Death Before Facebook

by Smith, Julie

  “I’m using Steve’s user ID and password.”

  “Oh. Steve.”

  After dinner, Jimmy Dee uploaded the software and began futzing with it. Skip read magazines. And after a while she went home, leaving him cursing Layne, telling her he was quite sure Layne was the murderer, at any rate he was a sadist. Generally having the time of his life.

  Back in her cold apartment, she gathered blankets and tucked herself in to read, but her mind wandered. Should she call Darryl? Not tonight, of course, but tomorrow, maybe? Did she really want to see him again?

  She did. She did, badly, but it was dangerous. She liked him entirely too much for a woman supposedly involved with another man.

  But maybe Steve is dumping me.

  Well, he hasn’t yet.

  As if on cue, the phone rang. “Hi.”

  “Steve?”

  “Of course Steve. You were expecting, maybe, Tom Cruise?”

  Though no one could see, she flushed.

  “Listen, we really have to talk. I’ve got some semi-bad news, but in the end it’s going to turn out really great. I’m not kidding, this is really exciting.”

  “You’re not moving here.”

  “Now, why would you think that?”

  “Every conversation’s pointed to it.”

  “Well, wrong. I am moving there. Just not right away.”

  Oh, sure.

  “Hey, are you still there?”

  “Go ahead. Talk.” She knew she sounded distant, withdrawn; but she couldn’t pretend.

  “I know this interferes with our plans, but it’s only for a couple of years, and things’ll be so much better when I finally get there. I mean, this is really the most important thing that could happen to me at this stage of my career—the most important. For once I’m on the cutting edge—and I really have to stay a while and cash in.”

  “I guess you’d better tell me about it.”

  “Remember that computer seminar I took?”

  “Vaguely.”

  “Well, you know I’ve always been a computer buff. So I took this AVID seminar. Just for fun, really. It was in nonlinear digital editing—have you ever heard of that?”

  “Should I have?”

  “It’s changing the film industry—and incidentally, it’s making your boyfriend rich. It’s like… total freedom. It’s so fucking fast it’s unbelievable. Anything you want to do, you can do it. It’s just split-second stuff.”

  “So what does all that mean?”

  “The old way of editing is wildly expensive and time-consuming. This costs pennies—for the equipment, I mean—and you can literally get a rough cut of a film in one night. It’s state-of-the-art, baby, and I’m in on the ground floor.”

  “But what does that mean to you?”

  “It means I’m in big demand,” he said modestly. “I’m working on feature films—under big-name editors—which I haven’t done before. And here’s the best part—I’m making about five thousand a week.”

  She was oddly intimidated. “That’s a lot of money.”

  “You bet it’s a lot of money. It’s a hell of a lot of money. Do you see why I have to stay a while?”

  “In a Hollywood kind of way I do. But what about your own work?”

  “At five thousand a week, I can make a half million dollars in two years. Think how many little baby films I can turn that into.”

  “‘Little baby films’? You’re putting down your own work.”

  “No, I’m not. I’m just calling it what it is. Besides, I love doing this stuff. I’m crazy about it.”

  “You’re never coming here, are you?” You’re going to buy a house in Malibu and marry Sharon Stone.

  “Of course I am. Don’t you understand that? I’m going to do this exactly two years and then cash out. By then, everybody in town’ll probably know how to do it anyway.”

  You never had any intention of moving here.

  But he said, “So when I’m there, there’s a much greater likelihood I’ll stay. I mean, that I’ll be able to stay.”

  “I guess I should say congratulations.”

  “I was kind of hoping for that.”

  “I’m finding this a little hard to adjust to.”

  “Why? It’s only for a couple of years. I’m coming. Don’t worry, that place is home to me now. A lot more than L.A. More than L.A. ever was.”

  “But you’re there and not here.” She realized how whiny her voice had become.

  “Have you got your period or something?”

  “What?” He’d never spoken to her like that. Never.

  “You don’t sound like yourself at all. Look, let’s change the subject. How’s life with the no-neck rug rats?”

  “Shit!”

  “What?”

  “Steve, I’ve got to go.”

  She hung up on him, something else she’d never done—to him or anyone.

  He’d try to call back, of course. The thing to do was leave the phone off the hook. Or better yet…

  Before she realized what she’d done, she dialed Darryl’s number.

  A moment later, she was holding a dead receiver, glad he hadn’t answered, knowing she should call Steve back, but not wanting to talk to him.

  What’s wrong with me?

  Suddenly Steve couldn’t do anything right in her eyes. Even without Cindy Lou to tell her, she knew she was acting dumb. This was about her, not him.

  But what part of her? The part that was disappointed in Steve? The part that, deep down, still didn’t trust him?

  Or the part that was wildly, irrationally attracted to Darryl?

  And which came first?

  If she didn’t know, she didn’t know how she could tell Steve. She unplugged the phone, aware she was acting like a baby. Absolutely unable to do otherwise.

  * * *

  Lenore thought she was going to scream soon. Caitlin had turned into a wild energy machine sometime that afternoon. She had been throwing things for the last two hours—some, simply household items, some her eating utensils, and some her food, pea by pea. Lenore had let her do it at first, thinking she’d work off the energy soon, and then had tried to make her stop, but that had involved crying and flailing that she couldn’t cope with right now, and so she had gone back to letting her do it.

