The Animators(97)

“You know what,” Shauna continues. “She’s probably wrong. I think she said that because she was mad and now she’s too embarrassed to admit it. You don’t even look like Honus Caudill. You know who you look like? Daddy’s mamaw. The one who went crazy and stabbed her second husband with a fork.”

“Didn’t she have a Cro-Magnon eyebrow?”

“We should get a paternity test. Find out for sure.”

“I’m afraid of what I might find out, at this point.”

“I wanna come up for a visit,” she says.

“You are welcome anytime. Come up and see Bushwick. The rats are little, but they’re mean.”

“I’d like to see that.”

—

Second draft. I squeeze everything I can from my memories, but my memories start to change, like Teddy said they would. I picture the trunk and my brain generates a girl, eyeless, her mouth filled with cicadas.

It’s lonely, finishing the movie. There’s a space where even Mel cannot come in.

But I’m not sure Mel notices. Past a certain hour now, she calls it a day and steps out. She’s seeing an undergrad from NYU who leaves blond hairs on her sweaters. She’s also seeing an executive from HBO who always sends a car, a black Lincoln Navigator, to take her into Manhattan. “She’s older,” Mel says, and no more.

When Mel hits a distracted patch, she makes it count. The drinking seems weirdly lucid, nearly professional. Sometimes I catch her staring out the window of the studio, smiling faintly to herself. She leaves for the night more and more but always returns in the early morning. I wake to find her in the kitchen once, doot-dooing to herself, bellying up to the counter while she makes eggs. “Wakey, wakey, tickleshits,” she greets me. “You want toast?”

“Where have you been.” I fumble for coffee.

She produces the French press, pours me a steaming cup. “Dog track.”

“You lie.”

She spins around to replace the press, gets the half-and-half from the fridge. “Hanging out in Manhattan,” she says. “Just rolled back in.” She breaks off pieces of bacon, puts them in her mouth like buck teeth. Beams at me.

Later that day, I glance over her shoulder. She’s scrolling through apartment listings.

—

One night I’m running the forest scene with the circle of girls through the editing program on the Cintiq when Mel strides in wearing new dark jeans, motorcycle boots, a men’s tuxedo jacket. She is clipping on a pair of gold cuff links I do not recognize. “How’s it going,” she says.

I turn. “Look at you, fancy. Where do you think you’re going?”

She shrugs and smiles down at her shoes, giving the cuff links a final tweak. “Figured I’d head out,” she says. “There’s this thing, in the city. Obligatory. The old ball and chain says so. You’ve got this scene, right?”

“Yeah. I’ve got it.” Ball and chain? That’s commitment for Mel. I watch her go to the fridge and pull out a bottle of water. “So does this old ball and chain ever come to Brooklyn?”

Mel wipes her mouth. “Not much. She’s old-school. Still thinks you can’t go past the Lorimer stop on the L train.”

“That’s old-school, all right.” I turn back to the screen. Adopting a nonchalant tone, ask, “Do you think you could ever live in Manhattan?”

I hear her pause, swallow. Say, “Maybe, yeah. I mean, there are parts of Harlem that are cheaper than Brooklyn now. Could be okay. Why do you ask?”

I shrug.

“Well. Fart lives in Harlem. He loves it. Has his own little garden and everything.” She finishes the bottle, deposits it in the recycling. Checks something on her phone.

Then looks up. “You know, the older I get, the more frequently I do things that surprise myself. I thought that, like, at some point, I’d really know who I was, right? But that’s not the case. I’ve done all sorts of shit I never thought I’d do. So who knows, man. What, do you want to move to Manhattan?”

“Me?” I say. “No. I’m snug as a bug.”

Mel rummages in the closet. Produces her good wool coat.

“It would be nice to meet this old-school ball and chain sometime,” I say.

“Totally. I’ll get her to come out.”

When hell’s a skating rink, you will. “Awesome.”

She shrugs on her coat and gives my head a gentle tap. “Don’t bust your brains out on it,” she says. “It’s coming together really well.”

“Thanks,” I say.

I’m restless after this conversation, scattered. I fall asleep on the couch, telling myself that I’m taking a break, that I’ll get back up and work some more in a couple of hours, when the door opens and I hear the uneven pat-step-pat of Mel coming home. It’s very early morning; there is a dark gray light coming in through the part in the curtains. There’s the clink of keys dropping to the concrete; she hisses, “Fuck,” and picks them up.

I rise up, groan, “I’m awake.”

Mel peers at me, collar loosened. She’s squinting, her hair’s sticking up. “You scared the shit out of me,” she slurs. “What are you doing up?”

“Taking a break.”