The Animators(60)

“Hey, hon,” Britney brays, giving me a hug, her hands flattening and nails pointing away as if she is afraid she’ll get something underneath. I catch Mom wincing at the sound of her voice over her shoulder. For a split second, I feel bad for Britney. “Don’t she feel light to you?” she whispers, in earshot, to Jared. “She feels so light when you hug her.”

“I lost some weight,” I tell her.

She lifts her eyebrows. “Well, you sure did, didn’t you, honey.” She turns over her shoulder. “Bella, Jaxon, say hey to Aunt Sharon.”

“Hey,” they drone. Neither remembers me or cares. Jaxon toddles to Jaeden. They nod to each other, click to something on Mel’s phone. I hear the opening strains of Dirty Duck. Britney is drenched in Clinique Happy. I turn my head to the couch cushions and breathe for a minute before turning back. “Jared, Britney, this is my business partner, Mel Vaught.”

Mel rises halfway, shakes hands with them both. She’s plowed through nearly the entire box of photographs. A stack rests alongside for reference. She’s going to take them into the bathroom to see if she can get some quick sketches. I know she is.

Mel catches sight of Jared’s truck outside the window. “That the new Ford F-150?”

“Sure is.”

Mel peers. “And in the new crimson. Damn. That is classy.”

Jared hooks his thumbs in the loops of his jeans. “I’m pretty partial to the new colors, myself.”

“Yeah, Ford’s got really great color guys now. They had a hard time putting that one out on the market.”

“Think I heard that somewhere,” he says.

“The candy-apple red, the one they’ve had for years now? Ford thought if they put out two shades of red that people would complain one was too pink. But it’s really popular. It’s a nice job.”

“It is.” They stand there, admiring. Britney watches them sharply for a moment, does a quick study of Mel’s haircut, Mel’s shirt—a men’s oxford, collar loose, sleeves pushed up—and her thought process is a seamless, transparent one. Watching her discover that Mel is a lesbian is one of the funniest things I’ve seen in a while.

Shauna strides in. “Guess who’s not coming.”

“But you tole him.” Britney flips through her purse, comes up with Trident. She chomps down on a piece, offers the pack to Shauna, who takes it. I imagine Shauna’s spent a few reluctant, drunk-on-wine-coolers-looking-at-old-yearbooks-now-how’d-this-happen nights with Britney.

“Yeah, I told him, but he don’t give a shit. I guess.”

“I guess.” They both put their hands on their hips and stare at me. “So little,” Britney breathes.

“I know. Mom almost laid an egg when she saw her.”

“I’m right here,” I say. “I can hear you.”

“We know,” Shauna says.

There’s further sound from Mel’s phone. Jaeden and Jaxon run around in a circle. From the corner, Kent ruffles his paper and mutters.

Mom pokes her head in. “Dinner’s ready,” she yells. “Y’all need to get in here and eat right now.”

—

Shape-shifter Mel, sitting at my mother’s dinner table laughing with my brother. Fast friends. His legs are spread, Coke nestled near the groin, and he nods to say something to Mel, like she’s another dude at his shop. Red looks disconcertingly like our father with a paunch like half a basketball coming in above his belt, a decided crease to his forehead when he leans over his plate. Next to him, Shauna sets down her iced tea to yell at Jaeden, who is attempting to smear mashed potatoes into Jaxon’s hair while Jaxon screams, soft and aimless, into his plate.

Mel mutters something to Jared, who guffaws, hiding his mouth behind his drink. They circled the truck for ten minutes before sitting down to eat, discussing the engine, the contours. I hear Mel tell him she misses seeing trucks in Manhattan. I always assumed she was being ironic when she said things like that. Apparently not. The whole thing leaves me testy.

Mom piles my plate high. I have forgotten that Mom is a bang-up cook, when she wants to be. It helps that most of this has been assembled with unspeakable amounts of lard. I’m careful with the chicken, still shaky with cutlery. I think of the solid month of my life it took me to relearn how to use a fork: the grip, the trajectory to the mouth. How much food I spilled. No one else would really relate if I tried to tell that story. It would just sound strange, and sad. No, I am a spectator here, a spectator to my own family, like I’ve always been. Kent’s head is bent; he chews affably. Mom says something low to him. He pats her on the thigh. Shauna rolls her eyes. She lifts her phone to flick off an angry text. “Put it away,” Mom says without looking at her. She does.

Mel catches my eye. Wiggles her eyebrows at me.

I look out the window onto the ridge, which extends into a deep drop of rocks and pines and underbrush before leveling out slightly farther down to the place where Shauna’s house stands. To where Teddy’s house used to be. I see a bare patch where our trampoline stood on the lawn, the grass there yellow and thin. Suddenly I remember Honus Caudill sitting in the back of his van, cleaning supplies at his feet. His eyes on me. The feel of him looking at me a sensation like being flayed open, organs exposed to the air.

Something happens. I leave my body—not floating this time, like during the stroke, with that deliciously airless vantage point over my head. This is a slow leak, a gradual darkening. Sound warps and cottons. The floor begins to shift. My heart speeds.