  Had the kid managed to eat enough food to survive until morning? Or should she keep trying to get her to eat?

  I don’t care. I don’t care about anything! I just want to lie down and cry.

  She was having an extreme reaction to her old music teacher’s death—at least it seemed extreme to her. She hadn’t realized she had cared so much about Mrs. Julian, certainly couldn’t have predicted that the death of someone she hadn’t seen in years, except at Geoff’s funeral, could have such an effect on her.

  It must be because it came on top of Geoff’s death. Or maybe because I did see her. It was so awful, realizing she’d lost it.

  She thought it might symbolize something to her—something like the dark night of the soul. The void, the abyss, chaos—something she couldn’t quite comprehend but that scared her to death.

  I need to do magic. A spell for solace and serenity. I need to get myself together.

  But how can you get yourself together when you’re tattered? You can’t heal yourself when you don’t have the energy even to run a fever.

  Caitlin tossed a cup, which shattered on the floor.

  “Caitlin, goddamn you! Can’t you give me a moment’s peace?” She was shocked at the sound of her voice. The neighbors had probably heard her.

  Caitlin, obviously shocked as well, simply stared for a second. Her little lips made a perfect O. And then her lovely face turned into a writhing mask of ugliness. Sound spilled out of her that could be heard, not only next door, but down the block.

  Lenore lowered her voice and sugared it. “Caitlin, I’m sorry, honey. I didn’t mean to shout.” She grabbed for the screaming child, full of remorse, but Caitlin flailed at her.

  �
��Stop it! Stop it goddammit! I’m sorry.” Without thinking about it she flailed back, striking Caitlin’s cheek with a sound like something cracking.

  “Oh, Caitlin. Omigod, I’m so sorry. What happened to me?” She had to hold Caitlin’s arms to get close enough to pick her up, which only made the baby scream louder.

  Once she had her, what to do?

  She needed a drink desperately. She had already taken some Valium, but to no avail.

  Holding the screaming baby, she went through her cabinets. There was wine, but she didn’t need something she had to sip to get a buzz—she needed something she could toss down.

  Coke! There was some coke some guy had left. Now where the hell was it?

  She put Caitlin down and let her scream while she found it.

  She made herself two neat little lines, thought about leaving one till later, and changed her mind.

  She went back to find the baby, noticing the screaming was tolerable now. She could feel love. Behind all her frustration and sadness, her love for her daughter had been lurking all along, and now she could feel it.

  She sensed the change in herself, heard her voice smooth out, become lower, and saw with gratitude that Caitlin responded. Now the baby came toward her, arms outstretched. Gladly, Lenore enfolded her, happy that children were so forgiving.

  “You want me to read you a story?”

  Caitlin nodded.

  Lenore got out one of her pop-up books, and they were soon in sync, laughing and having fun as if nothing had happened. When it was over, Caitlin said, “Read me another, Mommy.”

  “It’s time for your bath, honey.”

  “Please, Mommy?” She looked so sweet, so absolutely adorable and innocent, yet somehow so alert, that Lenore couldn’t resist.

  “Okay, but after this, we’ll do your bath and then bed.”

  “Okay, Mommy.”

  “You’re too adorable, you know that?”

  “Umm-hmm.”

  Lenore found another book and began to read, something about a baby duck that got separated from all its little sisters and brothers, a more complicated book, and Caitlin kept interrupting.

  She pointed to a picture at the bottom of the page. “What’s that, Mommy?”

  “That’s a dog, honey.”

  “Why is he… why he is…” She was stuttering in that way kids have. “Why is he…”

  “Caitlin, spit it out.”

  Her daughter stared at her again. Before she had a chance to cry, Lenore said, “I’m sorry, honey, I didn’t mean to snap. Would you wait one second for Mommy?”

  Another little toot is called for. Just one more and she’s in bed and I’m okay.

  She had two more, but when she came back, Caitlin seemed to have lost interest in the book. “Mommy, could we read another one?”

  “Honey, you said we’d go to bed when you finished that one.”

  “But we didn’t finish… we didn’t finish… we didn’t finish… it.”

  Can I make it through one more?

  Oh, sure, I’ve got a second wind.

  So to speak.

  “How about the one about Rhiannon?” She had actually found a children’s book about a good witch, no small feat.

  “Okay.” Caitlin put her thumb in her mouth, a sure sign she was getting sleepy.

  They were nearly through the book when she started interrupting again. “Why is she… why is she… why is she… a witch?”

  “Because that’s her job, honey.”

  “Why is it… why is it… why is it… her job?”

  “You know how I’m a bead lady? And Auntie Kit’s a nurse? Everybody has a job to do.”

  “What’s a job?”

  Lenore closed the book with a thud. “Oh, Caitlin, for heaven’s sake, you’re not interested in the book.”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “Come on, we’re going to go take your bath.”

  “No!” She stamped her foot.

  Lenore got up and started the bathwater. She went back for Caitlin.

  “Come on, baby.”

  “No!”

  Lenore felt a surge of rage travel up her spine. “You come here, young lady.”

  Caitlin stared at her, unmoving.

  “You get in that bathroom.” She was screaming again.

  Caitlin set up a howl.

  “Come to me!”

  Caitlin lay down on the floor and howled louder.

  “You’re going if I have to drag you.”

  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.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  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!”

&nbs
p; “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.”