Authors: Mark Childress
The judge’s eyes brightened. Georgia walked the length of the front wall, letting down each panel in turn, until they were inside a candlelit green-velvet tent. She reached into the armoire to press the button on the CD player. A wistful violin sang the melody of Ken Burns from hidden speakers.
It’s all about happiness, Georgia thought. Look at the light in his eyes. See the years melt away. It’s the little things—the
flickering fire, the glow of the oil lamp, the way velvet muffles the tick of the clock.
She perched on his knees, slid her arm around his neck. She pressed her lips to his temple. “Hey darlin’,” she said.
His hand stroked her waist, sneaked up her back. “You’re delicious.”
“You too.” Like a slice of garlic bread, she didn’t say.
He patted her shoulder. “But you’re wearing too many petticoats. Please remove them at once.”
She hopped up from his knee, mock-offended. “Captain! Remember yourself!”
He laughed. “You’re so good at this. You missed your calling. You should go to New York and be an actress.”
“New York? Why should I go to New York?” She considered it her duty to stay in character, even when the judge slipped out. “I have no use for Yankees or snow, either one. But Lord, it is
so
hot down here. I feel a little feverish, do you mind?” She toyed with the topmost button of the outermost petticoat.
He encouraged her with a grin.
She undid the buttons and danced over to his hand. With two fingers he snagged the waistband. He held on as she twirled, unwinding herself.
The judge gathered the lacy cotton to his face and breathed. “Oh, when this cruel war is over,” he said.
“Try not to think about the war.” She started on the next row of buttons. “Just think about us, here, tonight.”
The fire crackled and spat sparks, a tiny fireworks display. The violin line turned and meandered, mournful as a gray rainy day, but somehow the room felt cheerful. Georgia really did love the old man in a way. She danced close so he could grab the waist
band and twirl her, peeling her—she loved the eagerness in his eyes when they were into the game. He was never this young with anyone else, she knew it. Even a ruined old judge has a right to feel young again, once in a while.
Thoughts like these—the rightness of her cause, the good she was doing—helped Georgia transform herself most nights. It took a special kind of woman to slip out of her own skin into a man’s fantasy, then back into herself, night after night without losing track of who she was. Sometimes she had to be the most sensitive, sharp-seeing person on earth. Other times it was better to be blind. It took Georgia years to learn this. Right now she had the judge’s motor running, and she knew how to put him in DRIVE. She danced to the bathroom and came back with an oval blue pill and a Dixie cup half full of water. “Here, Captain, a tonic for that big ol’ headache of yours.”
“Thank you, darlin’, gettin’ bigger every second.” He placed the pill on his tongue, tipped his head back, and tossed it down. “Aw yeah. Where were we?”
She made a pouty face. “Well, I was going to get myself all beautified, and let you drive me over to Twelve Oaks to eat barbecue. But I believe you have wickedness on your mind.”
He patted his knee. “Damn right I do.”
“I don’t think it’s right, you taking advantage of an innocent girl this way.” She batted her eyes. “It’s just not gentlemanly. I may have to tell Daddy!”
“Long as you don’t tell my wife,” he said with a snort. His large sausagey fingers struggled with the buttons of her second-to-last petticoat.
Georgia was afraid he would pop them. She closed her small hands around his. “Let me help you.”
“Ah, you’re not as innocent as you like to pretend!” His eyes gleamed. “You can’t wait to get your skirts off so you can disport yourself like some wild hussy from Savannah!”
She slapped him on the cheek—hard enough to sting. “How dare you! I am a lady and you will treat me as a lady. Do you understand?”
He grinned. “You come here,” he growled, yanking her down to his lap, smooching her neck, nibbling up to her ear.
He enjoyed playing strongman, pinning her in place with one hand. She let herself be pinned. They both knew it was playacting. The judge made the decisions in his courtroom, but in this room Georgia was the boss.
He lapped at her earlobe, her throat. She floated up out of herself and thought about the male urge to overpower. She saw it all the time, cropping up in different guises through the week. Men love to prove themselves stronger. To overcome female resistance. Nothing turns a man on like a struggle, even in make-believe. Maybe that’s a Darwin thing, an animal thing, an urge all male creatures have in common… part of the great Ant Connection? Are all males rapists in the secret part of their souls? Why else do they like it so much when they get to overcome a woman resisting?
