Georgia Bottoms (2 page)

Georgia answered him with her brightest smile.

His gaze ran away from her, quick as a fish running away with a hook. It skimmed over the heads of the congregation to the
plump shoulders of his wife, Brenda, in the second pew. Lined up beside Brenda were the four little Hendrix girls, stairsteps from ten years down to two, perfect posture like their mother, frilly dresses from the American Girl catalog. Brenda Hendrix’s shellacked Clairol-blond pouf was so flawless and stiff that Georgia wanted to throw a coin at it, to hear the
tink!
as it bounced off.

Eugene was making cow eyes at his wife, so the congregation might think he meant Brenda was the hopeful shoot of green in his life. Only Georgia knew who he really meant.

“The loving embrace of a family is a fine place to find those green shoots,” he said. “But family love, the love of our children, even marital love cannot be our only comfort. We must turn to the Lord. He wants us to give up our lives of sin, and search for a holier way to live. But do we do that? No. We keep right on sinning, don’t we? Every day we have to ask God to forgive us all over again.”

Oh for God’s sake, Eugene, tell the whole world, why don’t you?
Georgia’s thought echoed so forcefully that for a moment she thought she’d spoken out loud.

The navy dress in Belk’s window had a slimmer waist and a deeper neckline than Georgia’s usual style. At least she had the figure to pull it off. Unlike Brenda Hendrix, who was built like a can of Campbell’s soup.

When Eugene came over on Saturday night he definitely did not want to talk about Brenda. Once you got him out of his preacher suit, Saturday-night Eugene was a flirt and a big old tease. A sweet-talker, a smoothy. He looked sexy flung out on the four-poster bed in the black silk boxer shorts Georgia had given him for Christmas. He only wore them at Georgia’s, of course.
She kept them for him in the seven-drawer highboy during the week.

Last night he was there but not there. Staring at the wall, off into the distance. Georgia offered him a penny for his thoughts. He was worried about his sermon for today, he said. Trying to fit the pieces together.

It was sad how hard Eugene worked on his sermons. Would the people pay more attention if they knew how he slaved over each sentence? Would they at least make an attempt to keep from falling asleep?

You couldn’t listen to Eugene’s voice without drifting into that pleasant trance that can lead to… if you don’t… make yourself sit up and…

Georgia pinched her thigh, hard. She blinked and sat straighter in the pew.

“Take me, for example,” Eugene was saying. “If you want to see someone who’s been walking down the wrong road, brothers and sisters, take a good look at me.”

Georgia clicked full awake.

While she was dozing, Eugene had somehow wandered out of his sermon and up to the brink of catastrophe.

A warning bell shrilled in her ear. Any confession from him would pretty much have to involve Georgia, would it not?

Last night—he clung to her long past time for him to go. He pulled her in close, snuggling under the comforter, out of the arctic blast of the window unit.

Then he answered a question she hadn’t even asked. “No,” he said, hooking his feet around her ankles. “This is perfect, right here.”

Now he was staring down, his fingers gripping the sides of
the pulpit, a fierce battle under way behind his John Lennon specs.

Georgia had seen this look in the eyes of other men. Occasionally one of them lost his mind, fell ridiculously in love with her, and decided to throw over his whole life for her. (He always seemed to come to this decision without consulting Georgia.)

She saw how this was going to go. Eugene meant to confess his infidelity right here in front of God and everybody. In front of Brenda and his lovely daughters and the congregation, he intended to declare that he loved Georgia too much to keep on living a lie.

It was the same old story: middle-age fever. A man’s desperate attempt to feel young one last time before beginning his slow topple into the grave. But Eugene was only thirty-two years old—and a coward. He had to make his declaration in front of witnesses. Otherwise he wouldn’t go through with it.

What he didn’t realize was that he was risking much more than Georgia’s reputation. One word could ruin a lot more than that.

She had to stop him.

A glance at Ava Jean McCall drowsing at the organ brought to mind a
spitball,
a word Georgia hadn’t even thought in twenty years. She opened her purse—yes she did have a straw from the Dairy Dog, a cash-register slip she could chew the corner off… aim for Ava Jean’s ear, startle her into producing a noise that would stop Eugene from making the biggest mistake of his life.

But what if Ava Jean brushed the thing off her neck? What if she yelped, but Eugene kept talking?

