Agent Lathem snorted.
“Get him out of here,” Poole said.
Georgia moved to block the door. “Where are you taking him?”
“Stand aside, please,” he said.
“Don’t I have a right to know where to go bail him out?”
“The ABI office in Montgomery can give you that information.” He steered her out of his path, making way for Lathem and Junior to hustle Brother out of the kitchen. Brother put up no fight at all but they wouldn’t just let him walk out like a normal person. They had to drag him down the hall, out the door.
Georgia followed them onto the porch. “I can report you for police brutality!”
“Go right ahead,” said Agent Poole.
Brother yelled, “You’ll never take me alive, copper!”
Lathem said, “We just did.” The others laughed like a gang of frat boys.
Poole put his hand on Brother’s head and ducked him into the backseat, then went around and got behind the wheel. Lathem climbed in beside Brother. Junior rode shotgun. The Ford backed into the street, and drove off.
When Georgia realized Krystal was beside her, she said, “I’ve got half a mind to just leave him in this time.”
“No one would blame you.”
“God, I wish I still smoked. You want a cup of coffee or something?”
“I have to get back to work,” said Krystal. “You gonna make me walk?”
“Just let me look in on Mama and I’ll drive you down.”
Little Mama was in her den watching Martha Stewart make a piecrust. She had already forgotten whatever part she might have played in Brother’s hostage drama. She didn’t know anything about any police. Sometimes Mama’s affliction was almost a blessing. Georgia found herself wishing she could catch a mild case of it, just for one afternoon.
Driving by the First Baptist parsonage she pointed out Brent Colgate in the driveway, still sporting his pale green suit. He was lifting a carton from the trunk of his K car. “Wow, look at that,” Krystal said. “I may have to become a Baptist.”
“I want to thank the search committee from the bottom of my heart,” Georgia said. “Listen, Krystal—do you think you could make a call to Montgomery? You know I hate to ask, I never ask you to get involved in Brother’s messes. But this is state level. I’ve got no connections at all.”
“I was trying to figure out who I could call,” Krystal said. “I do know the director of public safety. He’s not exactly the boss of these guys, but he’ll know who we can talk to.”
“That would be so great,” said Georgia. “How lucky am I to have a best friend who’s also the mayor?”
After a pregnant pause Krystal said, “Might not be for long.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You know I’m up for reelection in September.”
“Of course. Unopposed as usual.”
“Filing deadline was five p.m. yesterday. Turns out I’m going to have an opponent.” Krystal smiled out the window, enjoying her air of mystery.
“You’re kidding me. Who?”
“Madeline Roudy,” said Krystal.
Georgia’s mouth dropped open.
“Watch that car—” Krystal grabbed the wheel and deftly steered them around a Cadillac pulling out of the diner.
“Thanks… Madeline Roudy is running against you? Can she do that?”
“Of course she can.” Krystal’s smile tightened. “I annexed them into the city. Which gives them enough votes to elect her, if they all stick together—and why wouldn’t they? I knew it would happen eventually, but I was hoping they might at least give me a term or two as thanks, before they booted me out.”
“Krystal, you’re the best friend they’ve ever had in this town. Who else stuck their neck out for annexation?”
“They don’t think they owe me a thing, and you know what? They’re right. Anyway, you’re preaching to the choir. Whyn’t you let me out here. Gotta do the people’s work while I’ve still got the job.”
Krystal was amazingly cheerful. Georgia knew she must be crushed. Being mayor of Six Points was the only thing Krystal had ever wanted. In the hubbub over annexation, Georgia had never realized Krystal was knowingly setting up the means to put herself out of a job.
Madeline Roudy?
An impressive woman. A pediatrician. Taking care of poor sick kids. Just the kind of person you would want to be the First Black Mayor of Six Points.
Krystal didn’t stand a chance.
Just as Brother didn’t stand a chance.
Just like that new preacher, Brent Colgate? He didn’t stand a chance either.