Darwin might point out that the stronger, more dominant male reproduces more often—the satisfaction that comes with conquering the resisting female is selected into the species—but how would Darwin explain a man pretending to be strong as a pretext for a woman to humiliate him? How would you work that out in an anthill? Men are slightly more complicated than ants—but every anthill is ruled by a queen. Not a king. A queen rules the workers, soldiers, and drones. In the world there are billions of anthills, each one ruled by a tiny female dictator.
At least that’s how it looked from the perspective of the judge’s lap. Why else would the human race be 52 percent female? Women are winning, that’s why. We’re better at surviving.
In a surge of lust the judge tried to lift Georgia and carry her to the bed, but lost his strength and toppled back to the chair. Georgia spilled to the floor. “Unruly monster!” She scrambled up. “Control yourself, sir!”
“My God, you are one hot number.” He staggered to his feet and chased her around the chair, giggling like a boy. “Stop that! Come here and accept your punishment.”
“You’re not going to spank me again, Captain! I’ve been so good!”
“You little fornicatress,” he growled. “Following the army—pretending you’re a lady—it’s downright immoral!”
She wished she hadn’t noticed the glassy strand of drool dangling from the corner of his mouth. Something like that could let all the air out of an evening. You had to avert your eyes, fight off the image, and keep going.
Georgia was thankful for the blue pill. Really, it was the miracle of the age! It put hours back into her evening. What used to take two or three hours could now be wrapped up inside of forty-five minutes. But you had to be careful—it could also be a little blue hand grenade. Once you pulled the pin and set it ticking, you’d better be ready to move—
And move they did, more or less together, to the big squeaky four-poster, where the last of her petticoats came off with no help from anybody. Georgia was down to her pale peach chemise. Judge Barnett’s suspenders were hopelessly snarled at his waist.
She caught a gust of garlic as she clambered over his legs, laughing, pushing his hands away. If she undressed him all the
way, it would add at least half an hour to his visit. She couldn’t help thinking of the twelve dozen figs she had to stuff with Gorgonzola and wrap in prosciutto before bedtime. She reached for his zipper and tugged.
“Wench!” he cried. “Can’t keep your hands off me? What is it you’re wanting?” His face was even pinker—the first flush of the medication. “You can’t even wait to get your—wait, no, let me—let me help you.”
A discreet glance at the clock told her she had given him exactly thirty-five minutes of top-quality foreplay. It had been a few Sundays since they went all the way, what with his sleepiness and the shoulder rubs and all, so he was really ready. Three or four minutes, tops. She yanked down his trousers and his baggy boxers, hauled out his stubby pink thing, rolled a rubber on it, and climbed aboard.
His tough little willy was not as significant a drawback as the garlic. Neither was it any sort of added attraction. Women who say size doesn’t matter are lying through their clenched, frustrated teeth. Even under the engorging influence of the blue pill, Georgia felt little more than a stirring down there, a kind of rhythmic poke-poke. She hipped and hollered and made the bedsprings squeak as if she’d never endured anything quite so splittingly huge.
Another! Satisfied! Client!
The judge bucked and wallowed around with a sloppy grin on his face. Georgia dragged the coverlet back and made sure his flabby butt was on the sheet where it belonged, then she tightened down on him, speeded up and brought him home, hey hey
BANG!
And then yep! There it was.
“Hooeee! Damn, woman! Yeah!” He threw his hands up as if he’d just crossed the goal line. “Oh yeah!”
She leaned down to kiss him. Garlic. “Mmmm, my goodness, Jackson,” she hummed into his mouth. “You are simply overpowering tonight.”
“Careful, careful—don’t—wait, my—” He groaned and shifted. She detached herself.
She slipped into the bathroom to perform a quick hygienic procedure, came back with towels and a steaming washcloth. She got him washed up, tucked away, purring like a happy old cat. This was his usual pattern—as soon as it was over, he turned into a sleepy kitty craving a nap and the comforting stroke of his mistress’s hand. Sometimes Georgia had to perform fancy tricks to get him dressed and out the door before he dozed off for good.
