Living Dead in Dallas

thing. Lafayette was so pleased to have been asked; evidently he mentioned it to quite a few people. They say that since the first rule of the club is Keep Silent, Lafayette got whacked for his enthusiasm.”
    “What do you think?”
    “I think if anyone was forming a sex club around Bon Temps, they woulda called me,” he said, dead serious.
    “You’re right,” I said, struck again by how sensible Jason could be. “You’d be number one on the list.” Why hadn’t I thought of that before? Not only did Jason have a reputation as a guy who’d heated up many a bed, he was both very attractive and unmarried.
    “The only thing I can think of,” I said slowly, “Lafayette was gay, as you well know.”
    “And?”
    “And maybe this club, if it exists, only accepts people who are all right with that.”
    “You might have a point there,” Jason said.
    “Yes, Mr. Homophobe.”
    Jason smiled and shrugged. “Everybody’s got a weak point,” he said. “Plus, as you know, I’ve been going out with Liz pretty steady. I think anyone with a brain would see Liz ain’t about to share a napkin, much less a boyfriend.”
    He was right. Liz’s family notoriously took “Neither a borrower nor a lender be” to a complete extreme.
    “You are a piece of work, brother,” I said, focusing on his shortcomings, rather than those of Liz’s folks. “There are so many worse things to be than gay.”
    “Such as?”
    “Thief, traitor, murderer, rapist . . .”
    “Okay, okay, I get the idea.”
    “I hope you do,” I said. Our differences grieved me. But I loved Jason anyway; he was all I had left.
    I saw Bill out with Portia that same night. I caught a glimpse of them together in Bill’s car, driving down Claiborne Street. Portia had her head turned to Bill, talking; he was looking straight ahead, expressionless, as far as I could tell. They didn’t see me. I was coming from the automated teller at the bank, on my way to work.
    Hearing of and seeing directly are two very different things. I felt an overwhelming surge of rage; and I understood how Bill had felt, when he’d seen his friends dying. I wanted to kill someone. I just wasn’t sure who I wanted to kill.
    Andy was in the bar that evening, sitting in Arlene’s section. I was glad, because Andy looked bad. He was not clean-shaven, and his clothes were rumpled. He came up to me as he was leaving, and I could smell the booze. “Take him back,” he said. His voice was thick with anger. “Take the damn vampire back so he’ll leave my sister alone.”
    I didn’t know what to say to Andy Bellefleur. I just stared at him until he stumbled out of the bar. It crossedmy mind that people wouldn’t be as surprised to hear of a dead body in his car now as they had been a few weeks ago.
    The next night I had off, and the temperature dropped. It was a Friday, and suddenly I was tired of being alone. I decided to go to the high school football game. This is a townwide pastime in Bon Temps, and the games are discussed thoroughly on Monday morning in every store in town. The film of the game is shown twice on a local-access channel, and boys who show promise with pigskin are minor royalty, more’s the pity.
    You don’t show up at the game all disheveled.
    I pulled my hair back from my forehead in an elastic band and used my curling iron on the rest, so I had thick curls hanging around my shoulders. My bruises were gone. I put on complete makeup, down to the lip liner. I put on black knit slacks and a black-and-red sweater. I wore my black leather boots, and my gold hoop earrings, and I pinned a red-and-black bow to hide the elastic band in my hair. (Guess what our school colors are.)
    “Pretty good,” I said, viewing the result in my mirror. “Pretty damn good.” I gathered up my black jacket and my purse and drove into town.
    The stands were full of people I knew. A dozen voices called to me, a dozen people told me how cute I looked, and the problem was . . . I was miserable. As soon as I realized this, I pasted a smile on my face and searched for someone to sit with.
    “Sookie! Sookie!” Tara Thornton, one of my few good high school friends, was calling me from high up in the stands. She made a frantic beckoning gesture, and I smiled back and began to hike up, speaking to more people along the way. Mike Spencer, the funeral home director, was there, in his favorite western regalia, and my grandmother’s good friend Maxine Fortenberry, and her grandson