Living Dead in Dallas

'What?' My eyes flew open. I looked at the windows. They were not pitch black, but very dark.

'You fell asleep.'

I had a blanket over me, and I was still wearing the steel blue bra and panty set. I felt like moldy bread. I looked at Bill. He was wearing nothing at all.

'Hold that thought,' I said and paid a visit to the bathroom. When I came back, Bill was waiting for me on the bed, propped on one elbow.

'Did you notice the outfit you got me?' I rotated to give him the full benefit of his generosity.

'It's lovely, but you may be slightly overdressed for the occasion.'

'What occasion would that be?'

'The best sex of your life.'

I felt a lurch of sheer lust down low. But I kept my face still. 'And can you be sure it will be the best?'

'Oh, yes,' he said, his voice becoming so smooth and cold it was like running water over stones. 'I can be sure, and so can you.'

'Prove it,' I said, smiling very slightly.

His eyes were in the shadows, but I could see the curve of his lips as he smiled back. 'Gladly,' he said.

Some time later, I was trying to recover my strength, and he was draped over me, an arm across my stomach, a leg across mine. My mouth was so tired it could barely pucker to kiss his shoulder. Bill's tongue was gently licking the tiny puncture marks on my shoulder.

'You know what we need to do?' I said, feeling too lazy to move ever again.

'Um?'

'We need to get the newspaper.'

After a long pause, Bill slowly unwrapped himself from me and strolled to the front door. My paperwoman pulls up my driveway and tosses it in the general direction of the porch because I pay her a great big tip on that understanding.

'Look,' said Bill, and I opened my eyes. He was holding a foil-wrapped plate. The paper was tucked under his arm.

I rolled off the bed and we went automatically to the kitchen. I pulled on my pink robe as I padded after Bill. He was still natural, and I admired the effect.

'There's a message on the answering machine,' I said, as I put on some coffee. The most important thing done, I rolled back the aluminum foil and saw a two-layer cake with chocolate icing, studded with pecans in a star pattern on the top.

'That's old Mrs. Bellefleur's chocolate cake,' I said, awe in my voice.

'You can tell whose it is by looking?'

'Oh, this is a famous cake. It's a legend. Nothing is as good as Mrs. Bellefleur's cake. If she enters it in the county fair, the ribbon's as good as won. And she brings it when someone dies. Jason said it was worth someone dying, just to get a piece of Mrs. Bellefleur's cake.'

'What a wonderful smell,' Bill said, to my amazement. He bent down and sniffed. Bill doesn't breathe, so I haven't exactly figured out how he smells, but he does. 'If you could wear that as a perfume, I would eat you up.'

'You already did.'

'I would do it a second time.'

'I don't think I could stand it.' I poured myself a cup of coffee. I stared at the cake, full of wonderment. 'I didn't even know she knew where I live.'

Bill pressed the message button on my answering machine. 'Miss Stackhouse,' said the voice of a very old, very Southern, aristocrat. 'I knocked on your door, but you must have been busy. I left a chocolate cake for you, since I didn't know what else to do to thank you for what Portia tells me you've done for my grandson Andrew. Some people have been kind enough to tell me that the cake is good. I hope you enjoy it. If I can ever be of service to you, just give me a call.'

'Didn't say her name.'

'Caroline Holliday Bellefleur expects everyone to know who she is.'

'Who?'

I looked up at Bill, who was standing by the window. I was sitting at the kitchen table, drinking coffee from one of my grandmother's flowered cups.

'Caroline Holliday Bellefleur.'

Bill could not get any paler, but he was undoubtedly stunned. He sat down very abruptly into the chair across from me. 'Sookie, do me a favor.'

'Sure, baby. What is it?'

'Go over to my house and get the Bible that is in the glass-fronted bookshelf in the hallway.'

He seemed so upset, I grabbed my keys and drove over in my bathrobe, hoping I wouldn't meet anyone along the way. Not too many people live out on our parish road, and none of them were out at four in the morning.

I let myself into Bill's house and found the Bible exactly where he'd said. I eased it out of the bookcase very carefully. It was obviously quite old. I was so nervous carrying it up the steps to my house that I almost tripped. Bill was sitting where I'd left him. When I'd set the Bible in front of him, he stared at it for a long minute. I began to wonder if he could touch it. But he didn't ask for help, so I waited. His hand reached out and the white fingers caressed the worn leather cover. The book was massive, and the gold lettering on the cover was ornate.

Bill opened the book with gentle fingers and turned a page. He was looking at a family page, with entries in faded ink, made in several different handwritings.

'I made these,' he said in a whisper. 'These here.' He pointed at a few lines of writing.

My heart was in my throat as I came around the table to look over his shoulder. I put my own hand on his shoulder, to link him to the here and now.

I could barely make out the writing.

William Thomas Compton, his mother had written, or perhaps his father. Born April 9, 1840. Another hand had written Died November 25, 1868.

'You have a birthday,' I said, of all the stupid things to say. I'd never thought of Bill having a birthday.

'I was the second son,' Bill said. 'The only son who grew up.'

I remembered that Robert, Bill's older brother, had died when he was twelve or so, and two other babies had died in infancy. There all these births and deaths were recorded, on the page under Bill's fingers.

'Sarah, my sister, died childless.' I remembered that. 'Her young man died in the war. All the young men died in the war. But I survived, only to die later. This is the date of my death, as far as my family is concerned. It's in Sarah's handwriting.'

I held my lips pressed tight, so I wouldn't make a sound. There was something about Bill's voice, the way he touched the Bible that was almost unbearable. I could feel my eyes fill with tears.

'Here is the name of my wife,' he said, his voice quieter and quieter.

I bent over again to read, Caroline Isabelle Holliday. For one second, the room swung sideways, until I realized it just could not be.

'And we had children,' he said. 'We had three children.'

Their names were there, too. Thomas Charles Compton, b. 1859. She'd gotten pregnant right after they'd married, then.

I would never have Bill's baby.

Sarah Isabelle Compton, b. 1861. Named after her aunt (Bill's sister) and her mother. She'd been born around the time Bill had left for the war. Lee Davis Compton, b. 1866. A homecoming baby. Died 1867, a different hand had added.

'Babies died like flies then,' Bill whispered. 'We were so poor after the war, and there wasn't any medicine.'

I was about to take my sad weepy self out of the kitchen, but then I realized that if Bill could stand this, I pretty much had to.

'The other two children?' I asked.