Georgia Bottoms (5 page)

All she said was, “Forget it.”

“Why you so mean to me, Dimmy?” Brother made a face like a demon.

She shook her head. “Go wait for me in the house, Linda Blair.”

He pulled his sweatshirt hood over his head and vanished in the darkness of the side yard.

It was not a good sign, Brother going back to his old sneaky ways. When he was twelve, his favorite game was to sneak up on Georgia to scare her. He hadn’t done it since the night she was carrying scissors and nearly stabbed him in the eye.

Brother spent most of high school in detention. Every time the authorities got hold of him, they handed him back in worse shape. He wasn’t in school that long, or jail that long, or the army that long, but each of them did a real number on him. He went into the army a beautiful kid, slightly dumb, all mixed up. That was eight years ago—look at him now. Twenty-six years old. In the mornings he looked forty. He existed on cigarettes, Fritos, and beer, which is what he drank when he “wasn’t drinking.”

At first the meetings seemed to be doing him good, but he was backsliding all the time. He missed appointments with his parole officer. He wasn’t supposed to leave the house after nine p.m., but he breezed in and out all night long without bothering to hide it. Brother thought of his screwups as amusing anecdotes he could use to entertain his low-life friends.

You can’t help who you’re born as,
Georgia often said to herself.
But at least you can try to rise above it.

She got the sheets humming in the dryer, and headed upstairs. Warm floral exhaust floated up through the cracks in the floor. She shook out the white comforter. Eugene had said its whiteness made him nervous, always afraid he would spill wine on it, or worse.

She went to the highboy. The top drawer, Sunday. She slid the judge’s photo out of its waxed-paper sleeve and put it in the silver frame where Eugene’s picture had been. She brought out three framed prints—angled views of Gen. Robert E. Lee on his horse, Traveller—and placed them on the mantel. She draped an antique lace panel across the back of the velvet chair.

She wound the mantel clock, then unfolded a linen towel on the dresser for his mother’s silver hairbrush and hand mirror. Georgia didn’t use these objects, but she laid them out for him to see. His eyes always went to the dresser to make sure they were there.

Georgia filled the lamp with oil and lit it, closed the French doors, cranked up the window unit. She turned off the electric lamps, and slid the soundtrack of Ken Burns’s
The Civil War
into the CD player. Two logs on the grate, a twist of newspaper underneath. A fresh box of matches ready to strike.

One turn of the key locked all seven drawers. She put the key in its hidey-hole in back.

The judge thought the room always looked like this. Each man thought the same thing. None of them imagined that Georgia changed the decor every day, along with the sheets on the bed and the picture in the frame.

Each man thought he was the only one. That was essential to
Georgia’s arrangement. She never let herself get cavalier about the details. Only by observing strict rules of separation was she able to keep all these plates spinning on sticks.

It wasn’t just for herself she was doing this. It was for Little Mama, who’d had three husbands but never one who left her a nickel… and for useless Brother… but mainly for someone who waited for a sum of money every fourth Saturday at the Western Union, Poydras Street, New Orleans.

An old debt Georgia was still paying down.

In the highboy were seven drawers, one for each day of the week. There was a man for each drawer except Monday. Monday was her night off.

Now, though, the cleaning out of Rev. Saturday left two drawers empty.

These men were not Georgia’s lovers, exactly, although she let them think they were. Each one thought he was helping to support his mistress.

To Georgia, they were more like clients. Or patients. She thought of herself as a kind of scientist, or therapist. A counselor employing nontraditional methods. She had rescued more than one marriage in Six Points, she knew that. Didn’t the men say she was the only reason they were able to stay with their wives? Every one of them told her that, sooner or later.

Pay attention
was her big lesson from today. She was appalled to think of herself daydreaming in that pew, admiring herself in the mirror in her head, oblivious to the unfolding threat. She should have seen Brenda Hendrix coming from ten miles away.

Good God, she had teetered on the very edge of disaster! What if Eugene had blurted her name?

There they sat in the pews, listening to that sermon—every one of them. Sunday the judge. Tuesday the president of the First National Bank. Wednesday the doctor. Thursday the newspaper publisher. Friday the sheriff. And of course the one who was preaching, the man of the Lord: Mr. Saturday Night!

