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“When you think about it, Apollo,” the Madeline on their TV says sagely, “That crazy blue marble of ours isn’t so different from your beloved tennis ball.”
The Madeline that’s sitting on the floor, leaning back against Helen’s calves, makes a sound like a beached whale. “I told them to cut the tennis ball speech,” she mutters, playing with the hem of Helen’s dress. “But did they listen? Does anyone listen when a beautiful blonde woman speaks her mind?”
“Like Christ on the cross, you poor thing,” Helen says, warming a lump of clay between her fingers. “Stop squirming.”
But Madeline squirms on, contorting herself into a beautiful blonde ball to shield herself from the wall-sized screen. Helen huffs out a breath, doing her best to smooth the flesh-colored clay over a moving target. The damage isn’t devastating – two sets of toothy indents on the side of Madeline’s neck, a patch of lifting skin where Helen had gnawed at her shoulder. (She likes the way that Mad whines when she gets rough.)
“Life might toss us around from time to time,” says the Madeline on their TV, holding up a grody tennis ball to the viewport of her low-budget spaceship. In the distance, a CGI Earth slowly rotates. “When the going gets tough, we might come out the other end worse for wear.” She positions the ball directly over the CGI Earth, examining its well-worn felt. “A tad damp; a couple bite marks.”
“A tad damp,” Helen teases, brushing her lips against Madeline’s ear. “A couple bite marks.”
“But, when all seems lost, a brave soul steps up to send you hurtling home,” TV-Madeline says waveringly as the soundtrack swells. “And that’s you and me, Apollo. The Earth is depending on us. It’s time – ” She lifts her chin, her eyes alight with heroism – “to go fetch.”
“It’s like they gave a typewriter to a monkey,” Madeline groans, fumbling on the couch for the remote. “And not one of those Shakespeare monkeys, either.” Helen swipes the remote, tossing it out of reach. “For god’s sake, Hel – "
“You promised,” Helen reminds her.
After a lifetime of Ashton-ified birthdays (stolen spotlights, stolen boyfriends), Helen really doesn’t think she’s being unreasonable. A start-to-finish screening of her beloved Dogstronaut; that’s all she wants to ring in her hundred and fiftieth trip around the sun. Madeline, on the other hand, has requested that they celebrate her big one-five-oh by blowing up a yacht off the coast of Fort Lauderdale. A statement “leaked” to the press will pin the act on a nonexistent Madeline Ashton Remembrance Society: We honor this icon’s untimely demise with a recreation of the boatsplosion that boatsploded her at the tenderest bloom of her youth. Demonstrations will continue until Ms. Ashton is rightfully awarded a posthumous Oscar for Cinematic Achievement.
“I did no such thing,” Madeline says grumpily, pressing a hand to her temple. “If my memory serves me – the same memory that supported me through my one-woman Angels in America without dropping a single line, thank you very much – I believe my exact words were ‘I’ll try.’”
God, Helen had forgotten about the one-woman Angels in America. After its disastrous opening night, she’d spent a feverish morning tearing the Arts section from every New York Times she could get her hands on. ‘The Oscar-nominated actress Madeline Ashton seems to consider herself a sort of Meryl Streep – capable of inhabiting any role, of telling any story,’ Ben Brantley had begun his scathing review. ‘Allow me to save you three and a half hours of borderline-offensive misery: Meryl Streep she ain’t.’
“You’ve only been trying for thirty-seven minutes,” Helen says, checking how far they’ve made it into Dogstronaut’s run time. “I seem to recall you telling my first college boyfriend that you could last for hours.”
Madeline scoffs. “When it’s an activity I find fun – ”
“Last another hour and twenty-three minutes,” Helen says, wrapping a hand harshly around Madeline’s routinely-repaired neck, “and we can have plenty of fun testing your stamina.”
Predictably, the throat-touch shuts her up. Draws out a nice little whine, too. Helen smirks, combing acres of blonde hair out of her workspace.
“Plus,” she says, packing clay into the craters on Mad’s shoulder. “I seem to recall you telling my second college boyfriend that you don’t have a gag reflex.” She gestures to the screen, where TV-Madeline is teaching the Saint Bernard how to patriotically salute an American flag. “Choke it down, champ.”
With no small amount of grumbling, Madeline chokes it down. The movie barrels forward; TV-Madeline (otherwise known as Dr. Melanie Starseeker, Professor of Biochemical Astronomy) courageously pilots her spacecraft across the cosmos in search of the missing moon.
“Dog may be man’s best friend,” Dr. Starseeker tells her canine coworker while dipping and weaving through an incredibly fake-looking asteroid field. “But the moon is the Earth’s best friend.”
