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Damn. It’s not bad. Very sweet. I take another sip…and then another as I roll down the quaint Main Street. It looks like something out of a movie. Lots of brick, a bunch of striped awnings, even a little fountain at an intersection. The place has an abandoned feel, like small towns often do, but I see a few people. A woman pushing a kid in a stroller. A tall guy wearing a ball cap, overalls, and boots. There’s a hardware store, a tiny library, a women’s clothing store called The Southern Belle. I’m surprised they’re still embracing all that Old South stuff. Better to re-brand, I would think.
On one corner, there’s a vacuum cleaner repair store—really?— with a handwritten cardboard sign in the window that says “Fix Your Stuff!!” I count three antique stores, and I bet they’ve got the goods. There’s a bakery. I wouldn’t try their stuff. No self-respecting pastry chef would make their home here.
I inhale the butter smell that’s filled the car now. Maybe I should try that bread the woman gave me. Shit, I should have paid her for it. I didn’t think about it, but that was stupid. Maybe the stuff’s poison. Why else would she give it to me without running my card?
I’m through the little downtown in no time. The napkin map and my GPS agree: I should veer right at the next light. I pass a leafy playground, an insurance agency, a big—I mean really big—tree with moss dangling from its branches. Then a shady cemetery framed in by a tall, iron fence. There’s a Confederate flag emblem stamped into the iron gate, meaning that it’s old as hell.
Another block, and things feel more industrial. I pass a dry cleaners, a Dollar Tree, a DVD rental place—didn’t know those guys were still in business—and a secondhand electronics store. Then fast food. There are several fast food joints here, including one I’ve never seen called Hardee’s. There’s a burger on the sign that looks like a cardiologist’s wet dream.
Past the Taco Bell, there’s a bank and then a Walmart—I guess every little country town has gotta have a Walmart—and something called Piggly Wiggly that looks like a grocery store. Just beyond the store, right there on the main drag, is a brick sign that says PINE HILLS in a cursive script. I frown at it. Half a second later, houses start to line the roadside. A few big, columned homes with porches that I figure have got to be pre-war, or from around that era. Then some little brick ones.
Finally, there’s nothing more for me to gawk at except two gas stations and a tire shop, and then a car dealer. Then just forest. The sun is going down, and I can’t see it for the treetops. The pines are tall and thin, their tips swaying gently in a breeze I couldn’t feel when I stepped out into the humidity back at the restaurant.
I follow the highway down past a shack that’s got a neon BBQ sign. Then I hang a right onto a smaller road and start into the sticks. Ponds and fields, sometimes barbed wire fences wrapped around ordinary-looking woods, with “No Trespassing” signs mounted to trees as if someone would want to trespass in that patch of forest. Maybe hunters. I wonder what they hunt here. There’s no big game—at least I don’t think so. Maybe wild boars? I wouldn’t want to face off with a boar, that’s for damn sure. I read once that they can eat an entire human body, bones and all.
As I drive, I picture June Bug, smirking at her name. At least I won’t be thrown off by her looks. That picture Molly dug up showed a girl with a tight ponytail, braces, and glasses, plus big chipmunk cheeks. It was black and white—maybe a yearbook photo—so I couldn’t tell. Her eyes were probably bug-like, but the glasses would obscure that.
Molly’s research didn’t show what kind of dwelling hers is, and the Google satellite photo wasn’t clear because the house is shielded from the sun by a bunch of tall trees, but I wonder if it’s a trailer. I picture June Bug wearing overalls, barefoot in a patch of red dirt outside the front door, one arm around each kid. Maybe the kids are eating fried chicken.
Hell of a time to break down and go for the bumpkin fare, but my stomach’s growling, and I need to have my game face on when I get to her place. My GPS—if it’s right—thinks I’m six minutes away. So far, it matches the napkin, so it’s probably right.
I cup my hand around the bread and pull off a chunk. It’s so soft it crumples in my lap.
“Fuck.”
I brush the yellow crumbs into the floorboard. Who cares if I have a grease stain? I’m sure she won’t notice. I cram the cornbread into my mouth, trying not to spill more. Whoa. It’s so good, I’m going in for seconds, clothes be damned. This is some delicious shit. Warm and buttery, and a little sweet. Guess I know why people go to Southern food joints. I was never really one for barbeque or beans or any of that, but this bread…I could eat it all day.