P
reachers have been hypocrites since before the time of Christ, Georgia thought. She pictured the decoupaged plaque in the choir room. Who do you think invited those money changers into the temple? The man in charge. A preacher. So why did it come as such a shock when Eugene turned out to be the worst kind of hypocrite—

Oh let it go! It’s over and done.

But if you don’t learn from the past, it can come back to bite you. Georgia had made a major mistake. She had let herself get a little thing going for that man.

So? Mistakes were made. Lessons learned. Time to move on.

“What are you muttering about?” Brother said.

Georgia started. “I’m not muttering.”

“Ah Georgie, somethin’ is definitely up with you. First I find you out back, settin’ fire to mysterious objects. Now you talking to yourself like some ol’ crazy woman.”

Georgia touched the brakes. “You want to walk?”

“It’s okay for Mama to lose it,” Brother said, “but can’t both of you lose it at the same time. I can’t take care of you both.”

She snorted. “Like you ever took care of anybody. You can’t even take care of yourself!”

Zing! Got him! He flinched.

Georgia hated how she sounded, like some naggy old hag of a sister. She took a deep breath and tried again. “If you would just make some attempt, Brother. There’s Help Wanted signs all over town. You don’t have to really get a job—just look like you’re trying to get one. That would be enough to satisfy Mama.”

“No it wouldn’t,” he said. “She won’t be satisfied till I’m dead, or she is. And even then, you wait—we’ll be trying to put her in the ground and she’ll be telling us we’re doing it wrong.”

“Bite your tongue.” Georgia flipped on the turn signal. “What on earth would we do without Mama?”

Brother said, “Well, for one thing, we could breathe.”

“I am breathing just fine, thank you. If you’re not, maybe you should give up smoking.”

“Here is good,” he said. “I can walk from here. Thanks for the lift.”

Georgia stopped the Civic one block short of the T. C. Looney Community Health Center. Apparently they were back in high school and he didn’t want to be seen accepting a ride from his sister.

Ahead, Georgia made out the lighted doorway of the low-slung brick building, the silhouettes of people catching a smoke before the meeting. The most prominent shape was Sims Bailey in his big-bellied overalls, flannel shirt, Red Man cap. The “anonymous” part of AA didn’t count for much in a town as small as Six Points. Everyone knew who the regulars were: Candy Lemmon and her husband Ralph, Davis Sanders who owned the antique shop, Carl Wilmot, Raylene Coombs, the Boxley kid (Ernest? Ernie?), J. T. Cobb of the savings and loan, and of course
Ted Horn, Georgia’s own Dr. Wednesday, who was good to let her know when Brother was skipping meetings.

“I’ll see you here in one hour,” said Georgia.

“Don’t bother,” said Brother. “Me and Sims are gonna go shoot some pool afterwards, or something.”

“Come on, Brother. You can’t be going out drinking after your AA meeting.”

“What, are you my parole officer now?”

She leaned across the seat to shut the door. “If you’re not here in an hour, that’s who you can talk to about it.”

He tucked his thumbs in his armpits, and waggled his wings at her. “What happened to good ol’ Sister Georgie? She was a lot more fun. I really miss her.”

Would it ever be possible for Brother to address her without that snide mocking tone? Remember when he was the cutest little boy, when he loved his Sister Georgie more than anything in the world?

“One hour,” she said, and drove on. She glimpsed him in the rearview, strutting up to Sims Bailey. Still such a beautiful kid—that angel face, those sunny blond curls had gotten him into more trouble through the years. Nobody could ever say no to that face. Nobody ever imagined that a boy with a face like that could be up to no good. That’s how Brother wound up the front man, the lookout, driver of the getaway car.

Am I my brother’s keeper? Not on your life.

Georgia had to focus on what was important: it was the Sunday evening before the Tuesday luncheon, and she was out of waxed paper. You cannot make Chow Mein Noodle Cookies without it.

She hated to drive all the way out to Hull’s for one item, so
she drove across the tracks behind the water tower to the Kwik-M Mart knowing she’d pay double, then they didn’t have waxed paper, so she had to go to Hull’s anyway. It would have been a total waste of an hour if she hadn’t come back downtown via Camellia Street and spotted Krystal’s forest-green Subaru in its spot behind city hall. Georgia slid her Civic in beside it. Twenty minutes of Krystal was as good as two hours of anybody else.

