Georgia Bottoms

by Mark Childress

  His tough little willy was not as significant a drawback as the garlic. Neither was it any sort of added attraction. Women who say size doesn’t matter are lying through their clenched, frustrated teeth. Even under the engorging influence of the blue pill, Georgia felt little more than a stirring down there, a kind of rhythmic poke-poke. She hipped and hollered and made the bedsprings squeak as if she’d never endured anything quite so splittingly huge.

  Another! Satisfied! Client!

  The judge bucked and wallowed around with a sloppy grin on his face. Georgia dragged the coverlet back and made sure his flabby butt was on the sheet where it belonged, then she tightened down on him, speeded up and brought him home, hey hey BANG! And then yep! There it was.

  “Hooeee! Damn, woman! Yeah!” He threw his hands up as if he’d just crossed the goal line. “Oh yeah!”

  She leaned down to kiss him. Garlic. “Mmmm, my goodness, Jackson,” she hummed into his mouth. “You are simply overpowering tonight.”

  “Careful, careful—don’t—wait, my—” He groaned and shifted. She detached herself.

  She slipped into the bathroom to perform a quick hygienic procedure, came back with towels and a steaming washcloth. She got him washed up, tucked away, purring like a happy old cat. This was his usual pattern—as soon as it was over, he turned into a sleepy kitty craving a nap and the comforting stroke of his mistress’s hand. Sometimes Georgia had to perform fancy tricks to get him dressed and out the door before he dozed off for good.

  No man was ever allowed to spend the night. A steady rotation under cover of darkness was essential to the successful application of the system. Sometimes Georgia felt the passing urge to snuggle up and spend the whole night in the arms of one or the other. It had been a long time since she had allowed herself that. Her life was too complex. She had responsibilities. She had plates spinning on sticks.

  “Time to go, Captain,” she said in a quiet voice. “Daddy’s on his way home, and if he finds us in this situation—there’s no telling.”

  “Oh Georgia,” he said, buttoning his shirt. “What would I do without you?”

  “Or I, you?” She kissed his pink cheek. “Will you excuse me? I’ll be back.”

  Her second trip to the bathroom was a signal, as specific as the light in the alley, although Georgia had never discussed it with the judge. She closed the door, turned on the water in the sink, flushed the commode, hummed a little tune. She sat on the toilet lid, giving him time to remember that he needed to reach into his coat for the envelope and place it atop the highboy.

  This was the only part of the game that made Georgia uncomfortable. There was no completely unembarrassing way to go about it. It helped to remember a few important facts:

  She never asked anyone for money. Whatever happened to be left atop the highboy was a gift, freely given. Not a payment for anything.

  She never asked for any money.

  The money was a gift.

  As long as everyone remembered these facts there could be no misunderstanding. What you had was a simple exchange of gifts. Georgia gave the gift of her time, her complete attention, her kisses, sometimes more. She gave these things freely, willingly. They were hers to give.

  In return—no, not in return for anything, but of their own free will, with no connection to any action of Georgia’s—the men offered gifts of their own. They knew she was not wealthy; everyone knew the Bottoms fortune had dried up shortly after Big Sue changed the family name. Everyone knows it’s expensive to keep up a big old antebellum falling-down house with a sick old mother and a worthless brother in tow. So they gave her gifts.

  In the movies, men gave their sweethearts diamonds, or roses, or fancy kitchen appliances. Georgia liked cash. No fuss, no raised eyebrows at the bank. If there was one thing we all learned from Richard Nixon, she thought, it was the importance of avoiding a paper trail.

  Sometimes it took a bit of extremely subtle hint dropping to get a man to come up with the idea on his own, to realize after the third or fourth date how lucky he was to be spending one night a week enjoying the lady’s company, and it might be the gentlemanly thing to offer up a little—a little gift, just to help with the upkeep of the place—not that she was his mistress, which would make her beholden to him, but—after all she had been so kind, and there she was in that big old rambling house with the mother and the useless brother. What harm could there be in a gift?

