The Animators(53)

—

I’m the youngest of three. My brother Jared’s a mechanic. He is sometimes called Red because of his hair, copper before it started to recede, but also because of his temper and his booziness. The red hair is a recessive trait; the Kisses crazy is dominant. He started going to bars when he was sixteen, stumbling home at four on a school night stinking of Budweiser, a problem of debatable size when our parents were waging war on each other. The town’s sheriff was Mom’s second cousin, and he found the idea of Jared kicking the shit out of people largely funny until Jared sent a guy to the hospital. The sheriff got Jared out of it, despite the brain swelling caused by my brother banging the guy’s head against the concrete.

Jared settled down, had kids, started doing his drinking in the shed where no one else could see it (his wife is Britney, class of ’98, a sly, mean girl with a moon face). Earning his good luck with quiet living. He and I have not had a conversation that lasted more than sixty seconds in a decade.

Shauna is between Jared and me. When she was a senior and I was a freshman, she wore a leather jacket and bolstered her ponytail so that it cascaded, a frozen latticework of curls, down the sides of her head. She was practical with an edge of wildness, one that pushed her to do things like get her first tattoo at sixteen—a small rendering of Tinker Bell on her lower back. I thought the tattoo itself was pretty stupid but was in awe of the gesture, Shauna’s daring.

My sister was so organically of Faulkner that she seemed, at times, to be its quick, distrustful heart. Her barometer of what was weird and what was acceptable was dependably, heartbreakingly accurate. Bands I liked were weird (the Beastie Boys not good black music, or even black, Portishead like something out of a horror movie, Modest Mouse too far out of touch for any commentary other than “Guh”), the magazines I took pains to buy when in Lexington unbearably strange (BUST, back issues of Mindrot, Spin—could not find a copy of Spin within a fifty-mile radius of Faulkner in 1999), and the Doc Martens I purchased with babysitting money most certainly weird. “Brandon says them are dyke boots,” she told me matter-of-factly.

“Tell Brandon he’s a fucktard,” I said.

But Shauna was also the one to call me crying when Dad moved out of the house my first year at Ballister. “Why ain’t you more upset?” she whined. “Why ain’t you mad at them?”

“I dunno.”

“Well, why in hell not?”

“Shauna. Mom and Dad hate each other. You can hear them fighting from your living room. And you live next door. Don’t you think this is for the best?”

“They’re our parents,” she said. “They’re supposed to be together.”

Shauna also cried most openly at Dad’s funeral the year after. Jared took it hard, too, swallowing big enough to make his Adam’s apple bob above his tie knot. I was surprised by my own sadness. I felt, as usual, adrift, uncomfortable in the crowds of my extended family. It squeezed at me, made me feel just alone enough to step out early, where Dad’s brother Allen was propped against the building, breathing hard, fishing through his pockets for a smoke. “Whatter you studyin up there,” he asked me.

“Visual arts.”

“Visual arts.” All jolly surprise, like I’d just said, “Mining for moon cheese.” One of Dad’s more bitter, KKK-leaning brothers. I’d started feeling conspicuous around Uncle Allen at perhaps age seven. “What in the whir-led is that?”

“Visual art. Like drawing.”

“Like drawing, huh.” He stooped and sighed, a Marlboro Red trembling between his lips. During the service, he had repeatedly wiped his mouth with a handkerchief, waiting until afterward for when he could start drinking, like every other Kisses in the room. I resented the gruff pat on the back I’d gotten from them all while Shauna got hugs, sympathetic hi-honey-how-are-yous, Jared warm handshakes and shoulder thumps. I resented the way Allen peered at me now, like I was an interloper. I resented the Amtrak I’d have to take back north, the two hours I’d spent on my ass in D.C. while they switched the engine from diesel to electric. The fact that I’d have to deal with this on my own while everyone else seemed to have someone supporting them. How long had it been since I’d actually had a conversation with Dad? Since he’d been interested in having a conversation with me?

I drew my own cigarette from my bag, a habit I’d picked up from Mel, lit up, and started to turn back when Allen said, “I always heered that art was for ugly girls and queers.”

“Well, thank God for that, huh,” I said, and walked away.

—

We make the trip to Faulkner in two shifts, stopping in Georgia for the night to sleep. We break each hour so I can stretch my legs. They twitch and kick involuntarily, breaking into pins and needles if I sit in one position too long. Mel pulls onto the interstate shoulder to let me stretch, limp in place, jog. Each time, she idles, then very slowly moves away, making me jog to keep up. “Come on, Mamaw,” she yells. “Move that ass. Your AARP discount won’t cover Greyhound.”

Today she pulls that stunt and I nearly fall down on I-75. Gravity still throws me curveballs covered in spit; no level ground is actually level. My left side can seize up with no warning. I take eight different pills in the morning and six at night—one for blood pressure, one for inner ear balance, a horse’s dosage of Lexapro my Florida doc prescribed, calling it an “impetus for wellness.” I look in the mirror every day, hoping that side of my face has gone back to normal, reinflated, but I still see my lips slope, a slack to my left eye giving me a look of partial, wan surprise. I am beginning to wonder if we left Florida too early.