Georgia mouthed the words. Brenda turned her head to cast a little smirk at her.
He’ll forgive your transgressions,
And remember them no more
“Hear the word of the Lord, Jeremiah 13:27,” the reverend intoned. “ ‘I have seen your adulteries, and your lustful neighings… the lewdness of your harlotry, your abominations on the hills and in the fields. Woe to you, O Jerusalem! Will you still not be made clean?’ ”
Georgia saw people shifting in their pews. The First Baptist congregation was not used to that much naughty talk on Sunday morning. Nothing in Brent’s previous sermons had prepared them for this ringing assault on fornication, employing all the bad words in the Bible.
“Jeremiah is angry,” Brent said. “Angry at the people of Jerusalem. He excoriates them for the degeneracy of their lifestyle choices. Imagine if he came back to earth today! If he landed in Las Vegas and saw that the biggest shrines in America are monuments to gambling, sinning, greed, sexual excess. Imagine if Jeremiah came to earth in San Francisco, and saw the man holding hands with the man—unashamed!—in the public square. Or if Jeremiah came here, my friends—imagine he came to Six Points today, expecting to find good Christian people of Alabama, and finding instead a town riddled with harlots, and wastrels, adulterers, pretenders who live among us in complete hypocrisy—coming to church week after week posing as pillars of the community…”
Georgia remembered Eugene wincing at his wife for saying “pillow” instead of “pillar”…
“… all while committing the most grievous, the most cunning forms of sin and debauchery seen on earth since the Caesars of Rome.”
The last time a sermon went this far off the tracks, Georgia fainted to put an end to it. She didn’t think that would work this time.
“… as if they are the very salt of the earth, instead of devils in a lovely disguise. As the Lord tells us in Deuteronomy, ‘Thou shalt not bring the hire of a whore, or the price of a dog, into the house of the Lord thy God for any vow: for even both these are abomination unto the Lord thy God.’ ”
Georgia realized what she had to do.
At first she didn’t think she could do it. It seemed like an overreaction. Wouldn’t it be easier to sit here and pretend the sermon was not about her? That Brent Colgate had not just called her a whore, and a dog?
He could do this from now on, every Sunday, without end. As long as he was in this pulpit.
Brenda Hendrix beamed up at him with a beatific expression, as if he were preaching about kittens.
The sound of his voice faded to a droning rumble. Georgia gazed at the stained-glass medallion above the altar, glowing luxuriant deep shades of blue, ruby, and gold. Whenever it got too hot in here, Georgia liked to focus on the deep blue panes, imagine a swimming pool that color, and picture herself diving in.
Now, though, she was unable to summon any scene that peaceful. Her life had been turned upside down by one man. He had her under his thumb. He could play with her anytime he liked. And there was nothing Georgia could do about it.
Or so he believed.
There was one way.
It was scary as hell.
It was like burning down a house to get rid of the termites: you wouldn’t have a house anymore, but you would know for certain the termites were exterminated.
You had to really believe you had nothing to lose. Georgia was surprised to find she was already there.
She touched Nathan’s knee. “Go out to the car and wait for me,” she said. “Please don’t ask—just do it right now.”
It took Nathan only a moment to see she was serious. He frowned, a question in his eyes.
She nodded. “I’ll be right out, I promise.”
Every eye from the fifth row back watched the black boy stand up and edge out of the row, to the vestibule.
Reverend Colgate held up his arms. He had the wingspan of a buzzard. He asked everyone to turn to the hymn on page fifty-nine. “ ‘If We Confess Our Sins,’ ” he announced.
Georgia looked to make sure Nathan was gone. She stood up in her pew. “I want to confess,” she announced, in a voice no one could fail to hear.
A gasp all around. A squeak of benches as certain men shifted their weight. The ardent admirers of Brent Colgate looked confused.
Brent waved his hand for Ava Jean to play. She ignored him, transfixed by the sight of Georgia coming up the aisle toward the pulpit.
A hush fell over the room.
“Miss Georgia,” Brent said with a desperate smile. “Are you all right?”
