by Julie Smith
Kathryne Brazil (Kit) had, however. She noted that nearly all the victims of the Inquisition had confessed to witchcraft and had described it in the same terms as all the other confessors—something about having sex with the devil, who had a memorable member. Though since none of the women complained of frostbite in a usually warm area, Kit couldn’t see why, unless they were lying. Well, not lying exactly—simply asked certain leading questions under torture. She had said she didn’t know whether that was quite like a shrink questioning a kid about his adventures with Mom and Dad’s naked pals, but it was funny the subject was the same.
That tells me exactly nothing, Skip thought. Oh, well, what next?
I know. What’s with tattoos and nose rings?
In her mind, the two went together. Lenore had a tattoo and Neetsie had a nose ring. She associated both with heavy metal, which seemed rich in Satanic imagery.
Sure enough, there was a whole topic on body piercing, with a tattoo thread running through it. By the time she had read it, she knew quite a number of interesting things, but not whether the two went together (though some posters said one was a subset of the other) and not why people did them.
One thing she knew was that people sometimes got piercings in a sort of ritual with drums and hand-holdings, perhaps not unlike the one she’d just witnessed.
Another thing she knew was that, if you got your nipples pierced, you probably didn’t have to worry that it would interfere with breast-feeding unless you got badly infected; as a side issue (known on the TOWN as “topic drift”), she knew that a nipple has about 120 milk ducts.
She also knew two positions for labia piercings, each grosser than the other, and she knew that, if she should ever desire such a thing, it would be okay to bring friends to hold her down, and okay to videotape the procedure. She wondered if even Miss Manners was aware of these nuances.
Finally, she knew six different ways the penis could be pierced, including the ever-popular Prince Albert (“parallel,” the poster had gravely explained, “through the urethra”).
She had to admit that nose rings were pretty tame when there were questions like these to be explored.
She had found the piercing topic in the Sex conference and what the hell, she thought, why not stay there?
An entirely unembarrassed crowd of men and women who couldn’t see each other’s faces frolicked happily on their virtual bed, merrily tackling such questions as “The Best Phone Sex I Ever Had,” “What I’d Never Do Again,” “Flirting Online,” and “Who I’d Most Like to Do It With.”
None of the people she’d met posted here except Layne, who seemed more earnest about seeing that the gay side was presented than carefree about dirty talk in cyberspace.
She had to admit to a fascination with “Flirting Online.” Here people described (presumably in front of the people they were talking about) what happened when you knew only what a person wanted you to know about him or her. They liked each other’s posts, they bantered publicly, they engaged in E-mail, they wrote in a chatty, friendly way, and somewhere they crossed the line into flirting. Next thing you knew they were turning out porn and slavering for each other. So they did what civilized people do at the fin de siecle—they made a coffee date.
And went “Yuck” on sight.
Or else they didn’t—maybe they liked each other fine, maybe they even fell in love for a while.
Or maybe they never met at all. Looking through, Skip could see what appeared to be a lot of stories about “relationships” that were never consummated by a meeting F2F.
It seemed a metaphor for the whole phenomenon of virtual communities somehow—a lot of people pretending they knew each other. And liking it a lot better that way.
In a way, she thought with horror, this is my life. I don’t really know Steve Steinman at all. In a way, all we’ve got is a phone relationship. Oh, sure, we see each other every few months, but I wonder if we really know each other—if you really can in a few days here, a few days there.
I don’t know him at all, she thought. Maybe he never meant to move here. Maybe he likes long-distance things because it’s so much easier to get along with somebody you don’t have to be with. To pretend she’s who you want and never see who she is.
She logged off and went to bed.
After Pearce’s urging, she’d decided definitely to go to Geoff’s memorial service. Feeling insecure after last night’s doubts, she called Steve before she left, time difference be damned.
She’d awakened him, but, happily, he wasn’t mad; seemed delighted, in fact. “Skip. I was going to call you today. Listen, we really have to talk. Something great’s happening to me. I haven’t told you because I wasn’t sure it was going to work. Then when you asked the other night… I don’t know. I wasn’t ready.”
