Georgia Bottoms

by Mark Childress

  But she was fairly sure they were on their way to a satisfactory resolution. They had already cheated a little: a small made-up cheat between the two of them. It was not very far from there to the place Georgia wanted to go.

  As a matter of fact, the shortest way there might be the long way around. Get out of here now. Let him come looking for you, and not find you.

  Georgia walked quickly to the side door of the church, and out.

  Sink the hook. Make sure it’s in deep.

  Then give a little tug. That fish will land itself.

  13

  In the first place Ted Horn was a medical doctor so whoda thunk it? In the second place Ted always had been an ol’ horndog, so much so that “Ol’ Horndog” was Georgia’s pet name for him. He liked her to use the nickname at certain crucial moments on a Wednesday evening. Add in the fact that on this hot July Wednesday Ted had had more than his usual glass or two of red wine. He and his pals had laid it on beforehand at the Hopalong Steak House BYOB Early Bird Special. Then when he arrived at Georgia’s, he insisted she make a pitcher of her famous Cajun martinis. This put him in a festive and rambunctious mood, and also served to open up his blood vessels, in combination with the self-prescribed pharmaceutical.

  Ted liked martinis and black leather. He liked to wear the zippered hood. He liked the silk handkerchiefs with which Georgia fastened him to the four-poster bed. Of all her clients, Ted was easily the most exotic in his tastes. Georgia looked forward to Wednesday—a bit of variety in the middle of the week, when one’s energy naturally tends to flag.

  Adjusting her approach to the peccadilloes of each man was what kept the game interesting. As much of a pain as it was to launder, starch, and iron the layers of petticoats needed to turn herself and Judge Barnett into Scarlett and Rhett once a week—not to mention the French maid getup she wore for Jimmy Lee Newton—all that effort had paid off in years of customer satisfaction. Jimmy Lee fancied himself a sophisticated gentleman being naughty with his maid. At times he put on a French accent that wavered between Maurice Chevalier and Pepé Le Pew.

  Lon Chapman liked her to dress as a shit-kickin’ country gal, in cowboy boots, frayed Levi’s cutoffs, and a Daisy Duke tight white T-shirt. Georgia ordered those T-shirts by the dozen so Lon could rip them off as he pleased.

  Then there was Sheriff Bill, who preferred his Friday night loving as bland and flavorless as grocery-store pound cake. For one night of the week, Georgia got to experience married life, as she imagined it: lights off, radio on low, no sound of any kind save for his muffled grunting. They had to be quiet, as if there were children in the next room. Sheriff Bill was always on top, never took off his V-neck undershirt, kissed her dryly as he finished, climbed off and immediately started putting on his pants.

  Sheriff Bill was crucial to her business plan, or she’d have eased him out of the schedule long ago. Ted Horn was so much more fun: Mr. Take Your Time, Mr. Tie Me Up and Make Me Pay the Price, Mister Ol’ Horny Horndog himself. Ted encouraged her imagination. She got to apply a variety of implements—a feather duster, a spatula, an old silver fork with rounded-off tines. She approached the problem like a scientist in a laboratory: a Slinky, an egg timer, a series of battery-powered appliances from the Adult Superstore in Mobile…

  Ted was exceedingly sensitive. And he liked to be surprised. Once she got him spread-eagle and tied to the bed with the hood zipped shut, surprising him was easy.

  The hard part, of course, was that Georgia had to do all the work. Ted just lay there and thrashed and groaned over the strains of Def Leppard, Van Halen, whatever eighties hair band she put on for him. Then there was the time they got frisky with the candle wax and glitter. Tiny sparkles kept showing up in the most unexpected places for months.

  At some point Ted would decide to throw aside the toys and get down to business—but not right away. He liked for Georgia to take him right up to the edge, and keep him there—

  —and hold him there…

  —and hold it…

  Personally, Georgia thought that level of tension would drive her mad. But Wednesday night was Ted’s night, and Ted liked it tense. Sometimes his face got so red it concerned her, but he rattled off this long Latin name for the underlying medical condition and told her not to worry.