Georgia had to stop him. Before he had a chance to say her name.

“There’s a heavy burden on my spirit, and I need you folks to help lift it off me,” he said. “This has not been an easy decision.”

Georgia rose from the pew. The quick way out was to the left, but she had to make Eugene notice her. She grabbed her large jingly purse and plowed the other way, toward the center aisle, forcing everyone in her pew to turn their knees to let her by. Geraldine Talby glared at her, annoyed.

Georgia batted her eyes and concentrated on appearing woozy. She was a splendid actress. Anyone could see her face growing paler by the moment.

“I’ve lied to you all, and I’ve lied to myself,” she heard Eugene say. “The more I have prayed over this, the more I’ve come to realize… I just can’t go on living this lie.”

Georgia made sure she was well into the aisle, clear of the pews on both sides. She didn’t want to get hurt. Her eyelids fluttered. Her gaze turned upward. All the muscles in her body went limp. She collapsed in a heap on the carpet runner—a most convincing and ladylike faint.

She heard screams, a male shout of alarm: “She fainted!”

In every crowd there’s one genius, Georgia thought.

She fell into a pose of prostration, one arm stretched artfully over her face. She felt thunder through the floor as people sprang to help her.

The rules of fainting required her to keep her eyes closed, her jaw a little slack—not unattractively, of course, and just long enough to be convincing.

Actually it felt rather nice, stretched out here on the carpet. A bit cooler than sitting in the pew. She hoped no one would try to splash water on her face.

The real purpose of her maneuver would be obvious to anyone who’d been paying attention to Eugene’s sermon. Georgia hoped no one had been.

One thing was certain. He wouldn’t be finishing that sermon today.

“She looks all right to me.”

Georgia recognized the serrated edge of Brenda Hendrix’s voice. She could feel the weight of Brenda’s shadow pressing down on her. She was glad she had chosen her most form-fitting sage green Ann Taylor suit. Even sprawled on the floor she must look fantastic, and that would be making Brenda sick with envy.

“Mommy, is she dead?”

“She just fainted, honey,” said Brenda. “Ladies do that sometimes.”

“Stand aside, folks, give her some air!” The courtly baritone of Judge Jackson Barnett came with the smell of peeled garlic, which he carried in his pockets and nibbled all day as a snack. No vampire would ever get hold of Judge Barnett. Georgia heard his knees pop as he crouched to take her hand.

She let her eyes swim open. “Well hey, Judge. Where am I?”

“Right here, Miss Georgia. In church.” The judge hid his concern behind a smile. “I believe you have swooned. Did you eat a good breakfast this morning?”

“Why, I’m sure I did, I always do.” She tried to sit up but the men all said no! not yet! She let them talk her into lying back down. “How embarrassing! It’s the heat, I guess. I felt light-headed, I was going to get a drink of water, and next thing you know…” She made a keeling-over motion with her hand.

“It’s not so much the heat,” said the judge, “as it is the humidity.”

“You have a point,” Georgia said.

“The important thing is, you’re fine,” said Brenda Hendrix. “If it were me, I would want to get up off the floor, get the blood circulating.”

It must be killing Brenda to see Georgia at the center of all this attention. Look at the array of concerned gentlemen who had rushed to her side—the judge, Sheriff Allred, Lon Chapman of the First National Bank, Jimmy Lee Newton who owned the
Light-Pilot,
and here came Dr. Ted Horn to take her pulse. The most powerful men in town, shouldering one another aside to make a fuss over Georgia.

Their wives were clucking over her too, offering their own stories of fainting. Everybody in Six Points loved Georgia. They had loved Little Mama when she ran the town switchboard, before private phone lines came in. When her daughter Georgia grew up to be beautiful and cheerful, they loved her too. She was all over town her whole life, mixed up in everything Six Points had to offer. How could anyone fail to love her? She hadn’t set out to become a star, but in a place like Six Points it was inevitable that someone with her qualities would either rise to the top, or get the hell out of town.

“You think she’ll be all right, Doc?” Jimmy Lee Newton’s high-pitched giggle only came out when he was nervous.

“Pulse is good,” said the doctor. “Georgia, you stay right here while I get my bag from the car.”

“Oh Ted, come on, is that necessary?”

“I think it is. Be a good girl, now.”

