Living Dead in Dallas

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 generaldirection 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 youfor 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 infaded 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