“‘Monkey’ is generous,” Madeline sniffs over the sound of Helen’s pealing laughter. “This script is the work of a single-celled organism. A germ flopped around on a keyboard until we ended up with intolerable nonsense like The moon is the Earth’s best friend.” She holds out her hand, fluttering her fingers expectantly. “Either you give me the remote or I give you a one-night-only private showing of Madeline Ashton presents: The last five minutes of Oedipus Rex.”
With her non-fluttering hand, Madeline mimes gouging out her eyes. Helen sighs, watching Dr. Starseeker mash at a panel of multicolored buttons.
“It’s really not as bad as you think,” she says, nuzzling her chin into Madeline’s hair. “You’re great. I’d tell you if you weren’t.”
“You certainly would.” Madeline settles against Helen’s legs, tracing a finger around her knee. “But let’s not kid ourselves, hm? I’m radiant as ever, but the film itself is piping hot trash.”
“Eh. One man’s trash is another man’s treasure, as they say. Haven’t they started doing live screenings? It’s become a cult classic.”
“It’s become a joke. Pizza-faced teens put on dog collars and pelt my face with tennis balls. My legacy is a Rocky Horror ripoff.”
Helen grasps through the cobwebs of her century-old memory. “The movie raised money for charity, right? Some…dog charity?”
“The Institute To Combat Canine Colorblindness,” Madeline says through clenched teeth. “Another complete waste of time.”
“Why do you think it's – ”
“Because all dogs are colorblind.”
Madeline buries her face in her hands, moaning pitifully. Helen rubs her back, listening to the germ-written dialogue she still knows by heart. Cobwebbed as her memory might get, that formative month of nightly Dogstronaut viewings remains sharp as a shovel. If Madeline asked why she’d picked this particular flop as her post-spa obsession, Helen’s answer would be dipped in the usual venom – after years of drooling in a straitjacket, nothing lifted her spirits like watching Mad suffer through a dogshit (ha) script.
But despite the clunky lines and the unsubtle military propaganda, there’s very little suffering to be had. As Madeline oh-so-humbly noted, she’s radiant as ever.
“Are you proud of what you did up there?” Helen asks.
Madeline mumbles something pouty into her hands.
Rolling her eyes, Helen yanks her up by the hair. “Sing out, Louise.”
“Of course I am,” Madeline says indignantly, swatting at Helen’s hands. A stitch at the seam of her neck pops from the yanking, which Helen doesn’t mind. Their evening hours of maintenance have become her favorite part of the day. “I’m not the problem. It’s those idiots – the director was practically asleep behind the camera, and that damn dog wouldn’t stop humping my leg – ”
“Smart boy.”
“You pour your heart and soul into a project, and you still end up a laughingstock,” Madeline says, dabbing discreetly at her eyes. “That’s show business.”
“Mm, I take it back. Christ’s agony has got nothing on yours.”
Helen pulls Madeline up onto the couch, fetching her brushes and a pot of paint. With how easily their bodies flake, crying is a risky endeavor.
“You put out work you believe in," Helen says, touching up Madeline's smeared cheek. "Some people laugh at it; some people love it. That’s show business. Who knows? Dogstronaut probably changed some sorry sucker’s life for the better.”
“Ugh,” Madeline mumbles, allowing herself to be nestled against Helen’s chest. “I can’t imagine how.”
“Is that your sweetheart?” Dr. Starseeker says from their screen, examining a framed photo of a Saint Bernard with huge false eyelashes. (Otherwise, Helen figures, the audience couldn’t be sure that they were looking at a girl dog.) “How lovely. She must be waiting for you at the front door, tail a-wagging.”
Gazing into the middle distance, Dr. Starseeker clutches the photo to her sternum.
“It’s funny," she says, giving the dog a sad smile. "The perspective you gain by being up here. All the things that you wish you’d said when you had the chance. Someone used to wait for me at my front door, once upon a time. But not anymore. I was a fool, Apollo. I hope they know, wherever they are…I’m sorry. Truly, deeply sorry.”
That month of ancient memories rushes back in painful, shovel-sharp clarity: Helen rewinding and rewinding and rewinding this exact scene, watching until her eyes were dry and bloodshot. The vague gender of Dr. Starseeker’s lost partner; the ambrosial words leaving Mad’s lips, almost unbearably sweet. I hope they know I’m sorry. Truly, deeply sorry.
“Guess you’ll have to imagine harder,” Helen says, threading a possessive hand through her favorite mass of yankable hair. “People are crazy, Mad. One man’s soggy tennis ball is another man’s whole world.”