Georgia Bottoms

by Mark Childress

  The air in the community center must have been too cool and dry to conduct mind signals. Krystal tugged her lapels, stepped to the podium, and spread out a speech of many pages. The ladies around Georgia wilted. Punch and cookies were the chief attraction at an event like this, and it was awful to think of that much speech before the first bite of anything.

  Georgia gave up trying to be subtle. She waved a hand at Krystal, made a clownish face, and drew a finger across her throat.

  Krystal was looking straight at her but didn’t appear to notice. She focused her gaze on the pages on the lectern. “Good morning, ladies, and thank you for inviting me,” she said. “Let me first say that I always thought ‘ABC’ was a hit record by the Jackson 5. But now, from what I understand, in some corners of Six Points it has come to mean ‘Anybody but Crystal.’ I’d like to remind you that I spell my name with a K.”

  She looked up for a laugh that never came. A lady coughed, way in back.

  What a lame opening line! Georgia marveled—and she was Krystal’s best friend. Imagine what was going through the other women’s heads!

  Krystal was headed for disaster. Georgia could not just sit there and let it happen. She hadn’t felt an urge this urgent since the day she rose from her pew to stop Preacher Eugene from blurting the truth.

  She raised her hand. “Excuse me, Krystal, can I ask you the same question I asked Dr. Roudy? Tell us about your experience in city government.”

  Krystal frowned. “Yes, Georgia, I plan to get to that. If you let me. If you could, please, hold your questions till I’m through.”

  That was a bit rude. Some ladies sucked in air. Everyone knew Georgia was Krystal’s best friend. Georgia thought most of them recognized she was only trying to save Krystal.

  Krystal wouldn’t take well to further interruption. But if Georgia didn’t stop her, she was going to ruin herself.

  Georgia said, “I don’t think we want to hear some long speech, do we? Just tell us what you’ve done, and what you plan to do.”

  A murmur spread through the audience, a positive hum of agreement.

  “Do you want to come up here and do this for me?” Now Krystal was pissed. She seemed to have no idea why Georgia might be trying to stop her. Georgia couldn’t think of a way to explain in front of everyone without causing her even more embarrassment.

  Maribeth Parker cleared her throat. “If the mayor’s gone to all the trouble to prepare a speech,” she said archly, “I for one would love to hear it.”

  Oh drop dead, Maribeth Parker, Georgia thought. She was just like that in tenth-grade biology, too. A monumental suck-up.

  “Sorry, Maribeth,” she murmured, “of course you’re right, never mind—please go ahead, Miz Mayor.”

  Smoothing her skirt, Georgia fixed her eyes on a place where the floor tiles were laid slightly crooked. She was thinking what a burden it is to be right all the time—right, yet unable to convince anybody. Doesn’t that indicate a failure of character? What good is it to be right if you have no influence? If everyone ignores you? You might as well be wrong.

  Also she thought: I love Krystal as much as anybody on earth. But to love Krystal is to know that sometimes she can be a pigheaded fool. Now that Georgia had failed to stop her, her job as a best friend was to sit quietly and let Krystal make an ass of herself. And still be her friend when it was over.

  “Sometimes you think you know a person,” Krystal began. “Someone who’s lived among you all their lives, you’ve said hello to as you passed in the street, and thought, hey, isn’t she nice. Then come to find out there’s a side of her you didn’t really know at all. Folks, I wish Madeline Roudy had stayed around to face the music, but I imagine she left because she knew what was coming. Frankly, I don’t think she had the courage to stick around. Because I’m here to tell you honestly that Madeline Roudy is not quite the person you think you know.”

  That’s how it started. It went downhill from there.

  Every now and then Krystal would veer close to a specific accusation—for a moment it seemed she was about to reveal a criminal past, or at least a nasty divorce—but then she would veer off again, leaving only a mist of innuendo. Without quite saying it, she implied that Madeline Roudy was nefarious in some way, a liar who had misrepresented herself.