  Tonight all the wine and martinis made him redder and more vocal than usual. Double-glazed windows could only do so much. Georgia cranked up Bon Jovi, “Livin’ on a Prayer.”

  Ted was one of those Southern straight men who seems kind of gay when you meet him—a mama’s boy, slightly effeminate in his speech, with a flair for dramatic expression. Ted wasn’t as gay acting as Tommy the Dixie Florist, but then, who was? Around town there were whispers about Ted, a kind of don’t-ask-don’t-tell attitude that even if he was “that way,” he was a good doctor, kept his private life to himself, and did whatever he did out of town. That’s all Six Points asked of people like that. You can do what you want, as the saying went, just don’t shove it in my face. Ted had never married; he was never seen to go on a date; Georgia was the only one in town who knew that behind closed doors, Ted Horn was a raving heterosexual.

  At the moment, he was rattling the windowpanes. Georgia stuffed a handkerchief in his mouth. That struck him as funny and he started chuckling. She slapped him lightly on the cheek and told him to hush. He laughed harder.

  Ted was naturally ginger all over. Every part of him flushed where she pressed a finger. Any investigator would be able to lift her fingerprints off that skin, pale and translucent as a slice of lunch-meat turkey.

  He was laughing so hard she thought he might choke on the handkerchief. She yanked it out.

  “Ahrrr.” Now he was a pirate. “Ya naughty wicked hoor!”

  “Aw now, don’t you go starting again! Look at you still poking up. You are so bad, Ted. So bad.”

  “Yeah I know, it’s kinda getting—what is it now, three times tonight?”

  “Four,” she said.

  He laughed. “But who’s counting?”

  “I am. It’s four.” She folded her arms. “It’s enough. Tell that thing to go down.”

  “I don’t have much influence, apparently.” Ted bobbed his head up from the table to have a look. His range of motion was limited by the hood and the chain.

  Georgia sighed. “Sorry, Horndog. I can’t believe I’m going to have to send you home with a boner, but I am all out of tricks.” She unzipped his hood and slid it off.

  He blinked up at her, his sweaty red hair plastered to his skull. “I’m not trying to do this, I swear.”

  “I believe you,” she said. “Do you think—I hate to even say it.”

  “What?”

  “Well, you’re the doctor. The four-hour thing. You know.”

  “No way it’s been four hours,” he said.

  She glanced to the digital clock in its discreet niche behind the bowl and pitcher. “Almost,” she said. “Time flies when you’re having a good time.”

  Ted moved to sit up but got pronged in the stomach, and lay back down.

  His problem wasn’t that thick, but it was long and skinny, bright red, throbbing and bobbing like an angry buoy on a pale-ginger sea.

  “Think about baseball,” she said.

  “For some reason that never works for me.”

  “What if you stand up,” she said. “And let the blood run down to your feet.”

  That made them both laugh, but not for long. It was becoming apparent that Ted’s condition had nothing to do with anything going on in his head. That thing was standing tall and proud on its own. Ted’s face gradually changed from half-drunken glee to a kind of bemusement, then a puzzled expression that evolved into real concern.

  He went into the bathroom, bearing his extremity before him. He spent quite a while in there, doing whatever men do to make the thing go down. But when he came back it was the same.

  Georgia tightened the sash on her robe. “Should I look for that sheet of paper with the side effects? I’m
sure I’ve got one around here somewhere.”

  “I don’t need that, I prescribe it every day,” said Ted. “You have no idea how many of your friends and neighbors…” He didn’t finish the thought.

  She said, “You’ve seen this before?”

  “No. It’s a fairly rare condition. Despite all the advertising.”

  “How do you treat it?”

  He winced. “You don’t want to know. Hell—I know, and I don’t want to know.”

  “It’s that bad?”

  “All options involve either a needle or a scalpel. You have to drain the blood, is the idea.”

  “Dear God.” Georgia clasped her hands together.

  He rolled onto his side. Man-o’-War thudded against the mattress. “What time is it?”

  “Ten minutes to twelve.”

  “Oh Jesus, that’s more than four hours. I took that pill just after seven, before I left the house.”