Survival of the fittest, that’s the law. Don’t blame me, Georgia thought. The world was this way when I got here.
11
Riding back from the prison in the dark, she turns on the radio and listen what song’s coming on: that beat starts up, whick-it whick-it strummed on electric-guitar strings, a dirty horn section, phasey electronic mixer sound taking us straight into The Girls, only the girls ain’t backing Diana anymore, Diana done left and gone solo on their ass, left them behind in a movie-star cloud of gold dust, leaving Mary and Cindy to try and replace her with another thin trembly soprano, Jean Terrell… The song is “Nathan Jones” and maybe because Georgia is hearing it for the first time in years, through a good car stereo, it’s absolutely transcendent—the best thing the Supremes ever did. Is that possible? The Supremes got better after Diana?
You can hear The Girls trying to erase all memory of Diana, who thought she was better than the others, always parading out in front, and now! We are The Supremes! We sing as one! Equal parts! No lead!
For a moment Cindy takes the melody, for a moment Jean takes it, then they stand aside and let Mary holler it out. A rhythm shake a shake it just keep rolling down the road like a big old Greyhound bus, You never wrote me (ooh ooh) You never called! The heat of three voices fused into the sound of one abandoned woman, beaten down though she never admits it, the way she clings to the pain of his memory you just know he had to be hitting her… The sound was relentless, unstoppable, rolling down the big old highway. A handclap—or is it a whipcrack? Doin’ it without you, Diana, strutting it proudly on Better-Than-Ever Street!
Mama in the passenger seat: “What are you going on about? I don’t understand a word.”
“The Supremes,” Georgia said, “without Diana Ross.”
Bringing Mama along was the last thing Georgia wanted to do, but it was getting harder to leave her home alone now.
“Nathan Jones” put Georgia in high spirits considering they’d just come from that horrible prison where they were not even allowed to see Brother. The man at the front desk said he was in solitary, the next “visitation window” was a week from Wednesday. After successive rings of concertina wire, chain-link fence, electric-lock doors, thick greasy glass reinforced with steel mesh… coming out to the car, breathing free air, and finding “Nathan Jones” on the radio seemed like a gift from God.
Of course Georgia didn’t believe in God, but a gift like that song helped her understand why some people do.
She loved that song, and that’s why Ree had named the boy Nathan.
“I told you to keep him away from Sims Bailey,” Mama said, helpfully.
“Yes you sure did,” Georgia said. “You are so much smarter than I am. I don’t know why I never noticed it before.”
Turns out that having a couple barrels of ammonium nitrate fertilizer in proximity to some barrels of fuel oil gets you in the kind of trouble you can’t grin your way out of. As far as Georgia could tell, Brother was screwed. He wasn’t Timothy McVeigh, but try telling that to the Alabama Bureau of Investigation.
Solitary confinement his second week in state prison was not a good sign.
Georgia could sell all her jewelry, the house, the family silver, put every dime into Brother’s defense, throw everything onto the fire knowing he would be found guilty in any event.
Or: Let him get a p
ublic defender. Handle this one himself, without the assist from Big Sister who is called in to save his sorry rear end every time.
Georgia had a feeling that would be dooming him to jail for a goodly portion of his life. But hadn’t he doomed himself? How was that in any way her fault?
She had tried to be Brother’s keeper all his life. Time to admit she had failed. Every time she told him to go right, he went left. Now let him fend for himself.
… But that didn’t feel right. She couldn’t shake the image of four-year-old Brother with that headful of soft white curls. She couldn’t believe that lovely child, that spirit was entirely gone from the earth.
At the prison she’d seen only two actual prisoners, black guys in dark-blue prison clothes at the end of a hallway glassed off from the visitors’ lounge. Looking at those men, she found herself thinking: If that was me, if someone told me I had to spend the night in this place, I’d find a way to hang myself.