  He was clumsy the first time, trying to press a wad of bills into her hand or some such, so that she had to pull back in a huff and refuse, horrified by the very idea, whatever he meant to imply she was definitely not that kind of girl! Of course he would rush to reassure her he hadn’t meant anything at all. A gift! That’s all. Just a gift. Eventually he would come to insist that she take it, practically force it on her, to prove it was only a gift. With no strings attached.

  And although she resisted, acted hurt by the very idea and turned her face away, eventually she came around to telling him how awfully kind he was, how sensitive to notice that her family was not exactly made out of money. She discreetly let him know that any such gift would not go for dresses or frivolous things, but directly to the stack of household bills.

  She was so honestly, quietly grateful that the man would be moved to offer the same gift every week.

  Each man thought he was the only man. Each thought the whole idea was his idea, his gift the only gift. That was the secret to making a living, the Georgia way.

  4

  Emma Day Pettigrew’s Florida room had a great view of the relevant side of the parsonage, the front door, driveway, and garage.

  Georgia considered each of the four houses that backed up to the church property before deciding that Floyd and Emma Day’s Florida room had the best view. With its fifties-style screened windows, frosted glass slats that cranked open to let in the heat of the morning, sitting in that room felt like being in a garden with no bugs.

  Once Georgia made the calculation, it was only a matter of how to get herself invited to Emma Day’s house at ten minutes till eight on a Monday morning.

  Thank God Emma Day said, “Of course, come on over, I’ve been working in my garden for hours.” When she answered the door, Georgia led her through her own house, singing the praises of the Florida room all the way there. She sank down on an elegant wicker settee.

  Emma Day was a morning person, in a morning-gardening outfit straight out of Southern Living: cute turquoise flip-flops, white pedal pushers, white cotton sweater with pink stripes, and a little more makeup than is advisable in broad daylight. Her hair was a blond ball of cotton candy. Her skinny white pedal pushers bore not the first grass stain, not a mark of any kind. How could you garden in white pants and stay that clean? Perhaps she had run inside to change when Georgia called.

  Here she came dragging a folded-up card table as if it was too heavy for a woman of her petite build. “Is one table going to be enough?” Emma Day said. “We have a couple more in the garage.”

  “One is plenty,” said Georgia. “I hope you know you’re saving my life! I didn’t even know my card table had a bad leg till I went to set it up this morning. Talk about the eleventh hour! Hey, and this is a nice one, too. Much nicer than mine, I think Mama ordered it from Sears a hundred years ago. You better remember to ask for this one back, or I’m liable to keep it. Where’d you get it?”

  “Let me think.” Emma Day looked pleased to be asked. “I think the Tar-jay.”

  “The what?” Georgia said.

  “The Tar-jay? You know, Target. In Mobile. Everybody calls it Tar-jay like in French. Cause it’s like a fancy Walmart.”

  “I never even heard of it,” Georgia confessed. She prided herself on keeping up with the latest trends in retail, even if she did live in a hick town that didn’t have any better store than a half-sized Belk’s.

  “Oh my God, Georgia, in that case we’ve got to go! They have the greatest stuff. It feels more expensive than Walmart, but really it isn’t.” Emma D
ay seemed excited by the notion of the two of them going off on a shopping trip. She’d sounded thrilled on the phone when Georgia asked for the loan of a card table for her famous September luncheon.

  Georgia and Emma Day were friendly enough, but they didn’t socialize. Emma Day had more money; Georgia was more popular; on looks, Georgia probably would win. Georgia had to invite Emma Day to the luncheon because she was best friends with Trisha, Krystal’s first cousin, who couldn’t not be invited.

  “This coffee is delicious,” Georgia said. It was some kind of milky cappuccino, a sprinkling of cinnamon on the foam.

  “Isn’t it good? Oh my God, Georgia, I never thought an expresso machine could change my life, but it absolutely has. Do you have one? You have to get one. It keeps me so wired I get twice as much done! Some nights I used to find myself pining for a double expresso after dinner… Now I just go in and make one! I can get the whole house clean before bedtime!”

  Emma Day would make a great spokesmodel, Georgia thought.