“I want to confess everything,” she said. “Didn’t you just say confession is good for the soul?”
“Yes, but—why don’t we—” He waved vaguely toward the back of the church.
“Oh no, you’re not going to shut me up.” From her purse Georgia brought forth a cylinder of bills. She snapped off the rubber band and peeled off a hundred, a twenty, three fives. She counted them out on the open pages of Brent Colgate’s Bible.
“There’s your money back, Brent,” she said. “Y’all, I slept with this man, and he tried to pay me for it. Apparently he didn’t realize it was on the house. That’s me he was preaching about in his sermon.”
At least she had wiped that dopey smile off his face. He’d assumed Georgia had everything to lose, when in fact she was fully prepared to throw it all away.
His bemusement faded into transparent rage. He only stayed lost for words for a moment. The wheels behind his eyes began spinning, calculating a counterattack.
“Though your sins be as scarlet,” he said, “they shall be as white as snow. The devil is working his will through you, Georgia. He’s working inside you right now.”
“Everybody here knows me,” said Georgia. “They’ve known me all my life. They know I’m not a bad person.”
She turned to the congregation.
A few people smiled, embarrassed, and looked down. No one said a word.
That’s what a lifetime of faithful attendance gets you, she thought.
The smartest man in the room appeared to be Jimmy Lee Newton, who got up and rushed out the door, on the right side at the rear. The other men were hemmed in toward the front. There was Ted Horn, his face dangerously crimson. Judge Jackson Barnett and Sheriff Bill, trying to blend in with the wood grain of the pews. Lonnie Chapman chewing on his lip.
With fear in their eyes, they all begged her to keep their secret. Not one of them rose to defend her. Was that any surprise? Not at all. That was always the unspoken arrangement—if anything went wrong, it was always going to be Georgia taking the fall.
“Repent of your sins,” Brent was saying, “and ye shall enter the kingdom of heaven.”
“My sins?” Georgia’s voice rang. “My sins? Listen, buster, I have a pretty active love life, compared to some people. But I haven’t been doing it by myself.”
A buzz rose in the crowd.
“See, there’s Ted Horn right there, hey Ted,” she said, “and my good friend Jackson Barnett… Y’all saw Jimmy Lee Newton run out of here a minute ago. Over there’s Lonnie Chapman trying to be invisible, hey Lon. And our wonderful sheriff, Mr. Bill Allred. If you’re wondering why they all look so guilty, it’s because they are. Just as guilty as I am.”
All those marriages Georgia had been keeping together—all crashed onto the rocks at once. Mrs. Jackson Barnett smacked her husband’s face. Mrs. Bill Allred cried, “You hush those lies, Georgia Bottoms!” but the sheriff whispered something and she got real quiet. Poor Ted Horn, never meant to do any harm… but when Brent said the devil was working inside Georgia, Ted had been as happy as everyone else to sit mute.
As long as their secrets were safe, it was fine with them. No matter what happened to Georgia.
She had spent her whole life growing this garden of secrets, guarding them, tending them like dark flowers that only bloom at night. How powerful she felt yanking them up by the roots!
“For every one I named, there are two men in this room who asked me fo
r a date and I turned ’em down,” Georgia went on. “And in case you were wondering, that boy I brought to church today is my son. His name’s Nathan. He’s twenty years old. Yes, he’s black. Just like his daddy.”
“Y’all know it all now. Everything about me,” she said. “That’s all I’ve got. But you might be interested to know I haven’t been the only woman having a good time in Six Points. Brent? You might want to talk to your wife. What you think, Daphne, do you want to tell him, or should I?”
The elegant Mrs. Colgate tilted her slanty hairdo. “Make her stop, Brent! The woman is completely mad.”
“Not completely,” said Georgia. “At least I’m not dumb enough to leave my car parked in front of the No-Tell Motel next to Jimmy Hodges’s red pickup all afternoon, and expect the whole town not to know about it.”
That stirred a hum of agreement, as if everyone had already heard about it.
“That’s ridiculous!” Daphne cried. “I never did that, I don’t even know how to… drive.” As she said this last word, Daphne swung around to face her husband.
