Georgia Bottoms (27 page)

Georgia had the feeling something between them was over. She thought, is it a love affair if only one of the two people knows about it?

Late sunlight glazed the windshield of the Subaru. Krystal disappeared in a rectangle of dazzling light.

The car paused a moment in the street, then pulled away.

Georgia let out the breath she’d been holding.

She stood there in the driveway for five minutes, or an hour. She lost track.

Suddenly Nathan was on the porch. “Ol’ Mama done lost it again! Act like she never seen me before! Say nigger get out of my house, and all that!”

“Aw damn it to hell!” Georgia cried. “I’m sorry, Nathan. In case you haven’t noticed, Little Mama’s got a serious problem upstairs.”

“Well come in here and do something!”

“You stay out here and let her cool down,” Georgia said. “In five minutes she’ll forget all about it.”

Nathan said, “She got like the, what they call it, the Allhammer disease?”

“Well… yeah. More or less.”

He followed her around to the backyard. “I don’t think that’s all that’s wrong with her. I think she’s crazy on top of that.”

“That’s not exactly breaking news to me,” Georgia said. “Don’t forget I’ve known her all my life. If you wonder why I didn’t tell her about you, now you know.”

They stepped up to the washing-machine porch. Nathan peered down at her. “She don’t like black people?”

“Not in the least. Are you just now discovering that?” Georgia led him into the kitchen. “Whatever you do, don’t get her started on Rosa Parks.”

His face went blank. “Who?”

“Rosa Parks.”

He shook his head.

“You never heard of Rosa Parks?” Georgia couldn’t believe it. What did they learn in school?

“You ain’t tell anybody about me, when you had me, did you,” Nathan said.

She’d figured this was coming but still it caught her off guard. “Not really, no. Mama knew I went off to have a baby. She didn’t know what color you were.”

“You never even want to come down and see what I look like?” he said.

“I sent money, Nathan. Every month, all these years since you were born. That’s what I did. It’s the best I could do at the time. I thought it might be easier for you if I stayed out of your life.”

He stood with his back to the wall. “Easy for
you,
you mean.”

“Well—”

“You didn’t want me,” he said. “Go on and say it.”

“I guess that’s one way to look at it,” she admitted. “Hey listen, you must be starving. I’m going to heat up some Mexican Fiesta Chicken and a blackberry cobbler. I can make you a couple sandwiches until it’s ready.”

“You think if you stick food in my mouth it’ll shut me up.”

“Well?” She grinned. “It worked real well yesterday.”

He wasn’t smiling. “How come you didn’t want me?”

“Nathan, please,” she said.

“You think you ain’t got to answer? You think it’s ah-ight just to go off and leave somebody, and never even have to say why?”

“I was eighteen, okay? Younger than you are now. And your father was black. It was a different time.”

“You coulda married him.”

“He didn’t want me,” said Georgia. “And I didn’t want him either. It would never have worked out.”

“You didn’t want anybody, did you,” said Nathan. “Him or me.”

“No, I didn’t,” said Georgia. “You’re right. I like being single. I’m selfish. I like to do what I want without somebody pulling on me all the time. Nathan, listen to me—I honestly thought you’d be better off with your aunt Ree.”

“Better off than here in this big-ass house, with all yo fuckin’ money?” said Nathan. “Okay okay, sorry, I didn’t mean to say that.”

At least he was hearing her injunctions. “I told you, I haven’t got any money.”

Nathan said, “You got a hell of a lot more than Mamaw. You know what I’m sayin’. You didn’t want me ’cause I’m black.”

Georgia didn’t know what to do. As a last resort she told the truth. “That’s not it. I would have given you away no matter what. I just didn’t want a kid.”

His face fell. He didn’t appear to have considered this possibility.

Georgia shrugged. “I don’t know what you want from me, Nathan. I’ve had a hard day.”

“It’s too late for what I want,” he said.

The barrel of a gun poked through from the hallway, followed by Little Mama. “You still got that nigger with you?”

Damn it! Georgia had meant to hide the Daisy gun after she locked up the phones.

Nathan ducked under the table.

Georgia snatched the gun, broke it open. “Nathan, she’s just trying to scare you.” She showed him the empty chamber. “Mama, stop pestering this boy. I have told you fifty times, he’s our guest. He’s spending the night with us.”

