Death Before Facebook (28 page)

Lenore grabbed her by the arm and began dragging. Caitlin caught a table leg and held on.

“Let go, Caitlin, dammit, let go.” A tiny fat figure came crashing down—a little Venus of Willendorf.

“Goddammit, Caitlin!” Furious, Lenore pried the child’s fingers loose, dragged her into the bathroom, and commanded, “Stand up!”

Caitlin didn’t.

“All right, you’re going in that tub with all your clothes on.” Lenore tossed her in and held her head under the still-running faucet. The water scalded her hand.

Caitlin screamed louder than ever.

“Oh, my baby, oh my poor baby!” Lenore jerked her out of the tub, grateful she hadn’t undressed her, hoping against hope she wasn’t going to blister.

She remembered she had some aloe vera and stripped the child.

She had gotten Caitlin out fast enough—either that or her heavy overalls had saved her. And Lenore’s own hand had protected the baby’s head.

But why did I hold her head under the faucet? What was I thinking of?

When Caitlin was in bed, Lenore did the rest of the coke, not caring if she lived till morning.

SKIP WOKE TO a loud knock the next day, and tumbled grumpily out of bed, feeling as if she had a hangover. She’d awakened a few times in the night, cold and fretful, and she was still both.

Dragging a blanket, she stumbled onto the balcony.

“Beignets! Time for beignets!” Kenny hollered, happier than a whole kindergarten class.

“Uncle Jimmy said to get you,” Sheila said quietly, obviously trying to maintain dignity in the face of Kenny’s exuberance. Yet she too didn’t seem averse to the plan, which, where Sheila was concerned, meant a lot. Skip wondered if the whole house of cards would collapse if she didn’t go.

Probably, she decided.

“Five minutes.”

Fifteen minutes later, the four of them were sitting in the Cafe du Monde, the two adults trying fitfully to read the
Times-Picayune
, the two kids trying to kill each other.

And yet, the attempted murders were much more light-hearted than usual, more like a brother and sister fighting, less like Desert Storm revisited.

Either that or Skip was getting used to it.

“Hey, when can I see Darryl again?” asked Sheila.

“He called last night to see how you are.”

“He did? Do you think he likes me?”

“Yes. I do think he likes you. But he’s too old to be your boyfriend, if that’s what you mean.”

She looked disappointed. “But, if he really likes me—”

“Anyway, he’s black,” said Kenny.

Sheila said, “What’s wrong with that?”

“Black people and white people don’t date. Do they, Uncle Jimmy?”

“Well…” He hesitated. “Sometimes they do. But it doesn’t happen every day. I guess you could say that.”

Sheila was indignant. “Why not?”

“It’s just not easy, I guess.”

“But if people really, really like each other, they can do anything they want.”

Skip saw him choosing his words carefully. “The world we live in just isn’t set up for certain things.”

“Uncle Jimmy, you’re a racist!” Sheila’s face was red.

“I’m a…? Auntie, help me out.”

“Uncle Jimmy isn’t a racist He’s trying to tell you the world is screwed up.”

“No, he’s not! He’s a racist!”

“If it’s not one thing,” murmured Jimmy Dee, “it’s another.”

They were silent on the walk back, Sheila fuming, Kenny racing on ahead, and Skip coming to a conclusion: She was going to call Darryl as soon as she got home.

Why, she wasn’t sure, any more than she was sure why she sometimes overate. Maybe it was Kenny’s blithe contention—the prevailing one—that white people couldn’t date black people. Maybe it was the man himself. He was a spectacular person (almost she realized, too good to be true). And maybe it was like eating ice cream when your boyfriend disappointed you, which hers most assuredly had.

Some things you did to make yourself feel better, some things you did because something inside you, something you couldn’t name, was calling the shots.

When they were in the courtyard, just as she was turning towards the slave quarters, Jimmy Dee said, “Don’t forget. You’re babysitting tonight.”

She
had
forgotten. At her puzzled look, he said, “Out-of-town client dinner? Remember?

Well, hell. She could do that.

She didn’t take off her jacket to dial. “Hi. Did I wake you up?”

“Uh, no, I… Skip? Is that you?”

“Yeah. You’re asleep.”

“Well, that’s good. Means you didn’t wake me up. I hate it when someone wakes me up. You want to have breakfast?”