There was also the lingering disturbance from NOVA last night. She had looked forward to the show all week, after spotting the listing in the Sunday Light-Pilot. She was a sucker for ant documentaries, always glad for any chance to embroider her grand theory of the Ant Connection. Ten minutes into the program, the camera focused on a mob of particularly murderous ants digging a pale wriggling white worm out of the earth.
The ants swarmed over the blind, defenseless worm, testing its worm skin with their cruel jaws, finding the soft places between its segments. Georgia emitted little cries of “Oh! Poor worm! Poor worm!”
The worm writhed, trying to throw off its torturers, but soon they were clamping their hideous mandibles, slicing into the worm so as to eat it from the soft jelly outward. That was when Georgia felt the rising surge in her throat, a mad scramble for the remote control turn it off!
She sat in darkness for a while, breathing, trying not to throw up.
It took half a bottle of Chardonnay and three Excedrin PMs to knock her out that night. Then it was the kind of restless sleep that leaves you more exhausted in the morning.
“I watched a terrible show about ants last night,” she said, just to hear a live voice in the car.
“Why did you watch it, then?” Mama said.
“Normally I like ants,” Georgia said. “Not these ants.”
“Why not?”
“They were vicious,” said Georgia. “They all ganged up on this one worm.”
“You ought not to watch it if it bothers you,” Mama said.
“But I love ants,” said Georgia. “Normally.”
After a long pause Mama said, “Where are we going?”
“Home.”
“Can’t we go any faster?”
“No, Mama. This is the legal limit.”
“What were we talking about before?”
“The song on the radio,” Georgia said. “The Supremes.”
Little Mama said, “I always liked the Supremes.”
If it hadn’t been nighttime on a curvy stretch of road, Georgia would have pulled to the shoulder just to get a good look at her. “You what?”
“I said, I like the Supremes.”
“The singing group,” said Georgia. “Diana Ross and the Supremes.”
“Uh-huh,” Mama said. “I like their songs.”
“Oh Mama, you don’t,” Georgia half scolded her. “You know the Supremes are colored girls.”
“So what?” said Little Mama.
“So what? You don’t like colored people, that’s all.” For as long as Georgia could remember, the appearance of any black entertainer on TV was Little Mama’s cue to change channels with a muttered curse.
“Don’t tell me what I like and don’t like,” Mama said.
Georgia was astounded. Not liking colored people was Little Mama’s big thing. It cut to the heart of who she was.
For the moment, at least, she seemed to have forgotten entirely.
Georgia said, “What about Nat King Cole?”
“What about him?”
“You like him too?”
“I do. That song about sailboats, in the sunset.” She even hummed a bit of the tune.
“Oh Mama, you’re pulling my leg now.”
“I hate to disappoint you,” Mama said, “but I am not your mother.” She spoke in a kindly voice, as if gently breaking the news. “I never had any children of my own.”
Georgia said, “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine. How are you?”
“Do we need to go to the hospital?”
“I don’t think so,” Mama said. “Where are you taking me?”
“Home.”
12
Georgia changed clothes three times before settling on the textured knit jacket and skirt by St. John in an especially hot pink called peony. The jacket was sharply tailored to show off her figure. The straight skirt cut a sexy line above the knee. There was no way Brent Colgate could look out over his new congregation and fail to notice her.
She hadn’t counted on word of the handsome new preacher racing through Six Points like a wildfire, bringing forth the biggest one-week rise in attendance in the non-Easter history of the First Baptist. The new worshippers were almost all female, and sat near the front. Each, in her own way, seemed to have dressed to attract the attention of Brent Colgate. Within Georgia’s field of vision were three other women in hot pink—none quite as hot as peony, but still it embarrassed Georgia to be in any respect like those women, to have had the same idea. She considered bolting out the door to go change—into what? There wasn’t a color in the rainbow that someone was not already wearing in an effort to be seen by the new preacher.
With all the buildup, you might expect the sight of Brent Colgate himself to come as a letdown. It was just the opposite. The members of the pastoral committee lined up in front of the pulpit to emphasize that it was they who had gone forth into a world full of ugly preachers and brought back this dreamboat reverend, this vision in a velvet black robe with regal blond mane and gleaming smile, making his way up the center aisle, kissing and blessing, embracing his new flock as if he’d been among them all his life—a favorite who had been away too long, returning now in triumph.
