Dead Until Dark (Sookie Stackhouse #1)(36)
Author: Charlaine Harris

It was amazing what Gran had managed to pack into her room. I didn’t even want to think about what she’d stored in the attic: that would be dealt with later, in the fall, when the attic was bearably cool and I’d time to think.

I probably threw away more than I should have, but it made me feel efficient and strong to be doing this, and I did a drastic job of it. Arlene folded and packed, only putting aside papers and photographs, letters and bills and cancelled checks. My grandmother had never used a credit card in her life and never bought anything on time, God bless her, which made the winding-up much easier.

Arlene asked about Gran’s car. It was five years old and had very little mileage. "Will you sell yours and keep hers?" she asked. "Yours is newer, but it’s small."

"I hadn’t thought," I said. And I found I couldn’t think of it, that cleaning out the bedroom was the extent of what I could do that day.

At the end of the afternoon, the bedroom was empty of Gran. Arlene and I turned the mattress and I remade the bed out of habit. It was an old four-poster in the rice pattern. I had always thought her bedroom set was beautiful, and it occurred to me that now it was mine. I could move into the bigger bedroom and have a private bath instead of using the one in the hall.

Suddenly, that was exactly what I wanted to do. The furniture I’d been using in my bedroom had been moved over here from my parents’ house when they’d died, and it was kid’s furniture; overly feminine, sort of reminiscent of Barbies and sleepovers.

Not that I’d ever had many sleepovers, or been to many.

Nope, nope, nope, I wasn’t going to fall into that old pit. I was what I was, and I had a life, and I could enjoy things; the little treats that kept me going.

"I might move in here," I told Arlene as she taped a box shut.

"Isn’t that a little soon?" she asked. She flushed red when she realized she’d sounded critical.

"It would be easier to be in here than be across the hall thinking about the room being empty," I said. Arlene thought that through, crouched beside the cardboard box with the roll of tape in her hand.

"I can see that," she agreed, with a nod of her flaming red head.

We loaded the cardboard boxes into Arlene’s car. She had kindly agreed to drop them by the collection center on her way home, and I gratefully accepted the offer. I didn’t want anyone to look at me knowingly, with pity, when I gave away my grandmother’s clothes and shoes and nightgowns.

When Arlene left, I hugged her and gave her a kiss on the cheek, and she stared at me. That was outside the bounds our friendship had had up till now. She bent her head to mine and we very gently bumped foreheads.

"You crazy girl," she said, affection in her voice. "You come see us, now. Lisa’s been wanting you to baby-sit again."

"You tell her Aunt Sookie said hi to her, and to Coby, too."

"I will." And Arlene sauntered off to her car, her flaming hair puffing in a waving mass above her head, her full body making her waitress outfit look like one big promise.

All my energy drained away as Arlene’s car bumped down the driveway through the trees. I felt a million years old, alone and lonely. This was the way it was going to be from now on.

I didn’t feel hungry, but the clock told me it was time to eat. I went into the kitchen and pulled one of the many Tupperware containers from the refrigerator. It held turkey and grape salad, and I liked it, but I sat there at the table just picking at it with a fork. I gave up, returning it to the icebox and going to the bathroom for a much-needed shower. The corners of closets are always dusty, and even a housekeeper as good as my grandmother had been had not been able to defeat that dust.

The shower felt wonderful. The hot water seemed to steam out some of my misery, and I shampooed my hair and scrubbed every inch of skin, shaving my legs and armpits. After I climbed out, I plucked my eyebrows and put on skin lotion and deodorant and a spray to untangle my hair and anything else I could lay my hands on. With my hair trailing down my back in a cascade of wet snarls, I pulled on my nightshirt, a white one with Tweety Bird on the front, and I got my comb. I’d sit in front of the television to have something to watch while I got my hair combed out, always a tedious process.

My little burst of purpose expired, and I felt almost numb.

The doorbell rang just as I was trailing into the living room with my comb in one hand and a towel in the other.

I looked through the peephole. Bill was waiting patiently on the porch.

I let him in without feeling either glad or sorry to see him.

He took me in with some surprise: the nightshirt, the wet hair, the bare feet. No makeup.

"Come in," I said.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."

And he came in, looking around him as he always did. "What are you doing?" he asked, seeing the pile of things I’d put to one side because I thought friends of Gran’s might want them: Mr. Norris might be pleased to get the framed picture of his mother and Gran’s mother together, for example.

"I cleaned out the bedroom today," I said. "I think I’ll move into it." Then I couldn’t think of anything else to say. He turned to look at me carefully.

"Let me comb out your hair," he said.

I nodded indifferently. Bill sat on the flowered couch and indicated the old ottoman positioned in front of it. I sat down obediently, and he scooted forward a little, framing me with his thighs. Starting at the crown of my head, he began teasing the tangles out of my hair.

As always, his mental silence was a treat. Each time, it was like putting the first foot into a cool pool of water when I’d been on a long, dusty hike on a hot day.

As a bonus, Bill’s long fingers seemed adept at dealing with the thick mane of my hair. I sat with my eyes closed, gradually becoming tranquil. I could feel the slight movements of his body behind me as he worked with the comb. I could almost hear his heart beating, I thought, and then realized how strange an idea that was. His heart, after all, didn’t.

"I used to do this for my sister, Sarah," he murmured quietly, as if he knew how peaceful I’d gotten and was trying not to break my mood. "She had hair darker than yours, even longer. She’d never cut it. When we were children, and my mother was busy, she’d have me work on Sarah’s hair."

"Was Sarah younger than you, or older?" I asked in a slow, drugged voice.

"She was younger. She was three years younger."

"Did you have other brothers or sisters?"

"My mother lost two in childbirth," he said slowly, as if he could barely remember. "I lost my brother, Robert, when he was twelve and I was eleven. He caught a fever, and it killed him. Now they would pump him full of penicillin, and he would be all right. But they couldn’t then. Sarah survived the war, she and my mother, though my father died while I was soldiering; he had what I’ve learned since was a stroke. My wife was living with my family then, and my children…"