Q. Who are your style icons/role models?
A. Both real and fictional (please feel free to Google copiously): DOLLY PARTON (obvs), Margot Tenenbaum, Zadie Smith, Debbie Harry, Natasha Khan, Angela Chase, Veronica Mars, Jenny Lewis, Patti Smith, Dee Dee Penny, KatieJane Garside, Meg White, Donna Tartt, Florence Welch, PJ Harvey, Beyoncé, Stevie Nicks, Joan Didion, Frida Kahlo, Martha Gellhorn, Ana?s Nin, Flannery O’Connor.
Q. Who are your favorite designers/houses?
A. Rodarte, Rick Owens, Vivienne Westwood, Prada, Billy Reid (I’m still a Southerner).
Q. Are you a lesbian?
A. The answer to this very much depends on who’s asking. If it’s any of the above-mentioned ladies, the answer is an emphatic yes. The Birthday Party–era Nick Cave? No. Young Willem de Kooning? No. Labyrinth-era David Bowie? No. Bottle Rocket–era Luke Wilson? No. The Royal Tenenbaums–era Luke Wilson? Also no.
If the asker is yet another random Internet troll who literally believes, in this day and age, that it’s an insult to call someone gay—in a passive-aggressive manner no less—then the answer is whatever makes you the most uncomfortable, threatens your sense of self, and throws your tiny brain into a tizzy. So the answer is probably yes, I am a raging lesbian. All other askers I take on a case-by-case basis.
Okay, that’s enough for now. More later. In the meantime, enjoy these pictures of my haul this last Saturday from the antique store up the street from my house. That’s the other thing the South rocks, by the way. Antique stores.
As she uploaded her post, she looked across the library table at Travis. He was texting vigorously with a faraway expression on his face. He didn’t look carefree, per se. But as close to it as she’d ever seen him. Travis read a text and started giggling silently. He put his forehead on the table and shook with muted laughter.
His laughter was so infectious and jubilant, she couldn’t help but be taken in. “Okay, dude. What? Who are you texting?”
He wiped his eyes. “No one. Nothing.”
She regarded him with good-natured suspicion. “You are the world’s worst liar.”
Dill finished loading Ms. Relliford’s groceries in her car.
She reached out a shaky hand with a dollar. “Here you are, young man. Thank you so much for your help. Have a blessed day.”
Dill accepted the dollar and tucked it in his shirt pocket. “Yes ma’am, thank you. Have a blessed day.”
He took his sweet time walking the cart back into the store, relishing the brief moment spent outside before returning to the air-conditioned cold and slight smell of rotting meat and spoiled vegetables of Floyd’s.
Dill loved being on bagging duty on these early evenings in late September. The sun was still strong, but it lacked the vitality of the summer sun. It felt faded. He caught a subdued hint of cut grass wafting from somewhere. How was it possible for love of a place and hatred of it to exist so comfortably side by side?
As he approached the store, wrestling the cart (how did shopping carts always have at least one bum wheel?), a little girl rode the chipped, plastic coin-operated pony ride out front.
Dill smiled at her.
She giggled. “I’m riding the pony!”
“Yeah, you are! Good job, lil’ cowgirl!”
The ride stopped and the little girl swung her leg over the pony to dismount. In her rush she caught her sandal on a curl on the pony’s mane, and tumbled face-first to the hard concrete. She scraped her chin. She looked at Dill for a second with huge, blue eyes filling with tears.
Uh-oh.
She began to wail. Like a tornado siren.
Dill ran over and knelt beside her, rubbing her back. “Oh no! Sweetie! Hey, hey, don’t cry. It’s okay. It’s okay. Shhhhh. Where’s your mama?”
She was inconsolable.
Dill picked her up gently, murmuring in her ear. “Hey now, hey, let’s go find Mama, okay? We’re gonna find Mama.”
Then, from the end of the parking lot, frantic shouting. “Hey! Hey! What are doing?! Put her down!”
Dill looked up to see a wild-eyed woman sprinting toward him. He set down the little girl, who was still howling. “Ma’am, is this your—”
“What did you do to her? Why is she crying?” the woman shrieked. She knelt and shook her daughter by the shoulders. “Daisy. Daisy, honey, what’s wrong?”
A crowd had begun to gather. “Go get the store manager,” someone said. “Allison, is everything okay?” someone else called.
Dill’s face burned. “Ma’am, I was just walking by and she was riding the pony and she f—”
The woman stood and got in Dill’s face, radiating wild fury. “You stay away from her. Stay away. I know who you are. You’re Dillard Early’s son. You don’t touch my child. Got it?”
“Allison, I think Daisy—” someone called.
“I don’t care! I don’t care! He does not touch or get near my daughter.”
Mr. McGowan, the store manager, pushed through the crowd. “Okay, okay, everything all right here? Ma’am?”
Her voice still had its brittle razor’s edge. “I go to put the groceries in the car. I leave Daisy on the ride. I turn around and he”—she pointed at Dill, a contemptuous curl in her lip—“is right there and Daisy’s crying.” Daisy continued to wail, as if there were some doubt that her mother was telling the truth.
“She fell,” Dill said. “I was trying—”
Mr. McGowan raised his hand, cutting Dill off. “Dill, why don’t you go back inside. Ma’am, I’m very sorry this happened. I’m sure Dill meant no harm.”
That’s enough. That’s enough of this. Dill’s voice rose with his temperature. “Hang on. I didn’t do anything wrong. I think she just feels guilty because she ran off and let her kid get hurt.”
“How dare you? You can’t talk that way to me. You’ve no right. I’m a good mother.”
“Dill?” Mr. McGowan said sharply. “I will handle this. Please go inside.”
Dill and the woman exchanged final mutually reproachful glares, and he turned and walked inside. He went straight to the dimly lit employee break room, where a sitcom rerun played on the decrepit TV. He slumped at the table and ran his hands through his hair.
After a few minutes, Mr. McGowan came in. Dill started to speak. Mr. McGowan cut him off. “My Lord, Dill! What’s gotten into you, son? You can’t talk to customers that way.”
Way to stand behind your employees, Floyd’s. “Mr. McGowan, I did not do anything wrong. I was helping that little girl. What was I supposed to do? Just let her cry?”
“Well, you could come get me—”
“You know why that woman acted that way.”
“Yeah,” he said softly. “I do. Allison’s husband, Chip, is a Church of Christ pastor. So she probably wasn’t keen on your dad even before all that mess. People don’t like when other people say they ought to be twirling snakes around to be right with God.”
“Yeah.” Dill didn’t say anything. He just stared straight ahead. “Well, I better get back to work.”
“You got…what…fifteen minutes left on your shift? You can go ahead and go. I’ll clock you out regular.” Mr. McGowan sounded apologetic.
“Okay.” Dill rose from the table without meeting Mr. McGowan’s eyes, removed his green apron, and walked slowly to the library, where he was meeting Lydia and Travis. He felt thoroughly battered.
When Dill got to the library, he saw Lydia and Travis sitting at the table farthest from the ever-vigilant eye of the librarian, Ms. White, who was quick to shush.
Lydia made a grab for Travis’s phone. He giggled and held it out of reach. She stood and leaned over the table, making another grab, almost tipping onto the table as Travis leaned back in his chair, holding the phone still farther from reach. She came around the table, sat next to Travis, and started tickling him. He squinched up, giggling, as she pawed at his phone. Ms. White cast a withering glare in their direction and shushed them.
“Dill, help me,” Lydia said in a loud whisper as Dill walked up and set his backpack on the table.