Death Before Facebook

deceitful.
    Worst fears confirmed
, she thought.
He’s not moving here.
    She said, “Damn! Cappello’s calling me. Call you back, okay?”
    “You’re at work already?”
    She wasn’t.
    She was sitting at her kitchen table. She didn’t move for a while, waiting for the numbness to wear off. She cursed herself:
Didn’t I call it? Didn’t I know? And I got right in it anyway. I believed him. Shit. I acted like I believe in virtual reality or something.
    Because a guy in LA. is not the real world. Definitely not.
    Fuck! How could I have been so dumb?
    Feeling spacey, not trusting herself to drive, she had another quick cup of coffee. She felt a little hopped up and a lot better when she arrived at the church.
    She saw Cole Terry with a stunning woman in a sleek black suit and blue blouse. Surely it couldn’t be Marguerite.
    But it was. Skip saw how she could have caught men’s roving and wandering eyes so many years ago, and probably still did. She was obviously a genius with makeup, someone who could upstage a bride at her own wedding if she wanted to. Her formerly lank, greasy hair now looked shiny and handsome, pinned up in a becoming tight bun.
    The Terrys were with a young woman who was obviously their daughter. She was as beautiful as Marguerite, or she was going to be, Skip thought. She was a little thin, slightly stoop-shouldered and gangly, but otherwise gorgeous. It was the first time Skip had seen her in the light, but she recognized her, even without her favorite accessory. Neetsie’d left her nose ring at home.
    Be proud of your height,
Skip wanted to say.
I’m four inches taller than you—don’t embarrass me.
    She was six feet tall and wearing heels.
    Neetsie was about five-eight, with shiny dark hair like her mother’s, and a sprinkling of freckles. She wore a sort of jumper that fell to her ankles, and Doc Martens, indisputably the most fashionable footgear at the funeral. Her parents had probably made a deal with her—she could wear them if she dumped the nose ring. They were as ugly as any shoes Skip had ever seen, which indicated they were probably the hippest thing going.
    The girl was the picture of filial perfection—petal-soft face, intelligent but innocent, not a mark on it yet, no tiny wrinkle or frown left by one of life’s little lessons.
    But anybody could be a Satanist. You didn’t have to wear black lipstick.
    A very old woman was sitting with the Terrys, Marguerite’s mother, perhaps.
    Lenore was here too, looking forlorn. She had with her one of the prettiest children in Orleans Parish. Kathryne Brazil was also with her, the handsome woman from the cult. There was a man with them too, someone about Brazil’s age. Her husband, perhaps?
    The service started.
    Speeches were made; sermons delivered; hymns sung. And suddenly, Mike Kavanagh was going for the pulpit.
    Skip had been drifting, hadn’t heard what had been said the moment before, but it seemed as if people had been asked to give spontaneous eulogies. Mike wore a brown suit buttoned over a body that had changed size twice since its purchase. His hair was slicked back with water. His face was the rosy pink of impatiens in the springtime. His voice was full of tears.
    “I’ve known Geoff Kavanagh longer’n anybody in this room except his mama and she’s only known him about thirty minutes longer. His daddy was my brother and losin’ that person in a person’s life is probably more than a person can take. ’Specially if the person’s four years old.
    “Now I didn’t know Geoff as well the first four years of his life as I did the next four or five, but when we got together he was one crazy mixed-up kid. He was the baddest little kid you ever saw in your whole life. Why, he used to pee on the living room rug just to watch his mama burst into tears.”
    Skip glanced at Marguerite, and a more perfect expression of hatred she couldn’t conceive.
    Mike waited for the Southern politeness that constituted a laugh track in such situations.
    “I’m tellin’ you that boy and I went through just about everything you can imagine and I don’t mind telling you, I used the back of my hand once or twice.”
    This time it occurred to Skip to look at Cole. His jaw was clenched and so, she thought, was his whole body. She couldn’t see his hands or Marguerite’s, but Skip imagined them entwined and white-knuckled.
    Mike went on for nearly half an hour, telling the story of a little hellion turned into a worthwhile