“Not in my house he ain’t,” said Little Mama.

“Hell yes in your house, it’s my damn house too,” Georgia said, “and if you don’t like it, go find somewhere else to sleep.”

“What makes you so partial to this ni—”

“Stop it! Do not say that word again!”

“To this
Nigro
is what I was gonna say, thank you very much, Missy Jean!”

Georgia put her hands on her hips. “Mama. Nathan is my son. Okay? There. Are you happy?”

Nathan gawked at her.

Little Mama said, “Don’t be ridiculous. How could he be your son? He’s colored!”

Georgia said, “So was his daddy.”

Mama frowned. You could see the wheels turning. “You give me back that gun,” she said. “You’re the one I need to shoot.”

Georgia exploded. “I’ve had enough, do you hear? This boy has not done one thing to you! The two of you were best friends when I got you out of jail! Should have left you in there.”

Nathan held the smirk at the corner of his mouth. He liked Georgia going at her mother, guns blazing. Or maybe he liked the sound of Georgia finally admitting who he was.

“Well!” Little Mama huffed. “I think I’ll go where I will be treated with a little bit of respect!”

“I wish you would,” Georgia said. “If you can find a place like that, which I sincerely doubt, I wish you’d go right on over there. I’ll be glad to drive you.”

“You telling me to leave my own home?”

“If you can’t keep a civil tongue in your head, I don’t care where you go. Nathan, sit down. You’re as welcome in this house as she is. I’ve got the gun now. Nobody’s shooting anybody.”

Little Mama stormed to her room. Georgia went to the chest freezer to fetch the Mexican Fiesta Chicken. She put it to warm in a slow oven, then went to hide the pellet gun where it would never be found. (It may still be there.) When she came back, Nathan was in the TV den watching
Who Wants to Be a Millionaire?

He said, “Don’t leave me alone with her again.”

“I’m sorry. I thought we were okay. Y’all were such big buddies before. She won’t find that gun where I put it.”

“She like two different people,” he said.

“At least. Did you ever see—no, you wouldn’t know
Sybil
.”

The phone rang. Georgia hurried upstairs to the answering machine, her heart jumping for joy—then the bitter memory flooded in. Oh, right. We don’t love Brent Colgate anymore. We hate him, remember?

Anyway it wasn’t him. It was Alma Pickett, calling for—the fourth time? The fifth? You’d think the quilts had all spontaneously caught fire and burned their owners to death. Georgia let Alma tell it to the machine, yak yak, on and on. She had no intention of speaking with Alma Pickett about the quilts, now or at any time in the future. Alma was welcome to think whatever she liked about what she saw on public television. There was nothing illegal or even unethical about reselling a quilt at a
better price. Hadn’t Alma been making a pretty profit herself all along?

Anyway, those ladies got a very nice quilt for their money. The quilt makers of Catfish Bend were famous now. Those quilts probably quadrupled in value the minute that documentary went on the air.

M
ama and Nathan were still snoring in their rooms long after Georgia got up and drank coffee, scanned the Sunday
Light-Pilot
, made a pot of grits, rolled and cut a sheet of biscuits for the boy’s breakfast. (She would wait to cook the bacon because she knew the smell would wake him.) She was trying to decide about church. Of course she had to go, God knows what kind of sermon
that monster
might preach if she didn’t go. But she couldn’t leave Nathan at home with Little Mama. She couldn’t force Little Mama to go to church with her. She didn’t want to take Nathan to church and have to explain him. Maybe he could wait in the car—no, it was the height of August, too hot for that. If only there was someplace she could drop him for an hour…

She thought of the video arcade on the courthouse square. It seemed to be always open. She could give him the roll of quarters she kept in her car for parking meters. If Nathan was like most boys, an hour of beeping, buzzing, smacking buttons would be heaven. She could run to church, then hurry him to the Texaco station for the one fifteen bus.

Problem solved. Georgia was glad she had awakened in an optimistic mood. Last night, trying to fall asleep, she found herself entertaining some pretty dark notions.

She actually considered, for the first time ever, what it might be like to gather a bunch of Mama’s pills and swallow them all.

She turned that idea over in her mind for a few moments before deciding she just didn’t have it in her. All these responsibilities… Besides, she was curious. She wanted to know what would happen tomorrow, and the day after that.

