Hate You Not

I look down at my most casual pair of Salvatore Ferragamos—some black leather drivers I’ve got on with black jeans I thought might be appropriate for a rural area—and feel awkward as I pull the creaky wooden door open.

Country Western music fills my ears, and my eyes fix on a tall woman standing behind what looks like a podium. She’s got a maroon apron on. Her white-blonde hair is in a net, and she’s wearing a lot of very red lipstick. When she sees me, she leans forward with a confused expression on her wrinkled face, like she dropped her glasses and can’t see me properly. She continues looking at me that way until I’m right beside the podium—which I can tell is an actual podium because there’s a hole on the front for electrical cords.

Then she says, loudly, as if she means to alert someone through the kitchen doors behind her with her tone, “Can I help you, darlin’?”

It takes some restraint not to laugh at her slow, stretched-out vowels. Not out of meanness. I just haven’t ever heard that sort of accent outside parody. I bite on the inside of my cheek and try to look like this is business as usual.

“Yes.” I nod once. “I’m looking for June Lawler.”

“JOLENE!” My gaze moves to the hallway to the right of the kitchen doors, where I think the shout came from. I hear a crashing sound, and then a woman says, “Goddamn it!”

The woman before me—Jolene?—turns around, and I spot her bra straps sticking out above the collar of her floral blouse. For some reason, the straps are held together by…a bread tie?

“If you’re looking for that other pan, it’s in the washer! Like I told you!”

She turns back to me and rolls her pale blue eyes, a look of disgust twisting her red lips. “Doesn’t know how to find a damn thing, that one.” She pronounces doesn’t like dut-uhn.

I nod, for a second not sure what I’m even nodding at.

“You said—”

“It’s not in there!”

Jolene’s eyes pop open wide, like someone just grabbed her ass. “What the Sam Hill!” She storms off, leaving me to look around the little entry space. I turn back toward the door and spot a deer head.

Is that a deer? It’s not a moose. So it’s a deer. A deer’s head. It’s got horns, only I think on deer, they’re called “antlers.” I count them. Twelve. Seems like a lot to me.

“Yes, sir.” I turn back toward the podium. It’s her again. What was her name? Jolene. “What can I help you with?” she sighs. “You selling somethin’?”

“I just need to find June Lawler. Had some issues with my GPS.”

She dabs her sweating forehead with a napkin. “Who?”

“I’m looking for the Lawler Farm. June Lawler.”

“Oh, you mean the Hinson place. Ain’t never been Lawler.” She says it with disdain that I don’t understand—or maybe she’s just bitchy because of the woman who’s yelling at her down the hall.

I nod. “Her mother’s maiden name was Hinson. Do you know June?”

“June Bug?” She gives me a no-shit look. “Everybody ’round here knows June Bug. Got herself a niece and nephew from out in Californ-i-aye. Sutton’s babies. I heard the little girl’s real pretty.” She says that gently, like it’s a consolation prize for losing both of one’s parents. But that’s not what bothers me the most.

“Did you say June…bug?”

“Born early, with them big ole eyes. You know how them preemies look, a little alien.” She widens her eyes, and I nod like I’ve seen a hundred preemies.

“I need directions to the farm. Please.”

She frowns, giving me an exaggerated-looking suspicious frown. “Who’re you again?”

I’m wearing a white button-up and a gray wool vest, like I might if I was meeting with investors. It’s important that June see me as her ticket to a nice payday—which I intend to give her.

“I’m an old friend. From college.” Shit. “When I went to college, I knew her,” I clarify.

“Smart enough to run that college, June is. Didn’t go, though.” She frowns, and I can see a cartoon thought bubble over her head. “Too much going on out at the farm…and with her mama. You know that.”

The woman draws directions for me on a napkin. “Before you get back moving, let me get you an iced tea. We’ve got cornbread, too. Why don’t you take June Bug some cornbread for them sweet kids? The little Yankees need to get acquainted with the finer things.”

I open my mouth to say “I don’t think so,” but what comes out instead is, “Sure.”

I climb back into the Porsche with a to-go box of what I’m told is cornbread—it looks like a soft, yellow brick of cake and smells like butter—and a large iced tea in a Styrofoam cup. I ran out of water in my bottle a few miles ago, and I’m fucking thirsty. I bring the straw to my face and sniff…then take a small test sip.