  Nervous tics were breaking out in the seats all around Georgia. Evelyn Manning propped her head against her index finger as if it were a gun she would like to use. No one wanted to hear the mayor ragging on the nice black lady doctor. For Krystal to roll on with her assault as if Roudy were still there to defend herself? Huge mistake.

  Georgia closed her ears. She couldn’t listen to one more word. A true friend would tune out the other friend now.

  The speech went on for about a month. A couple of phrases floated into Georgia’s ears, despite her efforts to block them: “Brought down shame on the whole community,” and later, “Without a shred of evidence to the contrary!”

  Poor Krystal. Bless your heart, you won’t be mayor anymore. That’s okay. We’ll find you a nice job, a better job, where you won’t be slaving away nights and weekends for an ungrateful citizenry. And good luck to you, Madeline Roudy! Georgia thought bitterly. You’ll be wishing for something as easy as a clinic full of sick kids!

  By the time Krystal’s speech was over, even the ladies with good posture had slumped in their seats. The cookies slumped against the glass of the plate. The bubbles went out of the punch.

  No one clapped, or asked any questions. No one wanted to prolong it by even one second. Krystal thanked them all for coming. The ladies smiled tight smiles and mobbed the door trying to get out. Several of them sidled up to Georgia to murmur “She should have listened to you” and the like, but this was just irritating. Where were they when she stuck her neck out?

  From the visual darts Krystal was flinging at her, Georgia knew she was still mad. Not surprising. Krystal had failed, and she needed someone to blame. What a best friend does in this situation is hang around until everyone else is gone, so Krystal can rant and rave and blame it all on you. That’s why Georgia hung around, anyway—to get what she knew was coming to her. Certainly she did not expect to get thanked.

  Krystal walked across the indoor-outdoor carpet and stuck out her hand like a politician introducing herself. “I want to thank you,” she said, with a firm grip on Georgia’s hand. “Thanks for showing me who you really are. I never would have believed it. Now I do.”

  Georgia was stunned. “Come on, Krys, don’t say that. I’m sorry.”

  “You can’t put the genie back in the bottle,” Krystal said.

  “Me and my big mouth,” said Georgia. “I regretted it the instant the words were out of my—”

  Krystal exploded. “Get the hell out of my face! I’m not interested in your apology!”

  Georgia backed up a step. My God—Krystal was livid! Face all twisted to one side. Her eyes shining with anger.

  “I know I should have kept my mouth shut,” Georgia stammered, “but I was only trying to keep you from—”

  “You sabotaged me on purpose! Of course they hated me, they would have hated anybody after you did that. ‘Please not another one of your long-ass speeches, Krystal, can you spare us the long-ass speech?’ ”

  “I did not say that!” Georgia was beginning to get her back up. “Not exactly. I was trying to stop you from making a fool of yourself.”

  “Oh no. Quite the opposite.”

  “Hey, you know what? This is really inappropriate, for you to be mad at me!” Georgia’s voice pitched way up high—it surprised her, how panicky she sounded. She would never have opened her mouth if she’d suspected Krystal would misunderstand this badly. “I tried to warn you before you started, I gave you all the high signs in the world. You saw me but you ignored me. I was trying to tell you, those women did not want to hear you tearing down Madeline Roudy. They loved her. Did you even notice that? No.”

  “Last night you said it was a good idea to go on the offe
nse.”

  “Last night it was a good idea,” said Georgia. “Then Roudy came in and charmed the pants off everybody. Were you completely oblivious?”

  “I’ve had it with you!” Krystal stormed. “Damn it! It’s your fault she’s running against me in the first place!”

  “My fault?” Georgia was mystified. “What the hell?”

  “Because you made her mad—you know what I’m talking about! That time at Hull’s Market. She’s only running against me to get back at you!”

  “God, that is so junior high school,” said Georgia. “You’re trying to put this whole thing on me? Because that’s just not fair.”

  Krystal said, “Oh why don’t you just fuck off!”

  Krystal said that.