“I’ve already had it. How about lunch?”

“Thinking ahead. Good. Least you know where your next meal’s coming from.”

“I’m going to be at work. Where do you live?”

“Uptown. Hey, I know what. Let’s go to the zoo—they have good food and we could go for a walk afterwards. See some bears or something.”

“I like ’gators.”

“You like ’gators? I love ’gators. ’Cept those white ones—aren’t there enough white things in the world?”

“I guess your students don’t read Moby Dick.”

“Sure they do. The whale gets it.”

I should have listened to Kenny.

But he said, “Hey, I didn’t mean anything. Just light banter, you know? Hate dark banter—enough dark things in the world. That better?”

“You’re a case, you know that?”

“And that’s without coffee. Notice half my sentences don’t have subjects? Caffeine deprivation. Taking shortcuts.”

Well, anyway it worked. A lot better than a hot fudge sundae.

She spent the rest of the morning lounging, desultorily reading the paper, but mostly thinking about the case, about a young man murdered while trying to rescue a cat; about a young mother who might not be ready for motherhood …well, two actually. Lenore now and Marguerite twenty-odd years ago.

She was ready for Darryl, ready for his self-described “light banter,” his sunny disposition, the way he made her feel good. Was that a trick of his or was it something in her? Was it that melted caramel kind of feeling she always got when she was starting to fall in love?

Not so fast, there. It’s only lunch.

Lunch and a walk, actually. A stroll through the ’gators—pretty romantic.

Darryl was waiting for her. “How ’bout some jambalaya? They do a good one.”

“Okay. That and a root beer. My treat.”

“You crazy? I’m the man.”

I noticed.

But she didn’t say it, didn’t dare. She settled for, “I asked you.”

“Uh-uh. I asked you—left you a message, remember?”

“Okay, I won’t argue.”

“Good thing. Or you’d be ’gator bait.”

They picked up their jambalaya and sat down on a roofed deck overlooking a simulated bayou. “How’s Sheila?”

“In love with you, I think.”

He laughed. “That’s me. All the kids love me—they’re under fifteen, they want to take me home to Mama.”

“How about the big girls?”

“You mean about six feet? Well, I don’t know; I was kind of wondering that.”

Oh, God, don’t blush. Whatever you do, don’t blush.
“You mean
moi
?”

“I mean
toi
.”

“You get right to the point, don’t you?”

He nodded. “I hate wasting time—I mean, not that time with your lovely self is wasted. I just hope we’re going somewhere, that’s all.”

“Somewhere like to bed? This afternoon?”

“Why, Miss Scarlett, how you do ran on. I just wondered if there was anything you needed to tell me.”

“You mean, like, whether I have a boyfriend?”

“Bingo, baby.”

“I’m not sure.”

“Oh, no. Don’t tell me it’s going to be one of those.”

“Well, I did have a boyfriend, out in California. But I hung up on him last night and—”

“And called me this morning. Damn! Had my heart set on a happy ending.” He made his face so droll she had to laugh.

“You mean you don’t have anybody? Or do you just need your harem rounded out?”

He was so electric the first seemed almost impossible. But on the other hand, she’d caught him on Sunday morning in bed alone—either that or with a masochist, to put up with that conversation.

For the first time since Sheila turned up missing, he looked troubled. “Just broke up with somebody.”

“I guess I did too. How long ago did you do it?”

“Mmmmm. ’Bout three days. No, four. Four and a half.”

“Pretty recent.”

“Well, how about you?”

“Oh, we haven’t actually talked about it yet.”

“Hmm. One of those future-type kind of things. Like space travel and stuff.”

“Hey, what happened to light banter?”

“Am I gettin’ too dark for you? You should see me with a tan. Or better yet, yo’ mama should. You thought about that?”

“I don’t know if I’m ready for this.”

“Not sure you are. Let’s go see some bears.”

“How ’bout the ’gators?”

“Bears are more autumnal. All that fur and stuff. Makes you think you’re warm.”

As they finished lunch and dumped their garbage, a gust of wind blasted through the swamp exhibit. “I wish something would.”

“Oh, yeah? We can arrange that.” He put an arm around her waist and drew her to him. “You ready for this?”