No man was ever allowed to spend the night. A steady rotation under cover of darkness was essential to the successful application of the system. Sometimes Georgia felt the passing urge to snuggle up and spend the whole night in the arms of one or the other. It had been a long time since she had allowed herself that. Her life was too complex. She had responsibilities. She had plates spinning on sticks.
“Time to go, Captain,” she said in a quiet voice. “Daddy’s on his way home, and if he finds us in this situation—there’s no telling.”
“Oh Georgia,” he said, buttoning his shirt. “What would I do without you?”
“Or I, you?” She kissed his pink cheek. “Will you excuse me? I’ll be back.”
Her second trip to the bathroom was a signal, as specific as the light in the alley, although Georgia had never discussed it with the judge. She closed the door, turned on the water in the sink,
flushed the commode, hummed a little tune. She sat on the toilet lid, giving him time to remember that he needed to reach into his coat for the envelope and place it atop the highboy.
This was the only part of the game that made Georgia uncomfortable. There was no completely unembarrassing way to go about it. It helped to remember a few important facts:
As long as everyone remembered these facts there could be no misunderstanding. What you had was a simple exchange of gifts. Georgia gave the gift of her time, her complete attention, her kisses, sometimes more. She gave these things freely, willingly. They were hers to give.
In return—no, not in return for anything, but of their own free will, with no connection to any action of Georgia’s—the men offered gifts of their own. They knew she was not wealthy; everyone knew the Bottoms fortune had dried up shortly after Big Sue changed the family name. Everyone knows it’s expensive to keep up a big old antebellum falling-down house with a sick old mother and a worthless brother in tow. So they gave her gifts.
In the movies, men gave their sweethearts diamonds, or roses, or fancy kitchen appliances. Georgia liked cash. No fuss, no raised eyebrows at the bank. If there was one thing we all learned from Richard Nixon, she thought, it was the importance of avoiding a paper trail.
Sometimes it took a bit of extremely subtle hint dropping to get a man to come up with the idea on his own, to realize after the third or fourth date how lucky he was to be spending one night a week enjoying the lady’s company, and it might be the gentlemanly thing to offer up a little—a little gift, just to help with the upkeep of the place—not that she was his mistress, which would make her beholden to him, but—after all she had been so kind, and there she was in that big old rambling house with the mother and the useless brother. What harm could there be in a gift?
He was clumsy the first time, trying to press a wad of bills into her hand or some such, so that she had to pull back in a huff and refuse, horrified by the very idea, whatever he meant to imply she was definitely not that kind of girl! Of course he would rush to reassure her he hadn’t meant anything at all. A gift! That’s all. Just a gift. Eventually he would come to insist that she take it, practically force it on her, to prove it was only a gift. With no strings attached.
And although she resisted, acted hurt by the very idea and turned her face away, eventually she came around to telling him how awfully kind he was, how sensitive to notice that her family was not exactly made out of money. She discreetly let him know that any such gift would not go for dresses or frivolous things, but directly to the stack of household bills.
She was so honestly, quietly grateful that the man would be moved to offer the same gift every week.
Each man thought he was the only man. Each thought the whole idea was his idea, his gift the only gift. That was the secret to making a living, the Georgia way.
E
mma Day Pettigrew’s Florida room had a great view of the relevant side of the parsonage, the front door, driveway, and garage.
Georgia considered each of the four houses that backed up to the church property before deciding that Floyd and Emma Day’s Florida room had the best view. With its fifties-style screened windows, frosted glass slats that cranked open to let in the heat of the morning, sitting in that room felt like being in a garden with no bugs.
Once Georgia made the calculation, it was only a matter of how to get herself invited to Emma Day’s house at ten minutes till eight on a Monday morning.
Thank God Emma Day said, “Of course, come on over, I’ve been working in my garden for hours.” When she answered the door, Georgia led her through her own house, singing the praises of the Florida room all the way there. She sank down on an elegant wicker settee.