“What?” Her heart raced. He’d said it was great, but it wasn’t, it was bad news; she felt it.
“What’s wrong? You don’t sound right.”
“Nothing. I just don’t have much time, that’s all.”
“This might take some time.”
She felt as if she knew what the medieval witches meant about the devil’s icy member. She was feeling nailed to the wall by something cold and hard, something male and 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 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 elegant Amaud’s, but offered a very different dining experience. It was a barn of a place out by the lake, serving all the basic seafoods and sandwiches—nothing fancy, just good. A little noisy for a meeting like this, but otherwise you couldn’t fault it.
Lenore was the first person Skip saw when she arrived, sitting once more with Kathryne Brazil. Bigeasy was there too, already at the bottom of a beer.
She held out a hand to Brazil and introduced herself.
“I’m Kit,” said the other woman. “Are you new on the TOWN?’
“I’m not on it at all. I’m a police officer investigating Geoff Kavanagh’s death—Pearce invited me.”
Something that wasn’t delight crossed Kit’s face.
“Oh, dear, is that a problem? Maybe I shouldn’t stay.”
But Layne arrived and broke into an ear-to-ear grin. “Skip. Nice to see you.”
Kit had the grace to turn pink. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude. Lenore, are you okay with this?”
Lenore nodded, somehow quieter around Kit. Submissive almost.
“Stay, please,” said her protector.
Layne said, “Who else is coming?’
“Neetsie and Suby, I hope. Not Cole, of course.” He glanced at Kit, who sighed and said, “He never does.”
“He doesn’t do F2F?” Skip said, glad she’d brushed up on the jargon.
“It’s not exactly that,” Kit said. “Maybe I should mention that I’m his ex-wife. Could be that.”
Skip felt gobsmacked. “You’re…what? Why didn’t anyone tell me?” She looked accusingly at Layne, who shrugged.
“Can’t think of everything,” he said. “Anyway, you two just met.”
Right. He didn’t know she knew Kit from the cult. Skip was quiet a moment,
trying to process it. That would certainly explain the odd exchange she’d heard between Cole and Kit at the church.
Pearce gave her a sly look, clearly enjoying her confusion. He signaled a waitress. “Another beer, please. Anybody else?’
When orders were taken, Skip turned to Kit. “Do you work with computers?’
“Me? No, I’m a nurse. I just got on the TOWN because of a private conference I knew about. And because everybody I knew was on it.”
“Oh?”
“Well, that was in Kansas City, if you can fathom that. There’s a really great medical conference, and the people I worked with lived and died for it. They were the ones who told me about the other one—the private conference.” Starting to relax, she smiled. “So of course when I moved here, I got in touch with all the TOWNsfolk. Great people. Suby, hi. Neetsie—I’m glad you came. I didn’t think you would.”
The two young women had come in together, and now hugged everyone but Skip. Neetsie’s nose ring (out for the funeral, in again now) made her want to avert her eyes. She thought of herself as a rebel, and hated being such a fuddy-duddy.
She wondered why Neetsie had it. In L.A., it would be one thing; in New Orleans, it was quite another. Here, everybody would notice. Almost no one would like it. Yet Neetsie seemed in most ways perfectly conformist. Maybe she liked stirring people up.
That seemed hostile, but why shouldn’t she be hostile? Two murders in one family was more than the national norm.
Skip reflected, as she did when she saw family violence, that you couldn’t know what goes on in a household.
Once, when she’d been sent to the scene of a nasty beating, the atmosphere in the house had seemed so charged, so electric with brutality and hate, that a line had come to her, a paraphrase: “In these mean rooms a woman must live.”
She’d thought about it later—couldn’t get it out of her mind—and it had become her phrase for unhappy households, enclosed spaces where families clawed at one another, ripped each other’s psyches open, dined on each other’s Achilles tendons: Mean rooms—where you always hurt the one you love.