What did Ida know about how hard it was making a living today? June wondered. Ida had never worked a day outside her home. Pa had raised and sold livestock—pigs, goats, cows—and he’d farmed some, and mowed lawns for the government over at the women’s prison in Swannanoa. And Pa had left her mother pretty well off, far as June could tell. Ida was closemouthed about money. June knew that Ida had the house clear of a mortgage, and Pa had had a life insurance policy with the government, plus Social Security. Ida should be well off.

After Pa died, they’d sold off most of the animals because of all kinds of new environmental laws about animal waste and runoff in streams, but Ida had kept a few goats penned in the pasture away from the stream. Mama sure loved those old goats like someone would love a kitten, or a puppy, or even a child. She was up there every day, rain or shine, heat or cold, tending those goats, and one time when they’d had a blizzard, Mama brought those confounded goats right on into the house. June resented the goats. Mama paid them more attention and gave them more affection than she’s ever done June or May or any of her children.

June pulled into a driveway and stopped. Where was she? She slapped the side of her head with her hand. Lord, if she hadn’t turned into May’s old driveway. Billie rented out the place when he took up with that girl from Mars Hill. May was asking for half the house in the divorce, but how was she ever gonna get that Billie to part with that house? It had been in his family for Lord only knew how many years.

“He could take a mortgage,” May said.

“How do you know about mortgages?” June asked.

“I got me a lawyer, and that’s what he told me Billie could do, and I could have my half the money, and he could keep his stupid old house.”

June shrugged. It wasn’t her business. This was one time she was going to listen to her husband, who said, “Mind your own business, June. Don’t you go getting in the middle of this.”