past entombment, Zev binding her first, Zev the chthonic destroyer, coat wire on skin, chest constricted, heightened neighborhood sounds around her — syncopated bark or channels turning, warbly ice cream truck melody — resurfacing at Cedars, Valium waning, trying not to panic because once you did you may as well lose your mind. Zev left a hose to breathe through, but she always worried about the mice — Aubrey thought she could blow one out to Kingdom Come if she had to, like a Pygmy warrior. But sometimes mice were so hairless-pink and tiny-toothed…if she panicked, the little girl might faint, tube fall from mouth. She invented ways to calm herself — a precocious repertoire of meditative skills — recalling techniques while the MRI did its loud work: isometrics of prayer employed years back, stuck in the hole of the basement at six thirty-three North Rodeo—

A technician said they were almost done; help was on the way. Aubrey took that as a crazy cue to skirt the crevasse, ice pick in hand…down she went to the cellar again, back to the pit he put her in beneath the removable concrete slab, hanger-wrapped like a cut-rate martyr, left sometimes overnight, urinating into the ground like a plant — once a week for two years and no one ever knew…not Mama dying and Father insensate from ECT…taxiing home from the private Westwood clinic, couldn’t even remember his own name. In the dark hole, house sounds gave comfort: heater coil and toilet flush, wooden creak and water-rush through pipe.

The orderly wheeled her back to the room.

It was only when she saw her brother waiting there, rising from his chair in a blue bat-sleeved Miyake coat, rising like a collector of dead souls, that she knew: he would have her Zephyr when she was gone.

Bernie Ribkin

He knew the meeting hadn’t gone altogether well, though he was foggy about the whys and wherefores. There were some problems, but what else was new. He didn’t have a deal and he didn’t not have a deal. Bernie already put in a call to an attorney Edie recommended, a macher at the firm representing her daughter. He’d let the lawyers set things straight. All in all, he was in good spirits. He felt “in play”—all was “do-able,” as Denny the Boy had said. The old man would make it work.

Edie wanted him to move to the beach full-time, but Bernie didn’t feel ready. This Showtime business had given him back his sea legs. He felt alive and on the ornery side. She took it in stride, enjoying his crustiness — called him her “fat old bachelor.” She knew she’d win and that’s why she didn’t get riled. Edie was a handful but so were they all. They had good times together and it was nice because now it looked like Bernie might have a little something to crow about, to make her proud. He smiled to himself, alarmed at his own thoughts. Jesus H, maybe he was falling in love with the big bastard.

“I am so thrilled for you, Bernie.”

“It isn’t a lock, Edie.”

“But they’re very interested . Something good will happen.”

“It seems so. But it isn’t a lock and bagel. We’ll see what the lawyer says.”

“Did you phone Barry?”

“A few days ago. He hasn’t returned my call.”

“He’s very busy.”

“You trust him though, huh, Edie?”

“Obie loves him.”

“Listen, Edie, there’s something I need to get your feedback on — artistically. An idea I want to run past you. I need a hook for this — to tie the stories together, see? That’s what these kids talk about, it’s all about the ‘hook.’ This Cryptmaster thing…you remember Alistair Cooke? English Alistair Cooke? Remember that — what was that show? — Masterpiece Theater . He came out in the openings and tied things together, you know, unified. See, that’s what we’re gonna do, that’s what they want: to take my three little movies and tie them together. Unify and condense. That’s the way they do it. Everything in a package. And what I need to find — this is my challenge — is a device —to interlink , something to grab people by the balls so they keep their rear end in the seats. And what I was thinking,” he said gently, “and bear with me now, because the idea is still…fetal. What I was thinking is that Obie might play that role beautifully.”

Edie smiled. “My Obie? I don’t understand.”

“Hear me out. First of all, I think it would be invaluable for her to be in front of a camera again — mind you, we’re not talking tomorrow, either. But my feeling is that it would be more therapy than a hundred of these so-called gurus and healers we got trooping through there now. For Oberon Mall to feel the lights, the tumult of a crew again — it might awaken something. She’s a performer, Edie. And she’s still a star: for us to forget that does a terrible disservice. I think she craves that, misses that more than we could ever know.”

Edie stared in disbelief. “What did you want her — what could she—”

“Now, I’m just starting to think about this. I’d set it up as ‘Oberon Mall Presents.’ It’s three parts, right? Here’s my thought. Those three parts are the dreams — or nightmares —of Oberon Mall. She’d be like a female Hitchcock: very classy, with Obie, it could never be anything but. We’d have an actress do her voice, you know, looped. A top impressionist. I’d hire the greatest cinematographer, someone from one of her movies. People would beg to work on this show, Edie, they would be honored . The best lighting people; the best makeup; the best everything . Academy Award people. You can trust me with your life, Edie — and so can Obie — to make her look more beautiful then ever. Because it will be a totally controlled situation.”

Edie hurled her glass, striking him hard in the shoulder.

He stood and she fell upon him, pounding his stomach. The producer feebly raised a hand to ward off the blows.

“Have you seen her?” she bellowed. “ Have you seen my baby? She’s having seizures!” She struck him across the face, slicing open the skin with her ring. “She’s in diapers! My baby is in diapers !”

She was sobbing now and Bernie lurched to his feet, toward the door. He couldn’t see because of the blood in his eyes. Edie tackled him and they rolled on the floor. He broke free again and managed to shove her into the sofa, buying enough time to dash to the hall. From the stairwell, she roared like Godzilla.

It was only a few blocks to Cedars, yet by the time he made it to the lobby, the producer changed his mind about going on foot. He was having trouble breathing; it felt like a rib was broken. He rode the elevator to the garage and maneuvered himself behind the wheel. As the motorized gate dragged itself open, Edie appeared, pounding on the window with terrible force. He floored it and she tumbled harmlessly back.

The old man got a stabbing pain in front of Orso’s and ran the car into a curb. A valet rushed over and Bernie said he’d only be a minute. The sullen Mexican saw the blood and retreated. Bernie looked in the mirror at the gouge on his cheek. He got a handkerchief from the glove compartment and held it there to stanch the flow. What would he tell them at the emergency room? Better to say he was mugged by a nigger than bitch-slapped by a shack-job. That’s right — some shvug in a hairnet, just outside the bakery where he got his regular almond alligator and coffee. Let me tell you, this is one crazy old Jew who put up a helluva fight. Shvuggie’s out there sucking on a crack pipe with a split lip, fatter than the one he was born with. You better believe it. And that’s Bernie Ribkin talking, cockeyed cowboy of the wild Westside.