  On a pedestal in the corner of the Florida room stood a sculpture of a fawn, a rough-hewn bronze Bambi grazing in the bronze grass at its feet. To Georgia it looked tacky. But she didn’t know the first thing about art. Anything that came with its own pedestal and spotlights must have cost a fortune.

  She wondered where Floyd Pettigrew got the money. His job with the highway department didn’t pay enough to buy bronzes of fawns, or fancy white wicker furniture, or his-and-hers Infinitis. If there was family money it must have come from Floyd’s side. Emma Day was a Windham from right here in Six Points. Nothing wrong with the Windhams but they never had any more money than anybody.

  “If I drank coffee I’d never get to sleep,” Georgia said.

  “I drink it all day and never have a problem,” said Emma Day. “I guess if you’re an addict like I am… I give myself a workout in the yard, with my roses and all. I really am kind of obsessed.”

  “I work out sometimes too,” Georgia said, picturing herself snuggling onto Eugene’s lap. “But it doesn’t help me sleep. Sometimes it gets me all worked up, you know? The opposite effect.”

  Emma Day laughed. Once you got past the cotton-candy hair, Emma Day was all right. Georgia had wondered if her hairstyle was ironic, the way some modern girls favor old-fashioned cat-eye glasses, or corny decoupaged purses shaped like steamer trunks. One look at the bronze Bambi and Georgia knew Emma Day did not have an ironic bone in her body. She should have guessed, from the two perfect children who sat between Emma Day and Floyd every Sunday, the only kids in church who actually seemed to listen to the sermon.

  “You really do have the most beautiful flowers, Emma Day. How do you keep ’em looking so good?” To Georgia there was no more boring subject on earth. Who cares what grows in the dirt? The lowliest worker ant has a thousand times more brainpower than the smartest flower on earth.

  Georgia smiled and cocked her head as Emma Day chattered on about coreopsis and clematis and the importance of natural rainwater and nitrogen in the soil.

  From the bottom of all sound came a rumble so low it trembled the floor beneath Georgia’s chair. Outside, something large was moving—okay yes, here it comes, first the grille then the tractor of a huge moving van sliding out of the shade of the pecan tree, a long trailer with a cartoon cowboy on the side, wearing a crown, riding a truck that snorted and bucked like a bronco. Charlie Ross Regal Moving.

  Georgia checked her watch: eight on the dot. The truck slid to a stop in a pool of sunshine at the end of the church driveway. The engine continued rumbling. Two men climbed down and went to drag open the sliding door. A third man tucked a clipboard under his arm and walked up the driveway to the parsonage.

  Emma Day was chattering on and didn’t notice. Georgia had the weird sensation that the truck was some kind of mirage, a piece of theatrical scenery that had been rolled into view. It was so big it didn’t look quite real.

  She knew she couldn’t go on staring out the window. She locked her gaze on the tip of Emma Day’s nose.

  Now came a small commotion, raised voices in the vicinity of the parsonage door.

  Emma Day placed her cup in its saucer, and swiveled neatly on her wrought-iron chair. “What in the world?”

  “I heard a rumor they were moving,” Georgia said. “I didn’t know it would be this soon.”

  Emma Day was shocked. “Eugene and Brenda? They’re not moving.”

  Georgia said, “Isn’t that a moving van?”

  Now Brenda Hendrix was out in the driveway, hollering at the man with the clipboard. You couldn’t make out individual words, but it was easy to get the gist.

  Brenda still wore her hot-pink chenille robe and slippers. Georgia detected the shadow of Eugene inside the screen door. Wasn’t it like him to stay inside letting his wife do all the yelling?

  “My stars, Georgia! Did they make some announcement at church? Floyd tied one on Saturday night, as usual, so we had to miss.”

  “I heard something,” said Georgia. “But not from Eugene. I forget who told me.”

  “Well I was over there yesterday and Brenda didn’t say a word! You’d think she would… I mean, my gosh, we’ve been neighbors for years.”

  “I heard he got transferred,” said Georgia. “To—I don’t know, Oklahoma? Arkansas? Somewhere like that.”