She thought a bit longer and more seriously about another kind of death. Somebody else’s death. The kind where if you’re caught, you go not to the nice jail at the courthouse, but to Julia Tutwiler Prison for Women for the rest of your life.

It seemed to Georgia that if a man sets off dynamite under somebody’s life, he deserves to get hurt in the explosion.

Georgia thought she could kill someone. If she had to. If it came down to kill or be killed. But she was pretty sure she could not plan and commit a murder and get away with it. She would make some fatal mistake, overlook some detail. Or she’d crack under the first line of questioning and confess everything.

One thing for sure: if Brent Colgate happened to get hit by a truck, Georgia would drink a toast to the truck driver.

Turning, tossing, she wished she’d taken one of the sleeping pills she’d given Little Mama. She pictured Brent now in the parsonage on Maple Street, dozing next to Daphne, congratulating himself on his ingenuity.

To Georgia, Brent Colgate seemed like a pretty good argument against the existence of God. A real God would take care of someone like Georgia, who had maybe a few moral blemishes but was basically a good person, never intentionally harmed a soul. A real God would not let a man use his good looks and God’s word and God’s pulpit to go around playing God in someone’s life.

Today, in the brightness of a Sunday morning, things didn’t seem quite as drastic as they had last night. She had drifted to sleep full of outrage, determined to find the strength to tell Brent Colgate where to stuff his list of instructions.

In the morning, she found herself slipping back into self-preservation mode.

Perhaps she could do what he demanded, after all.

If she did, Brent would let her carry on with her life. Her reputation would not be destroyed. She would not have to go around town hiding her face in shame. She would simply be adding one more layer of secrecy to all the other layers.

She heard Whizzy scratching at the door. Why didn’t he come in the doggy door? She pushed it open. “Come on in, Whiz.”

Very softly a voice said, “You alone?”

Georgia fell back with a little scream.

A thin man with close-cropped hair stood in the shadow of the deep freeze. “Georgie?”

“Brother?” Oh my God.

“Hey hey!” He shuffled into the light, trying to put his arms around her. He smelled as though he hadn’t bathed in a week.

“Don’t!” She pushed him away. “You scared the bejesus out of me! What are you doing here?”

“I got out,” Brother said.

“How in the hell…? Your parole hearing is not for six weeks.”

Whizzy charged out of the kitchen, barking and licking Brother’s ankles. Brother was bone thin, shaven-headed, so hard-looking and muscled that Georgia could have passed him on the street and not recognized him. The only thing familiar was that big gorgeous ear-to-ear grin, wide and shiny as an ear of sweet
corn. He wore a fluorescent orange jumpsuit with a ripped-out square on the back.

He knelt down to pet Whizzy. “They put me in this work gang,” he said, “and yesterday they had us weed-eatin’ along I-65. By the Stuckey’s at the Letohatchee exit, you know where that is? All a sudden this eighteen-wheeler runs over this little car, I mean just totally
creams
this poor little Hyundai or whatever it was.
Long
smear down the shoulder. So while everybody was having a good look at that, I walked up to Stuckey’s. Met this girl who give me a ride to Montgomery. Cute girl. Then I called Sims Bailey to come get me. And here I am!”

“Glory hallelujah,” she said.

“You look good, Georgie. Do I smell coffee?”

Brother was the last thing Georgia needed right now, but what could she do? She let him in.

He towered over the kitchen table in his jumpsuit. “Sit down,” she said, pouring him a cup. “You’re making me nervous.”

He obeyed, with an eye on the stove. “Are you planning to bake them biscuits?”

“You’re not supposed to escape, Brother.”

“Well, duh,” he said. “Think I don’t know that?”

She started clattering pans. “You said you had a good shot at parole.”

“I was bullshitting. They were never gonna let me out.”

Georgia opened the oven to a faceful of heat. She ducked her head, slid in the biscuits, banged the door shut. Did Brother expect she’d be happy to see him? Did he think he could walk out of prison and come home and everything would be fine?

“Your timing is lousy,” she said. “As usual.”

“Sorry, Sis. When opportunity knocks… If you’d seen the
way that car got demolished, you would never ride in a little car again. You got a cigarette by any chance?”