The Animators(17)

I have to stifle a giggle.

“What was the name of your all’s movie?”

“Nashville Combat,” Mel says.

“I don’t believe I’ve heard of it, but it sounds interesting. What’s it about?”

“It’s about Kelly Kay.” Mel traces her cup with one finger.

“Well, my goodness. That’s every girl’s dream, isn’t it? To have a movie made about her?”

“It’s about her being a whore,” Mel says.

“Oh.” Lisa’s smile fades. I expect her expression to cool, but the look is soft, one of distinct pity. I shift in my chair. “Well, I’d say if you never told her about it, she never ran across it. The girls have Internet access, but only for short times, and mostly to email friends and family and what have you. Maybe she saw it there. But I don’t know.”

Mel closes her eyes briefly, then opens them. Grabs the pen and scrawls her name on the last page of the stack, unseeing.

Lisa looks back and forth between us, hesitating. “On the bottom of page five, there’s an information box where it tells you how to contact the prison and get a copy of the report. It’s only for family members. It takes a few months.”

“You know what, we should go.” Mel grabs the folder Lisa set out for her. “Thanks for, you know. Everything.”

Lisa stands. “I hope you ladies didn’t have far to come. Whereabouts do you live?”

“New York,” I tell her.

“New York City?”

“Yes ma’am.”

“Well, bless your heart.” She gives my hand a squeeze. Turns to Mel, shakes her hand, then reaches out and grabs her by the arm, looks into her eyes for a long second. “I don’t mind telling you,” she says, “but I’ve got a feeling about you. I surely do.” She pats her arm vigorously, still staring. “May the Lord bless you and keep you, Melody Vaught.”

Mel coughs. “Right back at you.” Turns and heads out the door.

I trail behind. Lisa touches my shoulder, purple fingernails glinting. “I’m glad she has someone to take care of her,” she says in a low voice.

I cram the Nutter Butters into my bag. “Huh?”

“Bye-bye, now.” The door swings shut.

We walk back to the car. The sun is round and low and hot. It hurts to face west. The soil is sand, crunchy under our shoes. There is green only in small patches, strong and spiny.

I look sidelong at Mel. I can’t think of anything to say that doesn’t sound dumb. The sun shines behind her head, her lips and jaw sharpening against the glow.

I swing over and bodycheck her, shoulder to hip. She walks through the stumble, grimacing a little at the ground.

“I picked cremation,” she says.

“I think that’s a good choice.”

“Yeah. Well. I didn’t feel like digging any big fucking holes in the ground anytime soon.” She kicks gravel. “We got a platform now, should we ever need it. Nashville Combat Two: Shanked in the Spleen.” She laughs. It’s a thin, glassy sound. “Come on. We were both thinking it on the way down. Right? Probably pulling some dumb bitch’s hair trailer-park-style when she got stabbed. And it killed her. That’s stupid, man.” Mel’s head bobs in time to her steps. “It’s embarrassing, is what it is. I spend this whole trip ripping myself apart. Thinking about how she suffered. About how we hadn’t talked in, like, years. And I made this thing about her and I have no idea how it might have made her feel, to watch it, you know? But now? I don’t have a single solitary fuck to give, man. You live a stupid life, you will more likely than not have a stupid death. I get to mine her life for all it’s worth now. That’s what I get out of this.” Her voice catches on something. She stops.

“Mel.” I reach out, grab her hand, her shoulder.

She strides forward, shaking me off. “I’m gonna get those little bottles back. I’ll meet you at the car.”

I watch her slump away. We’ll get a motel room for the night, then drive back tomorrow, back home for a few weeks. Then, on to the press tour. Taking our little show on the road. Maybe it’s better than the alternative—anything to avoid New York for a while. Mel’s big, dirty playground, where I could lose track of her far too easily. I shield my eyes, open the car door. I back away from the smell.





WHAT WE DID TO NPR


When I first imagined what it would be like to go on TV or radio, I pictured the glamour clichés first: tall buildings, busy people, a long-sought grace and knowledge occurring to me as soon as I had a spotlight trained on my face and a boom mic over my head.

But I climb the subway stairs at Forty-second Street and realize, with a loosening of bowels, that this level of comfort and smoothness will never occur to me. I’m about to go on NPR and I feel as stupid as I did yesterday.

I’m slightly relieved to find New York’s public radio affiliate in not a high-rise but a dark, squat building from the sixties. There’s a point, living here, at which you stop being the transplant, the tourist, and become something else. Not a New Yorker. God, no, never that. Just wearily, testily deft at being here. Strangely comforted by darkness and grime. A doorman keeps post with a crossword puzzle and wags a hand at me when I enter.