Dead and Gone

deep breath.
    “What is it?” I asked, delighted that we were back on best-friend footing.
    “I’m going to have a baby,” Tara said, and her face froze in a grimace.
    Ah-oh. Dangerous footing. “You don’t look super-happy,” I said, cautiously.
    “I hadn’t planned on having children at all,” she said. “Which was okay with JB.”
    “So . . . ?”
    “Well, even multiple birth control methods don’t always work,” Tara said, looking down at her hands, which were folded on top of a bridal magazine. “And I just can’t have it taken care of. It’s ours. So.”
    “Might . . . might you come around to being glad about this?”
    She tried to smile. “JB is really happy. It’s hard for him to keep it a secret. But I wanted to wait for the first three months to pass. You’re the first one I’ve told.”
    “I swear,” I said, reaching over to pat her shoulder, “you’ll be a good mother.”
    “You really think so?” She looked, and felt, terrified. Tara’s folks had been the kind of parents who occasionally get shot-gunned by their offspring. Tara’s abhorrence of violence had prevented her from taking that path, but I don’t think anyone would have been surprised if the older Thorntons had vanished one night. A few people would have applauded.
    “Yeah, I really think so.” I meant it. I could hear , directly from her head, Tara’s determination to wipe out everything her own mother had done to her by being the best mother she could be to her own child. In Tara’s case, that meant she would be sober, gentle-handed, clean of speech, and full of praise.
    “I’ll show up at every classroom open house and teacher conference,” she said, now in a voice that was almost frightening in its intensity. “I’ll bake brownies. My child will have new clothes. Her shoes will fit. She’ll get her shots, and she’ll get her braces. We’ll start a college fund next week. I’ll tell her I love her every damn day.”
    If that wasn’t a great plan for being a good mother, I couldn’t imagine what a better one could be.
    We hugged each other when I got up to leave. This is the way it’s supposed to be, I thought.
    I went home, ate a belated lunch, and changed into my work clothes.
    When the phone rang, I hoped it was Sam calling to smooth things over, but the voice on the other end was an older man’s and unfamiliar.
    “Hello? Is Octavia Fant there, please?”
    “No, sir, she’s out. May I take a message?”
    “If you would.”
    “Sure.” I’d answered the phone in the kitchen, so there was a pad and pencil handy.
    “Please tell her Louis Chambers called. Here’s my number.” He gave it to me slowly and carefully, and I repeated it to make sure I’d put it down correctly. “Ask her to call me, please. I’ll be glad to take a collect call.”
    “I’ll make sure she gets your message.”
    “Thank you.”
    Hmmm. I couldn’t read thoughts over the phone, which normally I considered a great relief. But I would have enjoyed learning a little more about Mr. Chambers.
    When Amelia came home a little after five, Octavia was in the car. I gathered Octavia had been walking around downtown Bon Temps filling out job applications, while Amelia had put in an afternoon at the insurance agency. It was Amelia’s evening to cook, and though I had to leave for Merlotte’s in a few minutes, I enjoyed watching her leap into action, creating spaghetti sauce. I handed Octavia her message while Amelia was chopping onions and a bell pepper.
    Octavia made a choked sound and grew so still that Amelia stopped chopping and joined me in waiting for the older woman to look up from the piece of paper and give us a little backstory. That didn’t happen.
    After a moment, I realized Octavia was crying, and I hurried to my bedroom and got a tissue. I tried to slip it to Octavia tactfully, like I hadn’t noticed anything amiss but just happened to have an extra Kleenex in my hand.
    Amelia carefully looked down at the cutting board and resumed chopping while I glanced at the clock and began fishing around in my purse for my car keys, taking lots of unnecessary time to do it.
    “Did he sound well?” Octavia asked, her voice choked.
    “Yes,” I said. There was only so much I could get from a voice on the other end of a phone line. “He sounded anxious to talk to you.”
    “Oh, I have to call him back,” she said, and her voice was wild.
    “Sure,” I said. “Just punch in the number. Don’t worry about