The Animators(16)

Her jaw is shut, but the possibility for movement is still loosely, dangerously there, as if her mouth could open at any moment. Several silver hairs cling to her temples. Her clavicle is a wide, knobby V, descending to meet points under the sheet.

Will I have to do this one day? Maybe not. It will probably be my sister. It’s the women who do this job. My brother will be excused, left to wait in a living room elsewhere, television flickering on mute in a time of crisis. In order to spare me from being awakened in the middle of the night, they will call me the following morning. None of them know me well enough to know I’d probably still be awake.

I think of my dad’s funeral, how he looked in his coffin, the strange way his lips were spread over his mouth. He’d worn dentures for years and was ashamed of this fact—never let anyone see him without them. They’d flown from his mouth in the accident, which happened my sophomore year at Ballister. The EMTs had misplaced them in the hurry to get him from the wreckage into the ambulance, and the mortician had no choice but to seal his lips over the void. It was the deadest-looking part of him, the only part that kept me from hoping he would wake up.

I step behind Mel and let her look.

“Is this your mother, Melody?” Lisa asks.

I hear Mel swallow. The back of her head is still. “Yeah.”

The sheet is draped back over the body. The drawer wheels shut into the wall.

Lisa Greaph reaches behind her and produces a fat sheaf of forms. When Mel doesn’t take them, she tucks them under her arm and says, “Why don’t we step out? I’ll make coffee.”

There is a dim carpeted alcove off the entrance outfitted with a coffeemaker, a Xerox, and an elderly snack machine reading TOM’S! Lisa flicks a button. The sound of the drip cuts thinly through the room. We all stare at it for a moment before I gesture to Lisa’s fingernails. “That’s a very striking shade of purple,” I say.

“Thank you!” She brandishes one hand, plump hip riding out cheerily. “It’s my favorite.”

“What’s it called?”

“They called it Purple Rain at the salon.”

“Nice.” I turn to see if Mel will catch my eye this time. She doesn’t.

I dig out quarters for a pack of Nutter Butters while Lisa Greaph spreads paperwork over the table, explaining the release forms, remains custody, marking the places requiring signatures. She gives Mel a copy of the death certificate. She explains the term septicemia.

Mel flips and scribbles. Says suddenly, “How long was she in the hospital?”

“After she was brought in? About four days.”

“Was she awake for any of this?”

“For the first three. It was quick. That’s probably why they didn’t call you before. She asked that they not bother you.”

Out of the cabinet, Lisa produces a round porcelain sugar bowl and a creamer with a mother-of-pearl spout. She gives each a quick wipe with a napkin before placing them on the table. “One of the outreach programs here at the prison is a crafts class. I teach it sometimes. On the second day, she was feeling good enough to ask for her yarn and needles. It’s in the notes. Then the day before surgery was planned to repair some of the damage, she fell into a coma. Sometimes ruptures are delayed by bed rest, and then bothered by the least little thing. They think that’s what happened. Even four days after the altercation.”

“Altercation?” I ask.

“The wound happened during a fight.” Lisa’s eyes go wide. “Did the office not mention that?”

Mel leans back in her chair, legs splayed, rubs her eyes with one hand. Her other hand lies stretched toward her cup.

Lisa shakes her head. “That office. I swear. I wouldn’t believe it, but they’ve actually done this before. I’m so sorry, Melody. I don’t know exactly how it happened. The prison files separate reports for incidents, and you could find out from there. It was a puncture, I do know that, in her midsection. And it was made with a handmade instrument. Probably something with lots of little nooks and crannies that could do damage.” She trails off. “She was just so sweet. Just as nice as she could be.”

She pours. I raise the cup to my lips. This is not office coffee. This is a special reserve, something subtle and sweet Lisa Greaph has held back. I look at Mel. She’s gnawing on her upper lip, coffee untouched.

“She knitted?” she says.

“Oh yes. She was getting good, too.”

Mel is quiet. Then she says, “Do inmates have access to TV? Is there a satellite here or something?”

“There is a TV in the common room,” Lisa says. “But no satellite. It’s only network channels and then some other things, PBS and QVC and Telemundo, mainly. I only know because the girls complain about it during craft class.”

“Huh,” Mel says. She picks up her cup, studies it, gnawing on her lower lip. I know what she’s thinking, but I can’t bring myself to ask for her.

She takes a deep breath and does it herself. “Did I mention that Sharon and I are filmmakers?”

Lisa smiles. Shakes her head.

“Well, cartoons. We make cartoons. We’re animators. I, uh, hadn’t been in touch with Mom in a while. I was curious as to whether she might have seen something we just made.”

Lisa tilts her head in thought. “Well, I can’t recollect many cartoons being shown on movie nights. That’s out in the courtyard, during good weather? Most of the gals like romantic comedies. You know. Reese Witherspoon and such.”