Do not be angry with me. You knew in your heart you could not walk down this road forever. You knew one day a reckoning would come.
Today is that day.
Together we will find a new life for you—a better life.
You Know Who
P.S. This one’s for Brenda
20
Georgia read the letter over and over, thinking she would see the word she had missed, one word that would reveal the whole thing to be some kind of gigantic joke.
She would never forget how sunlight streamed through the wavery glass of her bedroom window. Sparkles of dust danced like tiny diamonds in a column of light. It was a moment of uncanny beauty, little jewels floating and sparkling, here in the middle of the room on this day. In a weird way it made Georgia feel grateful to still be alive.
She knew something drastic had just happened, the equation of her life changed forever. As if she had been in a terrible accident but by some miracle survived. Screeching tires, the airless moment before impact, the smash of metal on metal—all that was over. She was alive. Still breathing. She had no idea how badly she was hurt because it was too soon, she hadn’t even crawled out of the wreck.
She folded the bills in the crease of the paper, and slid it back into the envelope. She sat awhile on the edge of the bed, holding the envelope.
Then she finished mopping the floor. She did not turn on the radio.
She went to her bathroom, poured the mop water in the toilet, flushed it, sprayed lemon-scented cleanser, and got down on her knees to scrub the toilet with the brush. Without knowing she was going to, she burst into tears.
She clung bawling to the side of the tub until she was able to stop.
She sat on her knees for a while, collecting herself. Then she washed out the tub, aiming the spray of the showerhead around the shower to hose off the soap.
She splashed her face with water, and blotted it on one of her fancy guest towels.
Georgia knew she was weeping for the sudden death of the crush. That was the truth. If that made her an awful, shallow woman, so be it amen.
The worst pain was not that her secret had been discovered, or that Georgia the trickster had been tricked. The worst was knowing she would never be in love with Brent Colgate, and he was never in love with her. She had thrilled at the allover feeling, the breathless, light-headed giddiness. It had been a long time since she’d walked around on a cushion of lighter-than-air.
Now she knew there had never been anything real about it, not one moment. When she was snuggling into the soft blond fur on his chest, breathing his scent of sweat and Old Spice, dreaming of their future together, he had already written the letter.
He knew all about Eugene from Brenda. He found out about Ted the night he ran into Georgia outside the emergency room. But how did he know about the “Honorable Judge”? Last night must not have been his first time hiding in the bushes, spying on her. What else did he know?
Georgia’s mind whirled, going back over every encounter they’d ever had since the first time, getting out of his K car in the courthouse square. Now all those seemingly random encounters felt tainted. The night in the hospital parking lot—maybe he wasn’t there visiting parishioners, as he’d claimed. Maybe he was following Georgia.
A shiver ran up her spine. For a person who lived a secret life, she had never spent much time looking over her shoulder.
The sensible thing, her first reaction, was to go along with his instructions. How hard would it be?
Think of it as a business proposal.
Number one, tell the other men you’re out of business. Well okay, she could do that—or pretend to, until she figured out some way to get rid of Brent. Then she could pick up where she left off.
Item three was easy. To “tell no one” was Georgia’s natural inclination in all things, anyway. As for number four, she’d been going to church every Sunday her whole life without any reminders from him.
The sticking point was item number two: make yourself available to him anytime, day or night. Be his slave. His drop-in girl. Always on call. At a 100 percent discount.
Just think—before the mop dragged that envelope out into the daylight, Georgia would have been delighted to give herself completely to Brent Colgate. She’d been trying to think of ways to make herself available to him.
Now the idea of being touched by him, or touching him, seemed worse than anything she’d ever done in the pursuit of her career.
Worse than sleeping with Rev. Onus L. Satterfield for the money, while doing it with his son Billy for fun.
Worse than enduring Sheriff Bill’s grunts and silence, Judge Barnett’s garlic breezes, Ted Horn’s peccadilloes, Jimmy Lee Newton’s casual slaps on the ass.
Through the years Georgia had become very good at doing whatever she had to do. Oh yes. She had learned to grit her teeth, close her eyes, and get through it. She was a strong woman with powerful skills of denial and repression.
Perhaps she could entertain herself with the sight of Brent’s pretty face. After a while she might even come to enjoy it, and almost forget he ever wrote that letter.
Georgia heard a car come into the yard. Her first thought was, He’s come back for his first installment. Panic fluttered up in her heart.
She stole to the French doors, back pressed to the wall. From this angle she could see all the way to the end of the driveway.
A forest-green Subaru wagon, the most practical car in Six Points. GRRL MYR.
Krystal climbed slowly out of the driver’s seat, peering up at the house. She had changed into a blue work shirt and jeans. Her hair was wet from the shower.
Georgia’s heart was still pounding, residual panic. She wondered how she could possibly summon the strength to talk Krystal out of leaving.
She threw open the window. “Hey, you.”
Krystal craned her head around to locate her. “Hey.”
“Come on up.”
Krystal considered. “Listen, George, I really need to hit the road. I’m driving all the way to Atlanta. I was just going to call you, but they switched off my phone.”
“Come in for a minute. I made coffee.”
Krystal shook her head. “Thanks, I don’t want any long goodbyes.”
“Me neither,” said Georgia. “At least let me come down and give you a hug.”
“Now you’re the one who wants a hug.” Krystal sighed. “Can’t we just do this nice and clean? I know you don’t want me to go. I don’t either, but I have to.”
“But why?”
Krystal hesitated.
“Stay right there,” Georgia said. “I’m coming.”
She hurried downstairs. She knew what to do: coax Krystal into the kitchen, pour her coffee (black, two sugars), introduce her to Nathan (“Krystal, this is my black son”), then turn on all her powers of friendship and seduction to convince Krystal that no other place was as good as right here, no friend on earth as reliable as Georgia, no lights in any big city shining as warmly as the lights of Six Points.
By the time she got outside Krystal was in the Subaru with the motor running.
“Wait,” Georgia said, “there’s some things I have to tell you.”
“I’ll call when I get there.” Krystal adjusted the outside mirror. Her eyes came up to Georgia’s. “You look great, Georgia. You always look great. I hate you.”
“No you don’t,” Georgia said.
“No I don’t,” Krystal said. “I’ll call you.” Her window went up.
“Wait!” said Georgia.
Krystal backed down the drive.
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 drivew
ay 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.
21
Mama and Nathan were still snoring in their rooms long after Georgia got up and drank coffee, sca
nned 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.