  The word echoed and rang off the cinder block walls and the flat carpet.

  Georgia had never heard that word out of Krystal’s mouth. Even quoting someone, she always substituted “the F word.”

  But she said it now. Then turned on her heel and rushed from the room.

  The outer door slammed so hard Georgia thought the glass would surely shatter.

  For a moment the room went pale. Georgia thought she was going to faint for real. Blood drummed in her ears. She sank down in a folding chair.

  The right side of her face stung. As if she’d been slapped. Fuck off. Her best friend had said that to her. Good Lord. This was a new day. A territory she never expected to enter.

  Georgia got up from the chair and went outside. Krystal’s car was gone, the parking lot deserted. Irma Winogrand stood under the eave, smoking, staring out at the pine woods. “Did your mother find you?” Irma said.

  Georgia turned. “I’m sorry?”

  “She was looking for you. Seemed kind of upset. I told her you were in there. Didn’t she come inside?”

  “You sure it was my mother?”

  “Georgia.” Irma took a drag on her cig. “I’ve only known Little Mama my whole life. She looks pretty good, too. ’Cept she forgot to change out of her bedroom slippers.”

  “The pink ones?”

  Irma nodded. “Bunny rabbits.”

  Georgia’s heart filled with dread. Mama had been out of the house exactly twice in a year—once to accompany Georgia to the prison, and once to the doctor. She made Georgia handle all interaction with the world. That way nobody noticed her “memory problem,” which she still insisted was mostly in Georgia’s mind.

  Irma said, “Poor old Krystal. You tried to save her from herself. But she wouldn’t listen.”

  “I know,” Georgia said. She could think of lots of other things to say, but not to Irma Winogrand.

  “Nobody’s gonna vote for her now,” Irma said. “That was just… ungracious.” She shook her head in disgust, as if ungracious was the worst thing you could be.

  Georgia found herself springing to Krystal’s defense—never mind that Krystal had just attacked her. “Aw, she didn’t mean it that way. Krystal gets frustrated because she’s worked so hard, and done such a good job as mayor. And nobody seems to notice.”

  “Maybe so,” Irma said, “but that ain’t the way to go about it.”

  “When was Mama here?”

  “Not five minutes ago,” said Irma. “I thought she went in there with you. Is she all right, Georgia?”

  Georgia worked to keep her voice light. “Oh, she’s fine. She just forgets.”

  Irma blew out a cloud of blue smoke. “Hell, I wish I could forget.”

  Georgia cruised the streets near the community center, looking for Little Mama. She swung by the Pik-N-Pay. Frances hadn’t seen her. She looped back by the house, parked in the alley. She found the back door standing open, all that expensive A/C pouring out into the hot afternoon.

  She made a quick check of the rooms. No sign of Little Mama.

  A truly caring daughter would be getting hysterical by now. Georgia was not that worried; her heart was still racing from the confrontation with Krystal.

  There was something so awful and definitive in the way Krystal had slammed that door.

  Georgia didn’t even want to think what it could mean. She could not imagine a world in which Krystal was no longer her best friend.

  She went to her car, drove out of the alley to the front of the house. Here came Little Mama shuffling up the sidewalk as if wandering the streets was her daily routine.

  Georgia rolled down her window. “Mama, what in the world?”

  Mama leveled her finger at Georgia’s nose. “I been looking for you.”

  “What for?”

  Mama indicated the house with a flourish. “A nigger tried to break into the house,” she said.

  “Say what?”

  “Big tall one. He was trying to come in the front door. He saw me through the glass and got to bangin’ and whalin’ on the door. I thought he was going to bust it down.”

  “You are making this up,” Georgia said. “Get in, I’ll drive you up the hill.”

  “I’m not going back up there,” Mama said. “He might still be there.”

  “I said get in the car.” Georgia didn’t often order her mother around. Little Mama came meekly around the front bumper and got in.

