Charlaine Harris - Dead in the Family

I said a prayer or two, hoping that would restore my normal good mood, but it didn’t work today. Possibly I wasn’t approaching prayer in the right spirit. Communicating with God isn’t the same as taking a happy pill—far from it.

I pulled on a dress and sandals and went to Gran’s grave. Having a conversation with her usually reminded me of how levelheaded and wise she’d been. Today all I thought about was her wildly out-of-character indiscretion with a half fairy that had resulted in my dad and his sister, Linda. My grandmother had (maybe) had sex with a half fairy because my grandfather couldn’t make babies. So she’d gotten to carry and birth her children, two of them, and she’d raised them with love.

And she’d buried both of them.

As I crouched by the headstone looking down at the grass that was getting thicker on her grave, I wondered if I should draw some meaning from that. You could make a case that Gran had done something she shouldn’t have. to get something she wasn’t supposed to get. and after she’d gotten it, she’d lost it in the most painful way imaginable. What could be worse than losing a child? Losing two children.

Or you could decide that everything that had happened was completely at random, that Gran had done the best she could at the moment she’d had to make a decision, and that her decision simply hadn’t worked out for reasons equally beyond her control. Constant blame, or constant blamelessness.

There had to be better choices.

I did the best possible thing for me to do. I put in some earrings and went to church. Easter was over, but the flowers on the Methodist altar were still beautiful. The windows were open because the temperature was pleasant. A few clouds were gathering in the west, but nothing to worry about for the next few hours. I listened to every word of the sermon and I sang along with the hymns, though I kept that down to a whisper because I have a terrible voice. It was good for me; it reminded me of Gran and my childhood and faith and clean dresses and Sunday lunch, usually a roast surrounded by potatoes and carrots that Gran put it in the oven before we left the house. She would have made a pie or a cake, too.

Church isn’t always easy when you can read the minds around you, and I worked very hard on blocking them out and thinking my own thoughts in an attempt to connect to the part of my upbringing, the part of myself, that was good and kind and intent on trying to become better.

When the service was over, I talked to Maxine Fortenberry, who was in seventh heaven over Hoyt and Holly’s wedding plans, and I saw Charlsie Tooten toting her grandbaby, and I talked to my insurance agent, Greg Aubert, who had his whole family with him. His daughter turned red when I looked at her, because I knew a few things about her that made her conscience twinge. But I wasn’t judging the girl. We all misbehave from time to time. Some of us get caught, and some of us don’t.

Sam was in church, too, to my surprise. I’d never seen him there before. As far as I knew, he’d never been to any church in Bon Temps.

“I’m glad to see you,” I said, trying not to sound too startled. “You been going somewhere else, or is this a new venture?”

“I just felt it was time,” he said. “For one thing, I like church. For another thing, a bad time is coming for us two-natured folks, and I want to make sure everyone in Bon Temps knows I’m an okay guy.”

“They’d have to be fools not to know that already,” I said quietly. “Good to see you, Sam.” I moved off because a couple of people were waiting to talk to my boss, and I understood that he was trying to anchor his position in the community.

I tried not to worry about Eric or anything else the rest of the day. I’d had a text message inviting me to have lunch with Tara and JB, and I was glad to have their company. Tara had gotten Dr. Dinwiddie to check very carefully, and sure enough, he’d found another heartbeat. She and JB were stunned, in a happy way. Tara had fi xed creamed chicken to spoon over biscuits, and she’d made a spinach casserole and a fruit salad. I had a great time at their little house, and JB checked my wrists and said they were almost back to normal. Tara was all excited about the baby shower JB’s aunt was planning on giving them in Clarice, and she assured me I’d get an invitation. We picked a date for her shower in Bon Temps, and she promised she’d register online.

By the time I got home, I figured I’d better put a load of wash in, and I washed my bath mat, too, and hung it out on the line to dry. While I was outside, I made sure I had my little plastic squirt gun, full of lemon juice, tucked in my pocket. I didn’t want to get caught by surprise again. I just couldn’t figure out what I’d done to deserve having an apparently (judging by Claude’s reaction) hostile fairy tromping around my property.

My cell phone rang as I trailed gloomily back to the house. “Hey, Sis,” Jason said. He was cooking on the grill. I could hear the sizzle. “Michele and me are cooking out. You want to come? I got plenty of steak.”

“Thanks, but I ate at JB and Tara’s. Give me a rain check on that.”

“Sure thing. I got your message. Tomorrow at eight, right?”

“Yeah. Let’s ride over to Shreveport together.”

“Sure. I’ll pick you up at seven at your place.”

“See you then.”

“Gotta go!”

Jason did not like long phone conversations. He’d broken up with girls who wanted to chat while they shaved their legs and painted their nails.

It was not a great commentary on my life that the prospect of meeting with a bunch of unhappy Weres seemed like a good time—or at least an interesting time.

Kennedy was bartending when I got to work the next day. She told me that Sam had a final, take-the-checkbook appointment with his accountant, who’d gotten an extension since Sam had been so late turning all the paperwork over.

Kennedy looked as pretty as she always did. She refused to wear the shorts most of the rest of us wore in warm weather, instead opting for tailored khakis and a fancy belt with her Merlotte’s T-shirt. Kennedy’s makeup and hair were pageant quality. I glanced automatically at Danny Prideaux’s usual barstool. Empty.

“Where’s Danny?” I asked when I went to the bar to get a beer for Catfish Hennessy. He was Jason’s boss, and I half expected to see Jason come in to join him, but Hoyt and a couple of the other roadwork guys sat at Catfish’s table.

“He had to work at his other job today,” Kennedy said, trying to sound offhand. “I appreciate Sam making sure I’ve got protection while I’m working, Sookie, but I really don’t think there’s going to be any trouble.”

The bar door slammed. “I’m here to protest!” yelled a woman who looked like anyone’s grandmother. She had a sign, and she hoisted it up. NO COHABITATION WITH ANIMALS, it read, and you could see that she’d written “cohabitation” while she looked at a dictionary; each letter was written with such care.

“Call the police first,” I told Kennedy. “And then Sam. Tell him to get back here no matter what he’s talking about.” Kennedy nodded and turned to the wall phone.

Our protester was wearing a blue and white blouse and red pants she’d probably gotten at Bealls or Stage. She had short permed hair dyed a reasonable brown and wore wire-rimmed glasses and a modest wedding ring on her arthritic fingers. Despite this completely average exterior, I could feel her thoughts burning with the fire of a zealot.

“Ma’am, you need to take yourself outside. This building is privately owned,” I said, having no idea if this was a good line to take or not. We’d never had anyone protesting before.

“But it’s a public business. Anyone can come inside,” she said, as if she were the authority.