Georgia Bottoms (16 page)

The driveway was blocked by a conspicuously unmarked Ford Crown Victoria in a fecal shade of brown. Georgia had half expected a SWAT team surrounding the house, but there was no sign of any confrontation. Krystal lagged behind; Georgia hurried onto the porch and opened the door. “Anybody home?”

She strode down the center hall to the kitchen, where she found Brother sitting with three men who had come to arrest him. Brother was drinking a can of Bud, holding a bloody wad of Kleenex to his nose. The agents were laughing at something he’d said. Georgia’s sudden appearance caused them to turn. Their laughter trailed off as they checked her out.

She said, “What the hell is this?”

The skinny man on the left got to his feet. “Alabama Bureau
of Investigation, ma’am, I’m Agent Lathem. We’re serving a warrant on this man.”

Georgia said, “I ran over here at the speed of light because somebody said this was a hostage situation.”

“Yeah,” Brother said, “I was trying to stage a nonviolent resistance.”

The agents laughed. “That didn’t work out so well,” said Lathem.

Krystal came in, breathing hard. “I’m Mayor—Lambert, I—spoke with one of you men?”

The older agent seated at the table identified himself as Agent Poole. He cast a skeptical eye over Krystal. “Mr. Bottoms was just as cooperative as you said he would be. Once we figured out we had something that he wanted.”

Georgia asked what that might have been. The men chuckled.

“Basically, he surrendered in exchange for a beer,” said Lathem.

“They had me barricaded in Mama’s den and they wouldn’t give me a goddamn thing,” Brother said. “They didn’t care if I died of thirst in there.”

If ever a cause was lost, it was Brother. Still, Georgia felt she had to make an effort. “Officer, whatever plan he was trying to hatch, surely you can see he was never in danger of being able to pull it off. I suggest you talk to Sheriff Allred. He knows all about the history here.”

“Aw hush, Georgia! You’re only making it worse.” Brother sipped his beer. Georgia saw his hand trembling, holding the can. His bravado was all for show.

Her heart went out to him.

“I’m trying to keep you out of jail,” she said.

“That’s not going to be possible,” Agent Poole said. “I suppose a judge might let him have bond. Not if it was me.”

“On behalf of the city of Six Points, I can assure you this man is absolutely harmless,” said Krystal. “I’ve known him most of his life. The things he says often have no relationship to reality. I suggest you come down to city hall and look at his record.”

“We’re not gonna do that today,” said Lathem.

“You’re making a big thing out of nothing.”

“We’ve got a warrant and we’re sworn to serve it,” said Poole. “If you want to help him, get him a lawyer. Come on, fellas, we don’t need a lecture from Mr.—I mean Miz Mayor, excuse me.”

There was no mistaking the slant of his remark. He winked at his buddies when he said it. Agent Lathem laughed in surprise, as in,
I can’t believe you said that!
Krystal’s jaw tightened.

The third agent at the table looked about nineteen years old. He carried a dot of shaving cream on his left earlobe. He hadn’t said a word until now. “He’s far from harmless,” he said. “He’s a domestic terrorist, he belongs to a radical group. He’s in violation of at least nine Alabama statutes and a bunch of federal ones too. He’ll be in prison till he’s old.”

“God, what an asshole you are,” said Brother. “I come out of that room of my own free will—in a show of cooperation, you know, fuckin’ peace on earth and everything. And that’s the kind of bullshit you lay on me? No way, man. I call bullshit on your bullshit.”

The other agents laughed at the spectacle of their shaving-cream newbie put in his place by a loser like Brother. Usually, where Brother was concerned, Georgia tended to side with the law. But these officious clowns had driven down from Montgomery in their crap-brown Crown Victoria just to ruin her day.

“What group?” Georgia said.

“Ma’am?”

“You said he belonged to a radical group.”

“AA,” Brother said.

“He goes to AA meetings, you call that a radical group?”

“He belongs to a gang that calls itself the Alabama Anarchists,” said Junior Detective.

“AA,” Brother said.

“Oh for God’s sake!”

“I told y’all, they ain’t no ‘group,’ it’s just me and Sims,” Brother said.

“Now fellas,” said Georgia, “if I can prove to you that my brother never intended to blow up anything, can we get you some lunch and put you back on the road?”