  Georgia had learned to deal with extreme forgetfulness. She wasn’t sure she was ready for full-blown delusions. “If you thought somebody was trying to break in, why’d you go off and leave the back door wide open?” She looked over her shoulder to execute the three-point turn.

  “That nig must have seen me leave, and broke in again.”

  “Why did you leave?”

  “I don’t remember,” Mama said.

  “Think about it. You left home because… you were looking for me?”

  “For somebody. Maybe it was you. But why would I be looking for you?”

  “To tell me somebody was trying to break in?”

  Mama said, “Could you give it a rest with all these questions? I’m exhausted.”

  “Okay, but—”

  “Georgia! That’s enough!”

  Georgia drove up the hill thinking the whole thing was just another load of hooey from the dump truck that never stopped giving. But when she glanced at the front door she saw a young black man leaning against it.

  She hit the brakes so hard her tires chirped.

  He stood with arms folded, as if he was waiting for her. She was struck by the casual insolence of his pose. He wasn’t trying not to be seen.

  He must have been standing there when Georgia was around back, looking through the house.

  “Is that the guy, Mama?”

  “Lord, he’s come back!” Mama cried. “Back up! Back up! Get away! Go!”

  “Would you be quiet? He can hear you.”

  He refolded his arms and cocked one foot against the other ankle. He was a tall, good-looking young man—awfully young, she saw, as she got a closer look. A boy with a pretty face.

  Georgia rolled down her window. “Can I help you?”

  He just stared at her.

  “Hello?” Georgia said. “Were you trying to break into our house?”

  He didn’t say a word. He wore his oversized black windbreaker zipped up to the neck (in this heat!), baggy oversized basketball shorts of shiny polyester, and the largest sneakers Georgia had ever seen, huge black boats with a white stripe to match the stripe on the jacket sleeves. The boy’s legs tapered like skinny brown pipes into those shoes. On one shoulder he carried a black nylon backpack.

  Georgia had just about decided to be scared after all when he said “No” in a soft dry voice that wasn’t the least bit scary.

  She got out of the car. “How can we help you?”

  “Omnay,” he said.

  “What?”

  “Omnay. F’na’walyins.”

  After a few more exchanges like this, she told him to stop talking like he had marbles in his mouth. He tried again. This time she made out, “I’m Nate from New Orleans.”

  “Nate?” she said. “I don’t know any Nate.”

  The boy said,
“Nathan.”

  “Nathan? You mean… you’re…”

  She felt as if she’d fallen over backward. But she was still standing upright.

  No wonder she thought he was pretty. Look at that face! That was Georgia’s face, blended with Skiff’s face.

  It was the weirdest sensation, like looking into a mirror and seeing two faces overlapping.

  Dear God, this was Georgia’s son.

  Her own flesh and blood—her own black son standing there with his arms crossed, mouth turned up skeptically at one corner.

  A huge smile opened up on her face. “Well hey, Nathan!” She should open her arms and embrace him—but how could she, with Little Mama watching from the car?

  Inside, Georgia was dying. Inside, she was crying out, No! But she did not want him to think she was not glad to see him.

  “You must be hungry,” she said.

  His eyes came to life.

  “Lucky for you I can cook,” said Georgia. “Come on in this house.”

  For a minute, she had been too shocked to know what to do. But now she knew: feed him, give him a bed for the night, then put him on the next bus to New Orleans. Little Mama wouldn’t remember him for long, and no one else would ever have to know.

  15

  It took ten minutes to coax Little Mama out of the car into the house. Casting a baleful glance at the tall black boy hunched over the kitchen table, she muttered “Never in all my born days!” and fled to her room.

  Nathan barely glanced up. He was fully engaged in his first round of eating. Georgia remembered Eugenia complaining about his appetite. If anything the old lady had understated it.

  Georgia went up to tell Little Mama about her old high-school chum Dorothy Blanchard, a person she invented on her way up the stairs. Poor Dorothy had recently died, she explained, of very sad natural causes, and this was her son Nathan come to Six Points to look for a job.