“Girl, don’t you come in here wasting my time,” Krystal crowed when she saw her. “You know some of us peons have to work for a living.”

“This is what you call work?” said Georgia. “How many times have you beaten Sol today?”

Rhonda Peavey smiled up from the desk at Krystal’s door. “Well hey Georgia! Don’t you look good!”

“Thanks, Rhonda. I can’t believe she drags you down here on a Sunday night just to watch her play Sol.”

“I ain’t playing no Sol!” Krystal rose up from the huge cherry mayoral desk, her arms spread for a big friendly hug. “I’ve been down here since church, doing the people’s vital business. And here comes you, waltzing in to mess me up.” Krystal went to the Methodist, as her family always had. “Mmm, you smell as good as you look. What is that, Calvin Klein?”

Georgia settled into a wooden armchair. “Don’t tell me you don’t recognize Chanel Number 5.”

“That ain’t Chanel,” Krystal said. “Too fruity.”

“You’re just smelling my Juicy Fruit,” Georgia said. “And don’t say ‘ain’t.’ It makes you sound country.”

“I am country, and I truly do not give a shit who knows it.” Krystal was barrel-shaped: wide, round, low to the ground. Twice a year she came back from Montgomery with another load of
cropped mayoral jackets and industrial-strength wool suits from Dillard’s. Being a short, portly lady mayor in lower Alabama was definitely a fashion challenge. Occasionally Georgia tried to offer suggestions, to lighten her look with a scarf or a colorful blouse—but it was like putting a feather on a battleship. Anyway Krystal had gotten herself reelected three times with this look. It was pointless to change.

Through the door Georgia saw Rhonda pretending to file a piece of paper while hanging on every word of their conversation. Georgia asked Krystal with her eyes:
Can we shut the door?

Krystal pantomimed, one hand cupped to her ear,
If we do, she’ll just listen through the crack.
They were such old friends they didn’t need words to communicate.

Krystal cleared her throat. “Rhonda, could you run over to the judge’s office and see if Shelley’s got that ruling yet?”

“She didn’t, when I talked to her ten minutes ago,” Rhonda replied.

“Well, maybe she does now. Run over there and wait for it, would you please, ma’am?” Lady mayors had to be five times more polite than anyone, Georgia thought. Even to subordinates.

Georgia said, “Don’t you know only sinners work on Sunday?”

Krystal explained that it was all Judge Barnett’s fault, goddamn garlic-reeking old dinosaur. He had been working nights and weekends to thwart Krystal’s annexation plan. She was awaiting a copy of his latest ruling so the city attorney could file an appeal. The whole thing was so complicated it made Georgia’s head swim, millage rate differentials and periodic fee adjustments… Krystal’s goal was to bring city services to the black, unincorporated side of town, East Six Points, commonly known as “East Over,” as in “east, over there.” Her annexation plan had
run into a wall of white male dinosaurs who didn’t want their tax money going for fire hydrants for shiftless blacks who used their food stamps to buy Doritos at Hull’s Market. Georgia didn’t think it was anybody’s business what people bought with their food stamps. She was glad there were people like Krystal to fight these things on her behalf.

Rhonda went off on her errand. Krystal and Georgia caught up on each other’s news. Georgia told about her confrontation with Brenda Hendrix, and Eugene’s startling decision to stay with her.

“You didn’t honestly think he would leave her?” said Krystal. “Damn, George. A preacher, married, four little girls—how much more unavailable can a man be?”

“That’s not the point. I don’t even want him! The point is, he chose her. Over me. Now, why did he do that? Am I losing my charms? Tell me the truth.”

Krystal rolled her eyes. “Please. You’ve got entirely too many charms for your own good. Listen to me—Eugene is a man. Automatically that makes him an idiot. And you know that wife of his pushes him around like a baby stroller. Anyway, you’re gonna be seeing his face in the pulpit every Sunday from now on, so you’d better just get over it.”

Georgia couldn’t help a little smile. “Maybe not.”

“What does that mean?” Krystal tilted her head. “Georgia. What did you do?”

Even when she confessed, Krystal didn’t quite believe her. She couldn’t believe Little Mama could make one phone call and have Eugene assigned to a rural circuit in southeast Arkansas, or that Georgia would be so bold as to dial up the movers and pretend to be Brenda. “I swear to God, Georgia, is there anything you wouldn’t do?”