Rayne & Delilah's Midnite Matinee(13)

“It isn’t even so much embarrassment. It’s…is this even what we want for the show?”

“What? To take it to the next level? Get into more markets? Get more viewers? Of course. It’s what I want. Do you not?”

“Sure. Obviously.” I realize even as I’m saying it that I don’t really know the answer to that question because I haven’t thought about it.

“If you want to do TV for a living, why not keep going with what we started? If he made us as big as he made SkeleTonya, there’s your career right there.”

There’s your career. Something about that feels strange. But Delia’s voice is drenched in yearning. “Can this dude even still make something like this happen?” I ask.

“Why not?” Delia replies.

“Because he was big before we were even born. That’s probably like a century in TV years.”

“He definitely can’t help us if we don’t even try.”

We pull up to a stoplight, and I reach back to scratch Buford’s belly. I want to change the subject. “Isn’t it funny how people are like ‘My dog is my best friend’ and yet we still don’t make them wear pants? It’s like, ‘Hey, dude, I can see your best friend’s butthole at this moment.’?”

“I know, right? Also those bumper stickers that are like, ‘Who rescued whom?’ You did, lady. You rescued the dog. You’re the one with opposable thumbs and a car to drive to the shelter. You can take credit.”

A few moments of silence pass. I hesitate, but I ask anyway because the air gets heavy with Delia’s anxiety as soon as every moment of levity subsides. “So, did you hear back from the—”

“No.”

“Weren’t you supposed to have heard something by now?”

“Yeah.” Delia checks her phone again, as if for emphasis. “Text from Arliss. He says: This movie is far worse than I was led to believe.”

“What’re you going to do if you do hear something? Like say the PI gives you an address and phone number and stuff? Then what?”

Delia laughs ruefully. “Honestly? I don’t even know. I think having them would make me feel…like I had power over something, maybe?”

We fall silent again for a while, passing fast-food joints and auto parts stores. Something’s begun to gnaw at me. Rubbing like a shoe that doesn’t quite fit. It’s like when you get that weird anxiety that you think you could trace back to something specific you remembered or heard, but you can’t quite retrace your steps in your mind. Maybe I’m picking up Delia’s energy.

“Don’t let him hurt you again.”

“Who? My dad?”

“Yeah.”

“I thought you were talking about Arliss for a sec. Because of his text.”

We laugh.

“Could you imagine?” I say. “Delia. Protect your heart from Arliss. Guard it away and do not let him betray you again.”

“I certainly shan’t allow Arliss to break my heart. I’m so distracted tonight. Sorry.”

“Understandable.”

We near Delia’s trailer. I feel her nervousness congealing. “Are you good? Do you want me to hang with you?” I ask. I know Delia’s a survivor, but it doesn’t stop me from always wanting to save her.

“I’m fine. I’m going to help Mom clean the house. It’s kind of a dump because neither of us has had time.”

I doubt very much that Delia’s mom hasn’t had time. But I don’t say anything. Delia’s really protective of her mom.

We pull up in Delia’s driveway. Her mom’s palm-and tarot-reading sign is illuminated and casts a soft white glow on their patchy lawn. Delia hops out and retrieves the tub from the trunk. “Good show tonight,” she says to me.

“You too,” I say. “Good luck with the PI thing.”

“Yeah. Check your schedule and see if you could do ShiverCon. I’m serious.”

“I know. You have our next movie picked out?”

“Not yet. Got a couple ideas. Bye, Buford!” Delia waves to Buford, who looks up, regards her woefully, and slumps back down when he sees that no treat is forthcoming. “Okay, later,” she says to me.

“Call or text if the thing happens and you’re freaking out.”

“Will do.”

I watch her lug the tub to her front door, walking at a slant in the pale light of the sign. That’s Delia in general: walking at a slant under the weight she carries.

I hope she’s going to be okay. I really do. With some people you can’t tell. It’s hard when you care deeply about someone who has a lot of bad luck. You wonder how long you can stand between them and fate.





I’ve come to believe that everyone gets five or six perfect days in their life. Days with not a single wrong note or thorn, days that ripen like a peach in your memory as years pass. Every time you go to bite it, it’s juicy and sweet.

I’ve had one. I was seven and it was October and my birthday. I opened presents that morning. It seemed like I got twice as many as any year before. I’d heard my parents talking about a bonus my dad received at work. I got books and comics and toys. At the time it seemed like enough to make a wall around me.