Living Dead in Dallas

up.”
    I remembered that Robert, Bill’s older brother, had died when he was twelve or so, and two other babies had died in infancy. There all these births and deaths were recorded, on the page under Bill’s fingers.
    “Sarah, my sister, died childless.” I remembered that. “Her young man died in the war. All the young men died in the war. But I survived, only to die later. This is the date of my death, as far as my family is concerned. It’s in Sarah’s handwriting.”
    I held my lips pressed tight, so I wouldn’t make a sound. There was something about Bill’s voice, the way he touched the Bible that was almost unbearable. I could feel my eyes fill with tears.
    “Here is the name of my wife,” he said, his voice quieter and quieter.
    I bent over again to read, Caroline Isabelle Holliday. For one second, the room swung sideways, until I realized it just could not be.
    “And we had children,” he said. “We had three children.”
    Their names were there, too. Thomas CharlesCompton, b. 1859. She’d gotten pregnant right after they’d married, then.
    I would never have Bill’s baby.
    Sarah Isabelle Compton, b. 1861. Named after her aunt (Bill’s sister) and her mother. She’d been born around the time Bill had left for the war. Lee Davis Compton, b. 1866. A homecoming baby. Died 1867, a different hand had added.
    “Babies died like flies then,” Bill whispered. “We were so poor after the war, and there wasn’t any medicine.”
    I was about to take my sad weepy self out of the kitchen, but then I realized that if Bill could stand this, I pretty much had to.
    “The other two children?” I asked.
    “They lived,” he said, the tension in his face easing a little. “I had left then, of course. Tom was only nine when I died, and Sarah was seven. She was towheaded, like her mother.” Bill smiled a little, a smile that I’d never seen on his face before. He looked quite human. It was like seeing a different being sitting here in my kitchen, not the same person I’d made love with so thoroughly not an hour earlier. I pulled a Kleenex out of the box on the baker’s rack and dabbed at my face. Bill was crying, too, and I handed him one. He looked at it in surprise, as if he’d expected to see something different—maybe a monogrammed cotton handkerchief. He patted his own cheeks. The Kleenex turned pink.
    “I hadn’t ever looked to see what became of them,” he said wonderingly. “I cut myself off so thoroughly. I never came back, of course, while there was any chance any one of them would be alive. That would be too cruel.” He read down the page.
    “My descendant Jessie Compton, from whom I received my house, was the last of my direct line,” Bill told me. “My mother’s line, too, has thinned down, untilthe remaining Loudermilks are only distantly related to me. But Jessie did descend from my son Tom, and apparently, my daughter Sarah married in 1881. She had a baby in—Sarah had a baby! She had four babies! But one of them was born dead.”
    I could not even look at Bill. Instead, I looked at the window. It had begun raining. My grandmother had loved her tin roof, so when it had had to be replaced, we’d gotten tin again, and the drumming of the rain was normally the most relaxing sound I knew. But not tonight.
    “Look, Sookie,” Bill said, pointing. “Look! My Sarah’s daughter, named Caroline for her grandmother, married a cousin of hers, Matthew Phillips Holliday. And her second child was Caroline Holliday.” His face was glowing.
    “So old Mrs. Bellefleur is your great-granddaughter.”
    “Yes,” he said unbelievingly.
    “So Andy,” I continued, before I could think twice about it, “is your, ah, great-great-great-grandson. And Portia . . .”
    “Yes,” he said, less happily.
    I had no idea what to say, so for once, I said nothing. After a minute, I got the feeling it might be better if I made myself scarce, so I tried to slip by him to get out of the small kitchen.
    “What do they need?” he asked me, seizing my wrist.
    Okay. “They need money,” I said instantly. “You can’t help them with their personality problems, but they are cash-poor in the worst possible way. Old Mrs. Bellefleur won’t give up that house, and it’s eating every dime.”
    “Is she proud?”
    “I think you could tell from her phone message. If I hadn’t known her middle name was Holliday, I wouldhave thought it was ‘Proud.’ ” I eyed Bill. “I guess she comes by it