She smiled up at him—she liked a man she could look up to; there weren’t that many. “Ready and waiting,” she said.

As they walked to the bears’ enclosure, his arm very warm around her, she tried to get her balance back. One of the things she loved about Darryl was that openness of his—the way he was right out there, the way most men weren’t.

In her experience, they mostly liked to let things ride until a situation was so intolerable you couldn’t avoid talking about it for one more second.

Here’s a guy who’s got some balls; only I don’t, it turns out.

THE SOFTWARE THE TOWN used made it so cumbersome to edit that almost no one bothered. Lenore hated that, especially when she was writing to someone like Pearce, someone who might not realize her typos were really typos, might think she just couldn’t spell or punctuate.

But he had just sent her a message, not E-mail, but the real-time notes the TOWNspeople called “sends.” It said, “Sorry I haven’t called. I miss you. Busy. Damn.”

Very sweet
, she thought. She kept her answer short and simple: “I miss you too.” Good. No typos.

Next came, “I hope you’re okay. I’ve been thinking about you a lot.”

So he didn’t correct his typos either. That gave her courage.

“I’ve been kind of down,” she wrote. “Geoff’s funeral really got tome. That’s ‘to me,’ not ‘tomb.’ Though… one wonders.”

“Sorry. So sorry,” he sent back. “Can I help?”

Yes, he could help. He could damn well help. He could come over and hold her. He was a human being—that must mean he could provide a little human warmth. Did she dare ask for it?

Without even considering, she did, too desperate to do otherwise: “Love to see you F2F—migt cheer me up.”

“On my way,” appeared on the screen. No asking when, just on his way.

Lenore smiled to herself. She liked a man who took action. And things were under control, for once. Kit had insisted on keeping Caitlin overnight. She’d said Lenore needed to rest, but in the back of her mind, Lenore was worried. What if Kit thought she’d spend another night doing drugs? Didn’t trust her with her own daughter? That was probably why she was so lonely tonight; because Caitlin was gone.

She had slept most of the afternoon, unable to get up after two nights of staying up and doing drugs and trying to do magic. She knew the two didn’t go together, but she just felt so bad she needed whatever she could find, she couldn’t get through without a little chemical help. It was as if her healthy and unhealthy sides had gone to war—or perhaps “constructive” and “destructive” was the way to put it. “Destructive” had won out.

She hadn’t told Kit it was two nights on drugs. As it was, she was deeply, deeply embarrassed at what she’d done, and embarrassed didn’t start it. Caitlin could have been hurt— could truly have been badly hurt if she really had forgotten and left her at home.

Yet she hadn’t. Her destructive side might have won out in her own life, but the good mother still operated—managed somehow to go on automatic pilot and get Caitlin to day care.

When she woke up that afternoon, she’d promised Kit no more drugs. And wonder of wonders, she felt pretty much okay right now, except for not being sleepy. It was getting late, and she had to go to work tomorrow—that is, she had to show up. If she was fired, she’d find out when she got there.

She’d have a drink with Pearce, relax a little… and she’d sleep like a baby.

The living room was strewn with Caitlin’s toys. She put them away, washed the supper dishes, and just had time to put on lipstick before he got there.

“Hello, beautiful.”

She felt better already. Uplifted by his good cheer.

“I brought us some wine,” he said, and held up a bottle.

She hadn’t even remembered she didn’t have any. How had she planned to entertain him?

“You’re so thoughtful.”

“You’re nice to make time for an old man.”

She was in the kitchen, looking for a corkscrew, but his words affected her so deeply, she marched out again. “You are not an old man, Pearce. You are a very kind, decent soul. And extremely attractive.”

Having delivered her speech, she turned on her heel and marched out again. As she fiddled with the corkscrew, he came up behind her, slipped his arms around her waist, and nuzzled her neck. She wriggled away.

“I thought you said I was attractive.”

She handed him a glass of wine. “You are. That wasn’t the signal to jump my bones.”

“Oh. Would you let me know what is?”

“Oh, come on.” Following him back to the living room, she took her own glass and the bottle. When he sat on the couch, she sat beside him, to show friendliness. (Though not necessarily availability; she hadn’t yet made up her mind about Pearce as a lover, knew only that he was a good friend and she enjoyed his company.)