Picture Them Dead by Brynn Bonner

they remember about their families, then I give my notebooks to their family members later on when the person is, you know, no longer with us.” She whispered the last words. “The families seem to appreciate it. It amazes me how many people don’t ever think to do that until it’s too late and then wish they had.”
    â€œPreach it, sister,” I said, which earned me another smile.
    â€œI’ve even done some of Miss Lottie’s family history, haven’t I, Lottie?”
    Miss Lottie looked at her blankly.
    â€œYou remember I asked you about your birth date and growing up out at the farm and all,” Margaret prompted.
    â€œCharlotte Eugenia Wright Walker, born June sixteen in the Year of Our Lord nineteen hundred and seventeen. I was born at home in Maryland with an old granny woman the only one to help. I killed my mother coming into the world. Happy birthday to me,” Miss Lottie said, setting her water glass down hard on the table, her expression dour.
    â€œNow, dearie,” Margaret said, patting Miss Lottie’s hand, “it’s a sad thing that your mother died in childbirth, but you oughtn’t to say you killed her. That’s not true.”
    â€œTrue enough,” Miss Lottie countered.
    â€œAnd what were your parents’ names again?” Margaret asked.
    â€œMy mother was Eugenia, Eugenia Elizabeth Collins Wright. That was her name. She was real pretty. They say she had eyes blue as the sky and hair black as crow’s feathers. That’s about all I know of her.”
    â€œAnd what was your father’s name?” I blurted before I could stop myself.
    My mistake. Margaret’s soft voice and gentle manner had been carrying Miss Lottie along and I’d broken the spell. Miss Lottie turned to me, her eyes narrowed.
    â€œYou’ll not trick me, missy,” she hissed. “We don’t talk of my daddy. It was the war that ruint him. That and my mama dying. None of it was his fault, it was the war.”
    â€œYes, I remember, you told me about him being in the war,” Margaret said soothingly, not the least bit thrown by Miss Lottie’s change of mood. “That was a terrible war, the First World War. Just awful.”
    â€œNone of ’em are any good,” Miss Lottie said, tilting her head as if thinking this over, “but that one was just pure hell for the ones in the trenches. It wasn’t like now, where they drop the bombs from those robot planes. In that war, you had to look a fella right in the eye when you killed him. That does something to a man. It poisons his soul.”
    I leaned over and whispered a suggestion into Margaret’s ear. She nodded and smiled at me, clearly proud to be taking the lead.
    â€œMiss Lottie, could you tell me your daddy’s name? And do you know when he died and where he’s buried?”
    â€œI could tell, but I won’t,” Miss Lottie said, jutting out her chin. “You’re in with her and trying to trick me,” she said, lifting her chin even higher in my direction. “I done told you I don’t talk about that night. I made a solemn promise and I mean to keep it till I’m in my grave.”
    â€œThat’s fine, Miss Lottie,” Margaret answered sweetly, though it certainly wasn’t fine with me. What night? Promise not to talk about what? This was like waving catnip in front of a tabby’s nose, then snatching it away.
    â€œI’m not asking you to break a promise, Miss Lottie,” I said, keeping my voice as low as I could and still have her hear me. “I just want to make sure your father’s grave gets a proper marker, that’s all.”
    â€œNo marker,” Miss Lottie said. “No, ma’am. That’d only lead to folks poking their snouts in our family business, and Uncle Oren says we’ll not allow that. Nobody’s got the right to judge until they’ve walked a mile in her shoes. It