  Anxious minutes of deliberation while Ted waited for the thing to unhappen. He described the permanent damage that could result from ignoring the condition. You could damage blood vessels, ruin the tiny valves that control the hydraulics, leaving yourself unable to… If there was anybody who treasured that ability, it was Ted.

  Georgia went to the bathroom for aspirin. Ted crushed two and put them under his tongue. He didn’t think it would work. The problem wasn’t that the blood needed thinning, but that the tiny valves had stuck shut, trapping the blood where it was no longer required.

  Ted considered going to his office. He had all the tools to do the job on himself. But he was afraid that no matter how deftly he administered the anesthetic, the pain would be so bad he might pass out with the ultrasharp blade in his hand, and do irreversible damage.

  Georgia offered to stand beside him and steady his hand, but Ted said he didn’t think he could do it.

  He wanted to call the hospital to see who was on night duty in the ER. There was no phone in the apartment, and Georgia couldn’t very well send him to the house wagging his tail in front of him. She got dressed and went to make the call herself.

  She didn’t give her name, just said she was trying to reach Dr. Horn. The nurse said Dr. Horn was not on duty tonight, Dr. Have-a-Cherry was.

  “Doctor who?” Georgia said.

  “Have-a-Cherry,” the nurse said.

  “Is that someone’s name?”

  “Close as I’m gonna get,” said the nurse. Georgia recognized the voice of Susan DeShields, who’d been working in the emergency room the night Daddy died. It was all she could do to keep from saying, “Hey Susan!”

  Susan said, “Would you like to speak to the doctor?”

  Georgia said yes. Before he came to the phone, she hung up.

  Climbing the steps to the apartment, she thought about her one inviolate rule, the rule that had allowed her to maintain perfect secrecy through the years. Never, ever did she meet a man anywhere but in the apartment, at the appointed hour, after dark. Never did she allow one of them to take her anywhere—no romantic drives in the country, no midnight suppers at the all-night diner in Butler, no innocent strolls at the state park boat landing. If she ran into one of the men on the street, or at a social function, fine. He’d be with his wife, and Georgia would chat them up like the casual acquaintances they were supposed to be.

  She returned to find Ted scooched forward on the velvet armchair, frowning down. Georgia relayed what the nurse had said.

  “That’s the new resident, the young Indian guy from UAB,” Ted said. “He does seem very sharp.” He forced a grin. “Better sharp than dull, anyway.”

  “Oh Ted, isn’t there any other way?”

  “Believe me, honey, if there was, I wouldn’t be considering this.” His laugh contained a note of real fear. “You gotta drive me there, and he’s gotta lance this thing.”

  “I’m sorry. I can’t do that. You’ll have to drive yourself.”

  He frowned. “I don’t think I can get behind the wheel.”

  “You’re going to have to figure out a way.”

  “Aw come on, sugar,” he said. “You don’t have to go in. Just drop me off. I can find my own way home from there.”

  There had to be some other option. Georgia couldn’t think of one. Six Points hadn’t had taxi service since Bobby Higginbotham went to jail for DUI. “What if somebody sees us?” she said.

  “Oh for God’s sake, Georgia, don’t you think this qualifies as an emergency? We’re single, we’re grown-ups, I don’t see what the—”

  “No, Ted.” She folded her arms. “Absolutely not.”

  “Why not?”

  “Ambulance service is not a part of our arrangement. We cannot be seen in public together—especially you in this condition. You’re not the only one with a reputation.”

  “You’re the one responsible for this condition,” he snapped. “The least you could do is drive me to the goddamn hospital.”

  His face was getting redder. Rule Number One had just run head-on into Rule Number Two: Never get into a disagreement with a client.

  “You took that pill before you came over, Ted,” she said calmly. “Is it really fair to blame me?”

  He stared down at his predicament. “You’re right, honey, it’s not your fault. If you could give me a towel or something I could wrap around me… I don’t think I can get those pants on.”

  Georgia felt her determination fading. “I thought all you men went around like this all the time anyway.”

  A wan smile came to his face.

  “Sorry,” she said. “It’s not all that funny, is it?”

  “Actually it’s kind of starting to ache,” he said.