  Now Eugene pushed open the screen door and stepped outside. He was moving so slowly it was obvious he didn’t want to come out at all. Teebo Riley had promised Little Mama he would call Eugene immediately with word of his new assignment. That meant the Hendrixes had had all night for the truth to sink in. Still, the moving truck at their door the next morning must have come as a shock. And Eugene was not a morning person.

  For a time, Brenda seemed to be yelling at both Eugene and the clipboard guy, who had subtly backed up a few steps. The other men hung back at the truck.

  Suddenly Brenda ratcheted up the pitch of that cutting voice so that everyone on the block could hear. “I don’t give a goddamn what he said, Gene, this is not the way people get a new assignment!”

  Eugene said something—undoubtedly telling her to keep her voice down, don’t take the Lord’s name in vain.

  “Oh God, I hate you!” Brenda slapped him across the face and charged into the house. Bang! went the door.

  One of the men at the truck let out a whistle.

  The bang of the screen door broke the spell. Emma Day turned to Georgia. “My stars. Did you see that?”

  “I sure did.”

  “Okay—I just—I guess I’m not believing my eyes.”

  “Does she hit him like that a lot, you think?” Georgia said.

  “Not that I’m aware,” said Emma Day. “Not that I’ve ever seen, anyway. But you never know what goes on behind closed doors.”

  “I just don’t understand married people,” Georgia said. “Personally I wouldn’t put up with too much of that before I’d be out that door.”

  “Well, you do what you have to, I guess,” said Emma Day.

  The clipboard man motioned to his associates. They came warily up the drive, as if Brenda might fly through the door and set upon them next.

  Emma Day gazed at Eugene, quietly conferring with the clipboard guy. “But Reverend Hendrix is such a sweet man,” she said softly.

  Georgia shrugged. “Looks can be deceiving… although he has been a good preacher, he sure has. A little depressing sometimes, but good in his heart.”

  She knew Emma Day couldn’t wait for her to leave so she could run across that yard and find out what was what.

  Georgia had felt a swell of pleasure when Brenda slapped him, but after that she felt a little bereft. Something was ending, one chapter of her life closing for good. She would have no trouble finding someone to occupy her Saturday nights, but it would not be Eugene.

  Here came a moving man out the door with an end table in each hand, and another bearing a stack of dinette chairs. The clipboard man wedged something in the hinge to hold the door open.
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  “It does feel like eavesdropping,” said Georgia. “As much as I’d like to stay and visit.”

  “Oh, don’t go,” said Emma Day, without much enthusiasm. As pleased as she had been to improve her friendship with Georgia, the tableau across the lawn was much more interesting.

  Georgia kissed the air by Emma Day’s cheek, picked up the card table in one hand, and crossed another item off her to-do list.

  5

  Midnight Monday was the moment of transition from the well-thumbed pages of the to-do list to the crisply annotated timing chart. Once Georgia posted the chart on the fridge, she knew what she had to do every minute until the first guests arrived at 11:30 a.m. Tuesday to ensure that each dish reached the proper warmer or ice tray at the ideal serving temperature.

  Georgia approached the luncheon with scientific attention to planning, execution, detail. Any ring of the doorbell before 11:30 was strictly ignored, a hard-line policy Krystal thought hilarious. “You really leave ’em standing on the porch until eleven thirty on the dot?”

  “I only invite people who know how to read,” Georgia said. “The invitation doesn’t say eleven fifteen. If I didn’t draw the line, they’d show up the night before with sleeping bags. Besides, there are very nice rockers on the porch where they can sit while they wait.”

  The chart allowed precisely five hours for Georgia to sleep. But putting her head on the pillow as scheduled at 1:50 a.m. didn’t stop her mind from whirling in circles, recurring images of Eugene stepping out from behind his screen door to face the consequences of his actions, dinette chairs going past in the moving men’s hands, rank after rank of prosciutto-wrapped figs marching toward the horizon…

  Georgia desperately needed a good night’s sleep, so everyone would remark on how wonderful she looked. She needed a pink, well-rested complexion to set off the gorgeous emerald-green Lauren by Ralph Lauren dress she had special-ordered from the big Belk’s in Mobile.

  She smiled at the memory of how good she looked in that dress, and snuggled down in the soft warmth of her pillow.