Brent looked away. Georgia followed his eyes—he couldn’t help a guilty glance at Jimmy Hodges, halfway back on the left. Jimmy’s face was as red as his truck.
In that instant Georgia knew she had it all wrong. It wasn’t Daphne at the No-Tell with Jimmy Hodges.
“Sorry, Brent,” she said. “That I really didn’t know.”
Brenda lunged up from her seat, roaring, “You shut up!”
Eugene caught her, dragged her back down. “That’s enough, Georgia,” he said in a bitter voice.
“Oh. Eugene. Now you’ve had enough? Here he is, folks—the fellow who started it all. Understand, Brent and Brenda are here to pay me back for having an affair with Eugene, when he was the preacher here.” She scanned the congregation. They couldn’t have looked any more shocked than they were already. Georgia wound up gazing straight into Brent Colgate’s beautiful eyes. “Now. What else do you want to know? Any more sins you want me to confess? ’Cause I told you, I am a sinner. Damn right. And I will be, to my dying day. Let me tell you one thing I’m not. I’m not a hypocrite.”
She turned on her heel and walked out.
22
Driving southwest from Six Points they passed through a region of tall pines and broad, grassy meadows, like horse country without horses. Here and there were some cows, a barn. Underpopulated west Alabama gave way to eastern Mississippi, which was emptier still. Georgia had plotted a circuitous route avoiding all big towns and any road wider than a two-lane. She did not want to meet any law enforcement officials who might be interested in the escaped convict poking her in the back with his knee.
All day they’d been tooling down country roads, stopping at broken-down stores for a Coke and some peanuts, a bathroom break for Mama, Fritos and cigarettes for Brother, a fresh-air stop for Nathan when Brother’s smoking made him queasy.
They crossed a sandy shallow river called the Chickasawhay—Brother made fun of all Indian names—and drove into a little town. “Okay we are now in Leakesville,” Brother announced, “which means we all gotta take a leak. Anybody? Leakesville?”
Little Mama said, “I wish somebody would tell me where you’re taking me.”
“We’ve only told you a hundred times,” Georgia said. “It’s no use, you’ll only forget.”
Nathan had more patience with her. “We’re going to Na’walyins, Ol’ Mama,” he said.
“I ain’t yo’ Mama,” said Little Mama. “You black as the ace of spades.”
Brother cracked up when she said that stuff, and soon he had Nathan laughing along, the two of them ganging up to make fun of her statements. Georgia felt a little protective—yes, Little Mama was a racist, couldn’t remember anything for longer than ten seconds, asked the same question twenty times, and kept re-noticing Nathan as if he had magically appeared for the first time. To Georgia that meant she was a sad case, deserving sympathy. Not a joke for rude boys to laugh about.
Georgia avoided driving on interstates even when she didn’t have an escapee in the car. The traffic went too fast, and you never got a sense of having been anywhere except behind the wheel. Once they got out of Six Points, there was no reason to be in a hurry. All day they meandered through Whatley and Grove Hill and Jackson and Chatham, over into Mississippi, to Beulah, where they ate burgers at an old-fashioned Dairy Queen.
Georgia folded the map to a new section. “I think if we follow 57 over here to McLain, then down here it hooks up with 26, we can veer over by Wiggins and on down to Kiln. That’ll put us on Highway 90 down around Bay St. Louis. From there it’s a straight shot into New Orleans.”
She got a little thrill every time she said the words. She could not believe she was finally going. All these years of wanting to go, visiting the place in the pages of magazines… Tonight she would be walking the actual streets.
She could treat them all to dinner at Antoine’s, she thought. Or Commander’s Palace. Galatoire’s. She had read about the menus in these fabled places. There was no end to the fancy preparations, butter and spices and wine. White tablecloths. Elegant waiters, third generation New Orleanians.
In a Civic with her mother, her brother, and her son was not the way she had envisioned herself arriving in New Orleans the first time. She always imagined walking down Royal Street on the arm of Lon Chapman, or some handsome guy. But that had never happened.
