The Animators(89)

“Teddy. Of course not.”

“Because I don’t know anymore,” he says. “Seeing what I just saw throws a lot into question, doesn’t it? Did you— Wait.” He dips his head to the ground, takes a deep breath. “You mentioned this project, the first night you came to the store. And then you never touched it again. Even when I asked you about your work, you avoided the question. Did you come to town to specifically solicit my permission?”

“No.”

“Because if you did, I’m not giving it to you.”

“I never asked you for anything,” I tell him. “We do not need your permission. That story in there is mine. It belongs to me. It’s not your story.”

“That’s such a weak argument. And moreover, it’s a lie. It’s my prerogative to say no. My entire life was fucking traumatized by what we just saw in there.”

“Who’s to say mine wasn’t?” I counter.

He hisses, “I had to testify in court in front of those girls. I had to sit there and have them look at me, knowing that my father had ruined their lives. And I don’t want that to be in any story ever.”

“Teddy.” I try to take his arm.

He shakes me off, holding his hand out in front of him as if to keep me from getting any closer. “Don’t wheedle me, goddammit.”

My mouth closes. I hear my teeth click together.

“Maybe this practice of taking all your personal shit and publicly manipulating it until your life is explained sufficiently to your liking works for you. But I can’t do it. And I won’t. If you can sleep at night after putting something like that out into the world, then good for you, Sharon. If it makes you feel better, great. But you have no right to make that decision for anybody else. And just to be clear: Your pain is nothing compared to mine.”

“That’s not fair.” My voice is high and loud. I scrub at my eyes with the back of my hand.

“I’m telling you now,” he says. “Emphatically. Do not do this. Do not turn me into another Nashville Combat. You want an answer? This is it. No.”

“It doesn’t belong to you,” I tell him. As I say it, I can feel how flimsy it sounds.

“It does,” he says. “People will see it, and they will know that it is me. They’ll think I had something to do with this.”

“I love you,” I tell him. “I would never want to hurt you.”

This is a fight, and it has every sound of a fight—the sharp shards bookended by concrete-thick silences. Teddy glares at me. The expression renders him unrecognizable. And for the first time since I’ve known him, I see it. I see Honus Caudill in his face, behind the eyes, in the slope of his forehead. It is the worst possible time to spot this, but I can’t help it. I feel myself shrink under my wool coat.

The moment breaks when he turns to the side and rubs his eyes. When he looks up, they’re pink, watery. He’s crying. Oh fuck. I made him cry. “It bothers me that you could even consider this,” he says. “Let alone execute it. You spent hundreds of man-hours carrying this out. What would make you think I didn’t need to know about this?”

“If I didn’t care what you think, you never would have seen this.”

“That’s your best defense? Sharon.” His shoulders slump. He shakes his head miserably. “I never would have imagined that you could be this deceptive. Never.”

“I did not deceive you.” And this is where I lose it. A sob gasps out of my chest. I bend over, trying to cover it up. He does not move toward me.

“What do you call keeping something from me for months, then springing it on me without warning? That is nothing if not deception.”

His voice breaks. I stay down. I don’t want to see his face at that moment. I would never be able to wipe it from the inside of my eyes.

When I straighten, he has composed himself. Hands are back on hips. “You made a movie about Mel’s mother. Who was stabbed in prison shortly thereafter. Correct? What did she think about Nashville Combat? How do you think that made her feel?”

I am silent.

“There’s a lot of stuff about you and Mel out there, by the way. And a lot of it’s not good.” He goes to rub his face again, knocks his glasses askew. “You know, I’d be inclined to blame Mel for this if it wasn’t so obviously your story in there. Mel’s a jackass. She’s a horrible influence on you. But you played just as big a hand in this.”

“Don’t talk about her like that.”

“She inserts me as the star in her pathetic movie? I should be calling her a lot worse. To do this constitutes theft, Sharon. It makes you both thieves.” He points to the door. He knows they’re listening, too. “Are you admitting that you agree with Mel that I have no stake in this? That you and she are in accord in this decision?”

And the way he says this squirms under my skin so much—that big, sanctimonious are you in accord—that I snap. Scream, “Yes. This is what I do and you know it. We don’t need your consent. Now or ever. This is not yours. It is not goddamned yours.”

A light in the upstairs of a neighboring house flicks on. We both fall silent.

Teddy says quietly, “I wish you could hear yourself right now, so you could listen to the absolute bullshit you are trotting out.” He points to the door again. Says louder, “All this proves is that that is the only kind of partnership you can do.”