The Animators(61)

We should not be here. This is why I stayed away for four years; I knew, on the furry, subconscious level, that there was something here waiting to swallow me. I can feel the base of my spine curl in self-protection, an animal warning against the electricity of this place. How silly it is to assume that what we’re dealing with is not something that will, in turn, deal with us.

You need to move away from whatever is here for you, I think to myself. Not toward it.

My chest constricts. A dark point in the middle of my vision spreads, grows deeper, more velvet. I can’t draw a deep enough breath. The sounds around me begin to fade.

I drop my fork, make a small choking noise.

My mother looks to me sharply. Yells, “Sharon Kay.”

“Huh?”

Everyone is staring at me. It’s gone quiet.

“Are you all right.”

“Yeah.” I blink, take a few shaky breaths. Try to get my eyes to refocus. I pound my chest weakly. “Just—went down the wrong way. I’m fine.”

“You look funny.”

I go to Mel, trying to measure my breathing. She swipes her chin. Drool. I wipe.

“Just starin off into nothin,” Britney whispers.

Mom gives her a dirty look. “Hush,” she says, and moves toward me. Reaches for my forehead. Feels.

Mel starts to get up. “You okay?” she says, low. “Want me to call Dr. Weston? I can.” She grabs her phone, flecked with corn bits. My family stares at her; she’s gone from good old boy to authority figure in three seconds.

“Don’t,” I say. “I’m okay. Really.”

“Sure?”

“Yes.”

She purses her lips, not totally sold. “Okay. But I can do it anytime if you change your mind.”

I look at everyone. They’re gaping at me. No one is eating. “I’m okay,” I tell them. “For God’s sake, let’s please eat. Okay?”

Mom stares at me for a moment until she sits back, satisfied. “Everybody eat,” she commands. And we do.

—

The dishes are cleared. Mom hauls out the pie and Bud Light. Everybody takes one, save for Mel and Jared. Britney wrings her hands when she sees me crack one open. “I’m allowed to drink,” I say. “One’s fine.”

“Leave her alone,” Jared calls from outside. He and Mel have gone to talk cars again; he’s offered to show her some pre-Nixon Chevy skeleton down in the ravine. I step carefully onto the porch after them.

Kent’s there, looking out on the ridge. He nods at me. There’s a pipe in his hand, an old carved cherrywood job. A sweet, toasted smell drifts from the bowl. “The pie was great,” I tell him.

He nods. “Glad you enjoyed it.”

I turn to step off the porch when he says, “I watched your all’s movie last night.”

“You did?”

“It was real good,” he says slowly. Turns the bowl of his pipe, taps at it. “Gives you a lot to think over.”

“Thanks, Kent.”

“You do all the drawings yourself? You and Mel?”

“We do. Well, we use a software program to help, but yeah, it’s mostly just us.”

He nods. “That is something. Lot of hard work, sounds like.”

This is the most Kent has ever said to me directly. “It makes it better if you like what you do,” I say.

“I reckon you’re right. Good to have you all here.” He steps back into the house.

I find Jared and Mel down in the weeds, smoking. They look up at me. “She looks all right,” Jared says to her.

“I’m standing right the fuck here,” I say. “Why does everyone keep doing that?”

Mel shrugs. Jared blinks as if he didn’t hear me.

“Sharon’s never brought anyone home, has she?” Mel looks at me. “You’ve never brought any guys home. Have you?”

“I just figgered she was a dyke,” Jared says.

Mel caws and slaps her knees.

“Jared,” I yelp.

“What? That’s what happens in college, iddint it?”

“That’s exactly what happens in college,” Mel chortles.

“It is not,” I say.

Jared holds out his hands. “Settle down. You don’t wanna get Mom and them out here.”

“You’re right. I never brought anyone home,” I tell Mel. “Guess why.”

“Hey now. Your brother here, he’s all right. He knows what’s up.”

Jared tips the bill of his hat to me.

“So,” Mel says. “Sharon said something about Shauna’s house down there being new? Like some weirdo lived there before and something happened, and they tore the house down?”

I didn’t tell Mel any of this. She got it all from hours of Googling Faulkner, Kentucky. Looking up pictures of the property, now over ten years old. Honus Caudill, she pointed out to me, was the second search result after the Chamber of Commerce. She did as much research as she could, stopping when she came upon the same censored photographs of the girls, naked, with their eyes blotted out; she clapped the MacBook shut, put her hands in the air, and said, “That’s it. Done. I’m gonna need to drink for years to get that out of my head.”

I roll my eyes. “Honus Caudill,” I say to Jared.