She thought of everything she had left behind in Six Points. That great big old pile of a house. So much stuff. She’d spent the last hours walking through, placing yellow sticky notes on things that would come on the truck. The rest of it was headed up to Charlie Ross in Montgomery, for their semiannual estate sale.
Georgia asked Shelley the real estate lady to wait until after they left, so Mama wouldn’t see the For Sale sign.
It’s amazing how fast you can undo your life, if you have the proper motivation.
Krystal called from Atlanta. She’d always wanted to see New Orleans, she said. She was looking forward to her first visit.
Georgia had to wait until Monday for the First National Bank to open. She told the girl she wanted to draw out every penny. Of course they didn’t have that much cash without opening the vault, which they couldn’t do because Lonnie Chapman had called in sick—surprise!
The only one who could authorize the transaction was Carole Miller, vice president. She came drifting in just after ten. It was ten thirty by the time Georgia got the money counted and stuffed into that fat zippered pouch.
After that the trip went smoothly, except for all the whining about the radio in the Honda, which had stopped working a couple weeks ago. You’d think it was cruel and inhuman punishment for Brother and Nathan to have to listen to silence or each other.
“I ain’t buleeh dat,” Nathan said.
“What did you say?”
“I ain’t buleeh you ain’ gonno music innis car,” he said. “Whuh kinda crazyass woman ain’ gonno music inna car?”
“The closer we get to New Orleans the less able you are to speak English? I thought we had worked that out.”
Nathan grinned. “If you had a radio you wouldn’t have to hear me talk.”
“You’d just fight with Brother over the station,” she said. “Anyway, this is Mississippi. I don’t think they allow radio stations over here.”
“Now Georgie,” said Brother, “remember the eleventh commandment.”
“Yeah, what the heck was that, anyway?” Georgia said.
“ ‘Be sweet,’ ” Brother said.
“Ah, that’s right,” Georgia said.
“That’s a good one,” said Little Mama. “That’s what I used to tell y’all.”
Georgia settled back in a pleasant daze, the miles rolling under her wheels. This part of Mississippi was a straight road lined with pines and more pines. Georgia imagined the desert was something like this, so blank it made the miles fly by.
Little Mama said, “I wish to God you would tell me wh
ere you think you are taking me.”
“Mama,” said Georgia. “We’re going to New Orleans, like you did with Daddy on your honeymoon. We’re taking Nathan back to his grandma, then we’ll turn around and go home.” Nice thing about somebody who can’t remember: you can try out different versions of the truth, to see which one works best.
Georgia didn’t tell Little Mama about the sticky notes on the furniture. Most of the stuff legally belonged to Mama, but Georgia had power of attorney and that’s all you need.
Nathan tapped Georgia’s shoulder. “What you mean go home? I thought you was gonna stay down here.”
“Oh no, we have to take Mama straight home,” Georgia said, finding his eyes in the mirror to give him a wink.
He nodded, relaxed in his seat.
It was late August, hot as hell in Mississippi. The A/C in the Civic was doing its best with four people crammed in there plus Whizzy snoring at Brother’s feet.
Georgia flipped on her blinker approaching the I-10 bridge. From the map, she had learned there was no way to enter New Orleans without driving over that long, long bridge crossing Lake Pontchartrain.
Georgia took a deep breath. She could do it. Look at all she’d done that she never thought she could do!
At the on-ramp, an arrow pointed the way to NEW ORLEANS. She gripped the wheel and pressed the accelerator.
In a moment they were up on the highway, flying at seventy miles an hour. Georgia wondered what on earth she had been afraid of. After a day of twisty two-lanes, interstate driving felt like flying down a smooth black runway.
Both lanes on the other side were filled with cars headed out of New Orleans. Could this be rush hour already, three o’clock in the afternoon? Unbelievable. What a city!
There were hardly any cars on Georgia’s side of the highway. What a stroke of luck, a wide-open road to welcome her home. Everything was going better than she could have hoped, considering how dark things had looked only yesterday.
If she followed her heart, Georgia knew she would come out ahead. Look where she was now! Free! Rolling down the road toward a brand-new life. A city emptying out just to make room for her.