Georgia had started this. She had to let it play out. She noticed Eugene Hendrix standing—no,
hiding
behind his wife, hands tucked into the folds of his black robe. When Georgia looked at
him, he turned away. “Take her to the choir room,” he said to no one in particular. “There’s a sofa in there.”

“Now Reverend, nobody needs to take anybody anywhere,” Georgia said in a tinkly voice. “Y’all, I’m
fine.
Would you let me sit up?” This time no one stopped her. “See? Much better. I just had a little spell, that’s all.”

“The vapors,” said Martha Barnett, Mrs. Judge. “Lord knows we’ve all had ’em.” The other ladies agreed.

The judge and Jimmy Lee helped Georgia to her feet. Half the congregation had crowded around to make sure she was all right. The other half were fleeing to their cars in case Eugene got a notion to resume his sermon.

Georgia let them help her up two steps to the choir room. There was a sagging couch covered in green corduroy, beneath a decoupaged plaque of Jesus overturning the money changers’ table. The room reeked of Wednesday-night fellowship hall lasagna. Georgia hated the thought of her Ann Taylor suit steeping in that smell, but that’s why God created dry cleaners. She sank down on the sofa to wait for Ted Horn.

Louise Gingles brought a cup of water and a damp paper towel. Martha Barnett told how her mother-in-law fainted at her own wedding, cracked her tailbone and spent her honeymoon in the Mobile Infirmary. “And sure enough, she was a sore-ass the rest of her life,” Martha said, her whiskey cackle punctuated by a cigarette cough,
HA!

“The Lord works in mysterious ways,” Georgia said. “I’m just lucky I didn’t break anything.” She couldn’t wait to call Krystal and describe the scene: Six Points’ most prominent Baptists milling about the choir room, Brenda Hendrix patrolling the door to keep her precious Eugene away from the hussy on the sofa.
Krystal didn’t know all the complications of Georgia’s life, but she knew more than anybody.

“Have to ask you folks to step out, please.” Brandishing his doctor bag, Ted Horn cleared the room. He shut the door, and turned to Georgia. “Now, then. Are you pregnant?”

“Oh
hell
no. No, Ted. Not possible.”

“Anything is possible in a young, healthy, sexually active female, which pretty well describes you, if I’m not mistaken.”

“I’m glad you managed to work ‘young’ in there,” Georgia said. “I am not pregnant.” Not a chance. She took precautions, overlapping layers of precautions.

Ted unlimbered his stethoscope. “When you passed out—it looked like somebody just switched off the lights. Probably just an everyday vasovagal syncope, but I’m going to examine you to be sure.”

“This is so silly. Don’t you have any real patients who need you?” Secretly Georgia was thrilled that her performance had fooled a medical professional.

Ted slid the steel disk of the stethoscope inside her blouse, his palm warm behind the cold circle. “When was your last period?”

“Ted. Listen to me. I—am—
not—
pregnant. You hear me? You know how careful I am.”

He grinned that rabbity grin. “Just answer the question.”

“Two weeks ago? Two and a half. God. So personal.”

“I’m your doctor.” He thumped her chest and listened.

“I know what you are,” she said. “You are bad.”

“Yes I am.” His voice softened. “I am very bad. I’ve been naughty.”

“You have. A very naughty doctor. You need to be punished.”

“Shhh…” He moved the stethoscope to her back. “Okay,
deep breath—let it out slow. And again.” He sat back. “Listen, why don’t we go to my office and run an EKG. Just to be safe.”

“Ted. I’m fine. Don’t ask me how I know, but I know. I fainted. It’s over. Case closed.”

“I don’t tell you how to be Gorgeous Georgia. Don’t tell me how to be a physician.” He massaged her jawline, feeling her nodes and glands. “Come on. Quick little EKG.”

“I can’t! You know somebody has already called Little Mama, she’ll be hysterical any minute, I have to drive Brother to his meeting and my September luncheon is Tuesday—”

“Okay, okay.” He poked a nozzle into her ear. “Were you listening to that sermon?”

“Not really,” she lied.

“Sounds like Preacher Eugene’s feeling a little guilty about something.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised,” said Georgia. “Probably cheats on his wife.”

“You call Debra first thing in the morning, she’ll work you in. I want to run blood, check a few things.”

Georgia crossed her fingers where he could see them. “I promise.”

“You better,” said Ted. “And, uhm—Wednesday?”