It seemed a bit much. Georgia made a skeptical face to the back of the pew.
Colgate hugged a few of the front-pew ladies, shook hands with the committee, and ascended his pulpit in a cloud of mass approval. “What a kind welcome, friends,” he said. “Thank you so much, thank you.”
Brent’s voice came from deep, deep down in his chest. Georgia found herself drifting off before a word ever registered in her brain. His voice cast such a spell that she was able to perceive the essence of what he was saying without even listening to the words. He spoke about goodness and welcome and solid and fine… She was happy just drifting along gazing up at his face, feeling the rumble of his voice to her toes.
Then suddenly it was over, they were on their feet singing a hymn. That had to be the fastest sermon in history. Georgia looked at her watch. A full forty-five minutes had passed. Had she fallen asleep? Or been hypnotized?
She noticed several other women in a similar daze.
Reverend Colgate and his wife went to the main entrance to greet the departing congregation. Mrs. Colgate positioned herself so that you had to greet her first, then she would present you to her husband. On the surface this seemed gracious; to Georgia it gave a strong hint as to who ran the Colgate household. This wife would be a tricky proposition. This was no Brenda Hendrix or Mrs. Judge Barnett, this put-together brunette still in her twenties with the beauty-queen violet eyes and a stylish sloping haircut straight out of Vogue.
Young Mrs. Colgate placed herself astride the approach lane to her great-looking husband, as if to say, “I’m as good-looking as he is, so unless you can compete with me, don’t even try.” Brent Colgate looked pleased to be standing beside her, radiating pastorly good cheer.
“Do they have children?” murmured Stephanie Durant, at Georgia’s elbow.
�
��Not that I’ve heard of,” said Georgia. “She doesn’t really look like the type.”
“No,” Stephanie said, “but those kids would be freaking gorgeous.”
“Hello, I’m Daphne Colgate!” The wife trapped Georgia’s hand between her own two in a graspy overfamiliar way that made Georgia’s skin crawl.
“Georgia Bottoms,” said Georgia. “That suit is so attractive—where on earth did you find it?”
“Why thank you! How nice of you to notice. I think it was Macy’s in Birmingham. Have you met my husband, Brent?”
Brent smiled. “Oh, sure. Miss Georgia and I are old friends from the drugstore.”
“He was downtown trying to drum up church attendance,” said Georgia. “I’m only here because he ordered me to come.”
“Just like the passage in Brent’s sermon,” said Daphne, “when every lamb was redeemed with a firstborn donkey.”
“Exactly.” Georgia smiled as if she had some inkling of what Daphne meant. If Georgia had just been insulted, her insulter gave no outward sign.
Brent’s eyes gleamed. “Daphne’s the only one who really listens to my sermons.”
Old Mrs. Haworth took Daphne’s arm and turned her away. Brent used the moment of distraction to pounce. “Miss Georgia, I think your idea for a church-wide garage sale is absolute genius. Would you mind sticking around after I finish greeting the folks, so we can discuss it some more?”
Georgia did not miss a beat. “Of course,” she said. “I’ll just wait in the sanctuary for you.”
She ducked her head into the foyer and swam back upstream through the crowd. She sat down in her pew.
She felt her heart thumping. She had not given Brent Colgate any idea about a garage sale. By tossing out a blatant lie, forcing her to go along with it, Brent had made her complicit in whatever game he was wanting to play. It was, to say the least, an unusual beginning to the minister-parishioner relationship.
Georgia ran her hand along the silky wood of the pew, worn smooth by generations of Bottoms. She would tell the reverend she hadn’t wanted to seem rude, but it was not she who had mentioned the garage sale to him. Shake his hand and walk away. If the vibe didn’t feel right.
Georgia Bottoms Page 13
