“...so as you can see, looking at our Doppler Radar image, there is a low front pushing across the GTA right now and this is bringing with it bands of severe thunder showers and high winds. These disturbances should persist into the late evening but, by about...”
“Edward? Edward, I going to interrupt you for a breaking story”.
The TV weatherman, looks across the studio, showing a moment of confusion and then composes himself and smiles into the camera. There is a cut and another camera rapidly zooms and focuses on the dour, serious, mature and respected face of the old TV news anchor. His hand moves to his ear to better hear the director's chatter and he scans his monitor intently. There is an awkward silence as he, mentally, forms his words without the aid of the teleprompter. He begins to speak.
“A shocking item has just appeared and is being carried by the wire services. Station KCLX in Los Angeles has reported that Angel McLean, known to her legions of fans simply as 'The Queen', has been rushed to the UCLA Medical Centre, the apparent victim of a stroke. For more on this breaking story, we're going live by phone to our LA bureau chief, Phil LaMott, for the latest. Phil, can you hear me?”
A picture of the remote reporter appears at the edge of the screen followed by the sound of static.
“Yes, Tony. I hope I'm coming through clearly for your viewers. I'm currently here at the UCLA Medical Centre along with a rapidly growing contingent of local and worldwide news teams, waiting on confirmation of what has happened to this beautiful, talented and universally loved actress and entertainer. As you said in your opening, Tony, the report from KCLX states that at 3:11 local time, just after 6 in Toronto and only minutes ago, 'The Queen' arrived by ambulance here. Her status is unknown at present and we are waiting for confirmation that it was her.
“Many of you will remember her beginnings as a catwalk and photographic model for Vogue in the late sixties where her innate style, beauty and occasional antics brought her to the attention of the world. In the seventies and eighties, she launched a recording career and chalked up some of the biggest hits of those decades and selling over 150 million records. Approaching her 40's, she moved into acting and, after a few false-starts, garnered an Oscar for 'best supporting actress' in 1995 and, then, only two years ago, the 'best actress' nod. She is truly one of the most talented of a generation.
“I'm going to turn it back to the studio now, but we will be following this story with great attention and we'll update as soon as we can”.
“Thank you. That was Phil LaMott, our Los Angeles bureau chief reporting live on this tragic story that Angel McLean, known widely as 'The Queen' has been the apparent victim of a stroke. More on that later, but now back to the weather, Edward?”
2:31 p.m. PST.
“Jimmie? It's Angel. How are you?”
“Queenie! I haven't heard from you in ages! What are you up to?”
Angel McLean walks barefoot through the foyer of the rambling, ranch-style mansion on the outskirts of Bellaire in the direction of a comfortable sitting room. The foyer is highlighted by the two Oscars which stand on little plinths to either side of a grand and welcoming fireplace. The walls are a museum of signed photographs, platinum records and other paraphernalia collected over a period of 40 years.
She pulls her sweatshirt down over the bum of her loose cut jeans and falls onto the forgiving and overstuffed cushions of a divan.
“Well, you know you are my go-to guy for tour management, Jimmie. How are you disposed right now?” There is a moment of silence on the line.
“Angel”, he whispers, “what have you got up your sleeve?”
“Only my arm, Jimmie”. They both laugh and then she continues.
“I've been working in my studio. I've got a full double ready and my A&R team is pushing it now. Daniel Lanois has been down and I'm gonna give him full production credits. It's taken us eight months but the songs are all original. I want to premier it live before it comes out – say Madison?”.
“Oh my fucking God! Are you serious?”
“Totally, my friend. So when are you going to come over and listen with me?”
“Angel, I would do the dog-paddle across the Pacific to hear what you've been doing. So what's your theme?” Angel sighs, a little distractedly, and rubs forcefully at her temple.
“Sorry, what?”
“Are you OK?”
“Just another damn headache. I've been getting them off and on for two weeks – they're really bad too. But anyway, it has a lot to do with my divorce. Not only, I think it's a lot about getting older and knowing who you are – the sort of person you want to be”.
“Get it checked out, girl”, he answers. “Listen, I'm coming up to Bellaire for dinner tonight anyway, why don't I pop by your place now?”
“That'd be great! I'll get Clara to put on some tea”.
“OK!” he answered, bubbling with enthusiasm, “give me about 30 minutes to get up there”.
“Looking forward to it!” She continues to rub her temples, the fine quality of her features distorted in pain. “Bye”.
“Bye, Queenie!” He disconnects.
“It is our understanding that a news conference has been called for 6:30. For more on this, we return to our LA bureau chief, Phil LaMott”.
“That's right, Tony. We still have no details on Angel McLean's condition but, as you can see, in the vicinity of the LA Medical Centre, a sea of fans is gathering; many are displaying photographs of her or carrying cd's and albums and they are lighting candles in support of this astounding woman who has almost single handedly been able to navigate the entertainment business for almost 40 years. Truly, the heart of all of America goes out to support her in this difficult time”.
3:03 p.m. PST.
Angel McLean stands in her studio and leans heavily on a console. She tries to focus her eyes but they seem to wander in different directions producing an annoying visual distortion. The heavy weakness on her left side seems to intensify and she shrugs her shoulders, fending off the strong desire to sit down or go to sleep. She clumsily feeds the test pressing of the CD into the reader and presses 'play' as she hears the door chimes ring. The first track, entitled 'Desolate Construct', begins with the atmospheric sound of crashing beach waves and then the subliminal intrusion of Lanois' softly strummed guitar to the tide's rhythm.
When it comes, the pain sears through her head, shutting out all else. She gasps and stumbles to her knees and her eyes roll up in their sockets. 'Gaaaah!' escapes her mouth and she falls, lopsided and clumsy. Her back arches in seizure.
“Mrs. McLean, Mr. Condlin is here”, says Clara, entering the studio. “Oh Deus!” she exclaims and her mouth forms into an 'O' covered by her hands.
Jimmie pushes past her into the room and kneels beside the fallen woman. Her mouth froths and her body is stiffly arched except for the left side which lies limp, rubbery. Her voice softly caresses the air from the speakers; the husky and emotional lament of a painful memory.
“Clara! 911! Call fucking 911!” His shout rises above the tranquil track that continues to play. Clara balks and he shouts again. She scurries to the office and he watches her pick up the phone.
The body settles motionless on the floor. The sound of Clara's voice, thickly tinged with Hispanic accent, reaches him. He stands, surveying the scene.
With only seconds to spare, he presses 'eject' and the mechanism spits open the little tray. He retrieves the disk and, then, scanning the console, spies the case with the companion CD still in it. He slides them into the breast pocket of his jacket.
The body twitches on the floor.
He removes his cell phone and begins to photograph the scene and, especially, the body and the face, now contorted in pain and shadowed by imminent death.
'Who knows how much these will bring in'.
The hospital official approaches the podium. He collects his papers in front of him and their rustling sounds are transmitted across every imaginable medium.
“I have the sad duty to report that today, at 3:14 p.m. ...”
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