Dead Ever After

black dress. That would have been to a funeral, because I didn’t like to wear black and reserved it for the most serious occasions. Whose funeral? Maybe Sid Matt Lancaster’s? Or Caroline Bellefleur’s? I’d been to several funerals in the past couple of years, since most of Gran’s friends were aging, but Sam wouldn’t have gone to those.
    Jane Bodehouse drifted into Merlotte’s close to suppertime. She clambered onto her usual stool at the bar. I could feel my face get tight and angry when I looked at her. “You’ve got some nerve, Jane,” I said baldly. “Why do you want to drink here, when you’re so damaged by the firebomb incident? I can’t believe you can endure coming in here, you suffered so much.”
    She was surprised for a second until the cogs in her brain turned enough to give up the memory that she’d hired a lawyer. She looked away, ostentatiously, trying to brazen it out.
    The next time I passed her, she’d asked Sam to give her some more pretzels. He was reaching for the bowl. “Better hurry,” I said bitchily. “We don’t want Jane to get upset and call her lawyer.” Sam looked at me in surprise. He hadn’t seen the mail yet. “Jane’s suing us, Sam,” I said, and marched to the hatch to give the next order to Antoine. “For her hospital expenses and maybe for her mental distress,” I threw over my shoulder.
    “Jane,” Sam said behind me, genuinely amazed. “Jane Bodehouse! Where are you gonna drink if you sue us? We’re the only bar in the area that lets you in these days!” Sam was telling her no more than the truth. Over the years, most of the bars in the area had come to refuse to serve Jane, who was prone to make sloppy passes at any man in her immediate vicinity. Only the drunkest men responded, because Jane wasn’t as careful with her personal hygiene as she had been even a year before.
    “You can’t stop serving me,” she said indignantly. “Marvin says so. And that lawyer.”
    “I think we can,” Sam said. “Starting now. You even know what that lawsuit says?” That was a shrewd bet.
    As if he’d heard us, here came Marvin through the door, and he was mighty mad. “Mama!” he called. “What are you doing here? I told you, you can’t come here no more.” He caught my eye and glanced away, abashed. Everyone in Merlotte’s stopped what they were doing to listen. It was almost as good as reality television.
    “Marvin,” I said, “I’m just hurt down to my toes that you would treat us like this. All these times I’ve called you instead of letting your mama drive home. All these times we’ve cleaned her up when she got sick, to say nothing of the night I stopped her from taking a guy into the ladies’ room. Are you going to keep your mama at home every night? How are you going to cope?”
    I wasn’t saying anything that wasn’t the truth. And Marvin Bodehouse knew it.
    “Just half the emergency room bill, then?” he said, pathetically.
    “I’ll pay her bill,” Sam said handsomely. Of course, he hadn’t seen it. “But only after we get a letter from your lawyer saying you’re not going to seek anything else.”
    Marvin glared down at his shoes for a second. Then he said, “I guess you can stay, Mama. Try not to drink too much, you hear?”
    “Sure, honey,” Jane said, tapping the bar in front of her. “A chaser for that beer,” she told Sam, in a lady-of-the-manor voice.
    “Putting that on your tab,” Sam said. And suddenly the life of the bar was back to normal. Marvin shuffled out, and Jane drank. I felt sorry for both of them, but I was not in charge of their lives, and all I could do was try to keep Jane off the roads when she was drunk.
    An and I worked hard. Since everyone who came in proved to be hungry (maybe they needed fuel to produce their gossip), Antoine was so busy he lost his temper a couple of times, an unusual occurrence. Sam tried to find time to smile and greet people, but he was hustling to keep up with bar orders. My feet hurt, and my hair needed to be released from its ponytail, brushed, and put back up. I was looking forward to a shower with a craving almost sexual in its intensity. I actually managed to forget my appointment—I wasn’t going to call it a date—with Eric for later that night, but when it crossed my mind I realized I hadn’t gotten a definite time or place from him.
    “Screw it,” I said to the plate of curly fries I was carrying to a table of auto-shop mechanics. “Here you go,