“We’ve had lunch.” Agent Poole stood from his chair. “We’ll be taking him now.”

“But if I can demonstrate to you—”

“Ma’am,” Agent Poole said, “don’t try to interfere with our duty.” He went behind Brother and stood him up roughly, cuffed his wrists behind his back.

“Dang, man, no need to hurt me,” said Brother. “I ain’t resisting you at all.”

Poole said shut up. He didn’t like the interference from Georgia—his scowl stretched all the way over to Krystal—ah okay, maybe that was it. He took one look at Krystal and maybe made some assumption about her and Georgia.

“Society always persecutes the visionary,” Brother was saying. “I’ve tried to warn you people that leaving that man in his office is exactly the same as worshipping a false god.”

Agent Lathem snorted.

“Get him out of here,” Poole said.

Georgia moved to block the door. “Where are you taking him?”

“Stand aside, please,” he said.

“Don’t I have a right to know where to go bail him out?”

“The ABI office in Montgomery can give you that information.” He steered her out of his path, making way for Lathem and Junior to hustle Brother out of the kitchen. Brother put up no fight at all but they wouldn’t just let him walk out like a normal person. They had to drag him down the hall, out the door.

Georgia followed them onto the porch. “I can report you for police brutality!”

“Go right ahead,” said Agent Poole.

Brother yelled, “You’ll never take me alive, copper!”

Lathem said, “We just did.” The others laughed like a gang of frat boys.

Poole put his hand on Brother’s head and ducked him into the backseat, then went around and got behind the wheel. Lathem climbed in beside Brother. Junior rode shotgun. The Ford backed into the street, and drove off.

When Georgia realized Krystal was beside her, she said, “I’ve got half a mind to just leave him in this time.”

“No one would blame you.”

“God, I wish I still smoked. You want a cup of coffee or something?”

“I have to get back to work,” said Krystal. “You gonna make me walk?”

“Just let me look in on Mama and I’ll drive you down.”

Little Mama was in her den watching Martha Stewart make a piecrust. She had already forgotten whatever part she might have
played in Brother’s hostage drama. She didn’t know anything about any police. Sometimes Mama’s affliction was almost a blessing. Georgia found herself wishing she could catch a mild case of it, just for one afternoon.

Driving by the First Baptist parsonage she pointed out Brent Colgate in the driveway, still sporting his pale green suit. He was lifting a carton from the trunk of his K car. “Wow, look at that,” Krystal said. “I may have to become a Baptist.”

“I want to thank the search committee from the bottom of my heart,” Georgia said. “Listen, Krystal—do you think you could make a call to Montgomery? You know I hate to ask, I never ask you to get involved in Brother’s messes. But this is state level. I’ve got no connections at all.”

“I was trying to figure out who I could call,” Krystal said. “I do know the director of public safety. He’s not exactly the boss of these guys, but he’ll know who we can talk to.”

“That would be so great,” said Georgia. “How lucky am I to have a best friend who’s also the mayor?”

After a pregnant pause Krystal said, “Might not be for long.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You know I’m up for reelection in September.”

“Of course. Unopposed as usual.”

“Filing deadline was five p.m. yesterday. Turns out I’m going to have an opponent.” Krystal smiled out the window, enjoying her air of mystery.

“You’re kidding me. Who?”

“Madeline Roudy,” said Krystal.

Georgia’s mouth dropped open.

“Watch that car—” Krystal grabbed the wheel and deftly steered them around a Cadillac pulling out of the diner.

“Thanks… Madeline Roudy is running against you? Can she do that?”

“Of course she can.” Krystal’s smile tightened. “I annexed them into the city. Which gives them enough votes to elect her, if they all stick together—and why wouldn’t they? I knew it would happen eventually, but I was hoping they might at least give me a term or two as thanks, before they booted me out.”

“Krystal, you’re the best friend they’ve ever had in this town. Who else stuck their neck out for annexation?”

“They don’t think they owe me a thing, and you know what? They’re right. Anyway, you’re preaching to the choir. Whyn’t you let me out here. Gotta do the people’s work while I’ve still got the job.”

Krystal was amazingly cheerful. Georgia knew she must be crushed. Being mayor of Six Points was the only thing Krystal had ever wanted. In the hubbub over annexation, Georgia had never realized Krystal was knowingly setting up the means to put herself out of a job.