  “Poor baby,” said Georgia. “I don’t think a towel’s gonna work. Let’s just take this sheet here—” She whipped the flat sheet off the bed, draped it around his shoulders, and stood him up. By draping and tucking, she managed to arrange a kind of toga, loosely hanging so as to conceal the protuberance.

  She disguised herself with sunglasses and a fringed brown silk scarf from the seven-drawer highboy. In the mirror she looked like a sixties Italian movie star trying to avoid the paparazzi.

  She stuffed Ted’s clothes in a Hull’s Market sack and hurried him down to his car, checking both ways before waving him into the alley.

  He tried, he really did try to get behind the wheel, to spare her having to go. The steering wheel of his Hyundai was adjustable up and down, but he couldn’t reach the pedals without causing unbearable pressure.

  Finally Georgia ordered him to move his butt over and slid behind the wheel.

  He was pleased. In the last analysis she’d had to admit this was partly her fault—she had been encouraging that erection for hours.

  Her job now was to stay vigilant and avoid making eye contact with anybody. Drop Ted, park his car in the hospital lot, and walk home. If anyone saw her, she would raise her arms and pump her elbows like a fitness walker.

  The hospital was on Catawba Street, which went one way south from the courthouse. There was no way to get there without going through the square. Just after midnight, there were still dog walkers strolling, a Mexican boy hosing the sidewalk in front of the diner, a crowd of teenagers loitering at the video arcade.

  Ted sank down in the passenger seat and pulled the sheet over his head. Probably he thought he was doing Georgia a favor. He didn’t notice the sheriff’s car tucked into the dark alley beyond the hardware store. A deputy sat watching the teenagers for signs of dope smoking.

  Before Georgia knew what was happening, blue lights filled her rearview, a siren bloo-woop! The deputy must have seen the flash of white in the passenger side. He flipped on his lights and whipped around in a U-turn to zoom up behind Georgia with flashers and super–high beams glaring.

  “Oh Jesus,” she said, “don’t you stop me. Ted. He’s stopping me.”

  “Did you run the stop sign?”

  “No!”

  “Well what did you do?”

  “Nothing!” Georgia
flipped on her blinker to indicate her willingness to pull over, but she didn’t pull over quite yet, she kept coasting along until she was well out of the lights of the square. The deputy hit his siren again, an impatient brooop! Georgia pulled to a stop beside the dark stretch of woods backing up to Swaney Johnson’s place.

  When she saw who it was in the rearview mirror, she said, “Let me do the talking.” Leon Bulmer was the man Sheriff Bill Allred had hired to satisfy the affirmative action laws of the state of Alabama. After years of litigation, the state had finally ordered Bill to round out his force with at least one African-American deputy. Bill went out and found the whitest Negro he could find, Leon Bulmer of Geneva, whose father was pure redneck Caucasian and whose mother couldn’t have been more than cream-colored. Leon was lighter than most white people—a bit chalky, even. If not for his slightly flat nose and the kink in his hair, you would never guess he was black.

  He was kind of a goof, too.

  “Hey Leon,” she sang. “It’s Georgia Bottoms.”

  “Miss Georgia? What in the world?” Leon played his flashlight over the sheet from which Ted Horn was peeking. “What’s going on here?”

  “Don’t you recognize Dr. Horn? We were over at the mayor’s house at a costume party.” Georgia hated to drag Krystal’s name into it, but the story needed a shot of authority just then.

  “A party? At this time of night?”

  “Well sure,” Georgia said. “A midnight costume supper. In honor of Bastille Day.” Leon would never realize Bastille Day was weeks ago, mid-July. Georgia could have been a great actress, she thought. She believed the story, even as she was making it up.

  “I saw that white sheet and you know what my first thought was,” said Deputy Bulmer. “I didn’t want to believe it. Not in this town.”

  “Oh, no no no,” Georgia said. “He’s a Roman senator, see? And I’m his Italian movie-star date.”

  “Leon,” said Ted, “you didn’t really think I was a Ku Klucker, did you?”

  “For a minute there, I sure did, Dr. Horn,” Leon said, chuckling.