Death Before Facebook

human being by the story’s hero, Mike Kavanagh. And then he spent five minutes praising Geoff—Dr. Frankenstein admiring his creation; Pygmalion adoring his statue. When he stepped down, he stumbled.
    Skip hoped to God somebody had something else to say.
    Fortunately, people did: Layne, for one, and Pearce Randolph, who gave a graceful little talk about Vidkid on the TOWN that sounded almost like an adventure yarn. Marguerite smiled through it.
    Then one more hymn and it was over. People cried and hugged each other and went to talk to the family. Skip wished fervently that she could divide up into thirty invisible eavesdroppers, capable of covering every conversation at once.
    “Pearce was good, wasn’t he?” said someone behind her. She turned to see Honey Diefenthal. “And Marguerite looks like a million.”
    “You look good too.” She looked as if her little black suit had been made for her—by Karl Lagerfeld, probably. How did these tiny Southern women do it? Skip felt like a mountain in a dress with no waistline, Empire-style, and short sleeves shaped like stiffly starched bells. Why couldn’t she ever find the little-nothing dresses?
    Oh, well, this wasn’t a fashion show. “Do you know a woman named Kathryne Brazil?”
    “No, why?”
    “She’s with Geoff’s girlfriend.” Skip pointed out Lenore. “The man might be her husband.”
    “Why, that’s Butsy.” The first syllable rhymed with “put”.
    “And who might Butsy be?”
    “Oh, just some old wheeler-dealer. He’s been around for years, with no visible means of income. That must be his little girl. She was Geoff’s true love?”
    “Marguerite seems to think so. Cute baby, huh?”
    Honey shook her head, though even W. C. Fields would have thought so. “That girl just doesn’t look like a mother.”
    “Could the other woman be
her
mother?”
    “Oh, God no. Butsy was divorced half a century ago.” She frowned, staring at Kathryne Brazil. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen her.” As she finished the sentence, she let out her breath in a “Whoof,” having been grabbed around the waist by an exuberant ex-husband.
    Skip broke away to lurk near the family, but couldn’t get near Marguerite and Cole. The old woman sat alone in her pew. Lenore, looking anxious, her baby on her hip, fought her way toward her. “Mrs. Julian?” The old woman’s expression did not change. “Mrs. Julian?” Lenore’s face was as bright and happy as a schoolgirl’s. “Mrs. Julian, it’s Lenore. This is Caitlin, my little girl.” She got no response, but she kept beaming. “I’m so happy to see you.”
    “Are you my nurse? Can I eat now?” Mrs. Julian spoke very softly, her voice giving away how little energy she had left, how little life.
    Lenore, who throughout the service had not cried for Geoff, began to sob. “Oh, Mrs. Julian. Mrs. Julian; oh, no!” She tried to put her arms around the old woman’s matchstick shoulders, but Mrs. Julian sat stiff and rigid as a guard at Buckingham Palace.
    Embarrassed, Skip turned around.
    “Kathryne! What on earth are you doing here?”
    The words had been more or less snarled.
    Kathryne Brazil’s voice was warm. “Cole. I’m so sorry for your loss.”
    “You didn’t know Geoff!” He sounded outraged.
    “I did. Although not very well. And I’ve heard a lot about him from Lenore. I came for her. And for Neetsie and Suby, of course.”
    “Neetsie? My daughter? You know my daughter?” He didn’t seem pleased about it.
    Kit seemed taken aback. “Why are you so surprised, Cole? We’re all on the TOWN together.”
    “Oh. You mean you actually
see
them—people from the TOWN?”
    She shrugged. “Of course. You have a lovely daughter.”
    Skip was left once again to ponder the workings of a town that wasn’t a town.

CHAPTER ELEVEN
     
    SKIP SPENT THE rest of the day at Geoff’s computer, calling up his directory and reading his files, end to end, one after another, until her eyes hurt and her body twitched from boredom. Most of what he had used his computer for was computer-related; at any rate, it didn’t seem to be English.
    Neither, on the other hand, did it seem to be a secret code. Disappointed, she had to conclude that if Geoff had kept a journal, he had done it the old-fashioned way. There were a few letters and some notes on movies and books, but other than that, almost nothing personal.
    * * *
     
    R&O’s, the restaurant set for the TOWN dinner, was sometimes confused with the