Madeline Roudy?

An impressive woman. A pediatrician. Taking care of poor sick kids. Just the kind of person you would want to be the First Black Mayor of Six Points.

Krystal didn’t stand a chance.

Just as Brother didn’t stand a chance.

Just like that new preacher, Brent Colgate? He didn’t stand a chance either.

Survival of the fittest, that’s the law. Don’t blame me, Georgia thought. The world was this way when I got here.

R
iding back from the prison in the dark, she turns on the radio and listen what song’s coming on: that beat starts up,
whick-it whick-it
strummed on electric-guitar strings, a dirty horn section, phasey electronic mixer sound taking us straight into The Girls, only the girls ain’t backing Diana anymore, Diana done left and gone solo on their ass, left them behind in a movie-star cloud of gold dust, leaving Mary and Cindy to try and replace her with another thin trembly soprano, Jean Terrell… The song is “Nathan Jones” and maybe because Georgia is hearing it for the first time in years, through a good car stereo, it’s absolutely transcendent—the best thing the Supremes ever did. Is that possible? The Supremes got better
after
Diana?

You can hear The Girls trying to erase all memory of Diana, who thought she was better than the others, always parading out in front, and now! We are The Supremes! We sing as one! Equal parts! No lead!

For a moment Cindy takes the melody, for a moment Jean takes it, then they stand aside and let Mary holler it out. A rhythm shake a shake it just keep rolling down the road like a big old Greyhound bus,
You never wrote me (ooh ooh) You never
called!
The heat of three voices fused into the sound of one abandoned woman, beaten down though she never admits it, the way she clings to the pain of his memory you just know he had to be hitting her… The sound was relentless, unstoppable, rolling down the big old highway. A handclap—or is it a whipcrack? Doin’ it without you, Diana, strutting it proudly on Better-Than-
Ever
Street!

Mama in the passenger seat: “What are you going on about? I don’t understand a word.”

“The Supremes,” Georgia said, “without Diana Ross.”

Bringing Mama along was the last thing Georgia wanted to do, but it was getting harder to leave her home alone now.

“Nathan Jones” put Georgia in high spirits considering they’d just come from that horrible prison where they were not even allowed to see Brother. The man at the front desk said he was in solitary, the next “visitation window” was a week from Wednesday. After successive rings of concertina wire, chain-link fence, electric-lock doors, thick greasy glass reinforced with steel mesh… coming out to the car, breathing free air, and finding “Nathan Jones” on the radio seemed like a gift from God.

Of course Georgia didn’t believe in God, but a gift like that song helped her understand why some people do.

She loved that song, and that’s why Ree had named the boy Nathan.

“I told you to keep him away from Sims Bailey,” Mama said, helpfully.

“Yes you sure did,” Georgia said. “You are so much smarter than I am. I don’t know why I never noticed it before.”

Turns out that having a couple barrels of ammonium nitrate fertilizer in proximity to some barrels of fuel oil gets you in the
kind of trouble you can’t grin your way out of. As far as Georgia could tell, Brother was screwed. He wasn’t Timothy McVeigh, but try telling that to the Alabama Bureau of Investigation.

Solitary confinement his second week in state prison was not a good sign.

Georgia could sell all her jewelry, the house, the family silver, put every dime into Brother’s defense, throw everything onto the fire knowing he would be found guilty in any event.

Or: Let him get a public defender. Handle this one himself, without the assist from Big Sister who is called in to save his sorry rear end every time.

Georgia had a feeling that would be dooming him to jail for a goodly portion of his life. But hadn’t he doomed himself? How was that in any way her fault?

She had tried to be Brother’s keeper all his life. Time to admit she had failed. Every time she told him to go right, he went left. Now let him fend for himself.

… But that didn’t feel right. She couldn’t shake the image of four-year-old Brother with that headful of soft white curls. She couldn’t believe that lovely child, that spirit was entirely gone from the earth.

At the prison she’d seen only two actual prisoners, black guys in dark-blue prison clothes at the end of a hallway glassed off from the visitors’ lounge. Looking at those men, she found herself thinking: If that was me, if someone told me I had to spend the night in this place, I’d find a way to hang myself.