Georgia Bottoms (24 page)

Her bedroom was a wreck. She would deal with it later. She had to reenter the real world for a couple of hours.

She carried the afterglow with her into a hot shower, steaming and singing the Ella song about praying for snow to hide the clover…

Humming while she toweled off, smiling as she shaved her legs, brushing her teeth, gargling, spitting… Georgia felt like a silly girl completely in love—with Brent Colgate, with herself, with life in all its possibility.

Her mood began to lose altitude when she stepped into her room and saw the blink of the answering machine, the startling number in the MESSAGES window: 23.

Twenty-three messages? She didn’t even know the display had double digits. What could have happened? Was the world on fire again, terrorists blowing up things, friends trying to let her know?

The first thing she’d done after bringing Brent to this room was switch off the sound of the answering machine.

She snugged the towel around herself, easing down to the edge of her bed. She made her hand go out, willed her finger to push PLAY.

The first two calls were hang-ups. The third caller hesitated a moment before speaking. “Georgia? Hey, it’s Alma Pickett… Listen, I don’t know if you’re watching TV right now? Anyway, you’re going to be
very
interested in the program on Channel 13. Turn it on and then call me, okay? I’m at home.”

Odd. Why would Alma want to talk about some show on public TV? She and Georgia were friendly but not friends. Alma never called unless she was running out of quilts.

The machine beeped. “Hey Georgia, it’s Alma again, I’m sure you’d pick up if you were there but—my gosh, the nerve of some people! I’m not a lawyer but I think you might have an excellent case here. And I will gladly testify on your behalf. It’s outrageous! Call me.”

In her first confusion Georgia wondered if some TV reporter had somehow discovered her secret life and aired an undercover
exposé—but that was impossible. Only six men on earth knew any part of Georgia’s secret. Georgia was the only one who knew everything.

Calls five through eight were hang-ups, probably the same person calling and hanging up over and over. Might be Krystal. Caller nine said, “Hey, it’s Krystal,” signifying right off that everything was still not okay. Georgia and Krystal never identified themselves. They didn’t have to. They knew each other’s voices. “I’ve been trying to get in touch with you since, uhm, since Friday, and it’s very frustrating,” Krystal said. “If it’s not too big an imposition, give me a call when you get this message.”

Her voice was frosty. Georgia felt a twinge of guilt about what she was doing last night when Krystal called. A night for yourself is one thing, but Georgia had gone totally AWOL at the moment her best friend was extending this olive branch. And then Krystal waited all night for a call back that never came.

The next message was from Malone’s Dry Cleaners. They had managed to get the spot out of the linen jacket, Miss Georgia could pick it up anytime.

Three more hang-ups—Krystal, just checking?—then a familiar deep voice: “Uhm, hello Miz Bottoms, this is the sheriff, Bill Allred,” he said, for the benefit of anyone listening in. “Just letting you know, we’ve straightened out this, ah, misunderstanding… You can come on down, sign these papers, and pick up your mother and this young man whenever you want. It’s just past ten o’clock, I’m headed on home. All right then, bye now.”

After that, the hum and click of the same person calling again and again, hanging up—it had to be Krystal. Calling all night. She knows I wasn’t here, Georgia thought. So what? I’m a grown woman. Free to do what I want. Who got mad in the first place?
Not me. Why should I be in a big rush just because she decides now is the time to make up?

Then another message from Alma, less cheerful: “Georgia? Alma Pickett again, trying to track you down. Listen, I’m getting calls from some of my customers, and I must say I am rather confused. We’ve all seen the same show, but they came to a different conclusion… I mean, I do not want to believe it, but the designs are so, so similar. I can’t imagine how it could be a coincidence. Anyway—I’m reserving judgment till I hear from you. Okay? Call me.” Click.

Georgia felt her stomach sinking. The reference to “designs” could only mean one thing—and sure enough here came a message from Myna Louise Myrick: “Georgia, this is Myna Louise, I’m watching Channel 13 right now, and far as I’m concerned you can come get this damn quilt and give me back my money. If you want to support a bunch of freeloading black women, fine. But don’t lie and trick
me
into doing it!”

Georgia pressed PAUSE. She hurried to the front porch, flung this morning’s
Light-Pilot
aside, and grabbed yesterday’s paper. She paged to the TV listings as she climbed the stairs, running her finger down rows of small type:

7 PM (APT)
“The Quilters of Catfish Bend”
—
Documentary—Poor black women, descended from slaves, decorate their quilts with African tribal motifs handed down through generations. (CC)

Oh Jesus. Okay. Busted!

Georgia knew it was theoretically possible. She had never seen another white person when she was in Catfish Bend buying the
quilts, so she’d hoped her secret was safe. In hindsight, that was naive. The quilts were beautiful, after all, and she had no exclusive. The quilters gladly sold them to whoever showed up with money.

Georgia bought the first one years ago at a fancy gift shop in Fairhope, then decided she wanted to give quilts to Little Mama and Krystal for Christmas. She tracked down the quilters and drove all the way across middle Alabama to buy them. The quilts were so pretty she bought four instead of two. Driving home, pondering how much that gift shop had marked up the first quilt, she realized she could sell two of them for double what she paid, to cover the cost of the two she was giving. And thus was born a business.

Georgia had been careful never to actually claim she made the quilts herself. But she knew that was like some highly sexed president nitpicking the meaning of “is.” She had never turned down praise for the quilts. Nor the profit. Marking up merchandise was truly the oldest of all the professions.

Georgia’s afterglow was fading fast. She closed her eyes and tried to recover the full shimmer of the Brent Colgate feeling. It was like waking up trying to keep a dream from slipping away—you erase it, trying to remember.

Quilts would have to wait. Georgia could only imagine the conniption fit Little Mama was pitching in her cell.

She changed into a smart white sleeveless top with a skinny black belt, black capri pants, and strappy sandals. She stopped at the hall mirror to check her look.

Here came Whizzy through the doggy door, wagging his tail. Georgia bent down to scratch behind his ears. “Poor Whiz,
everybody ignores you, don’t they? You okay, buddy?” He waggled and smiled.

She started out to the porch. The door was stuck. She pushed. It gave a little. Something blocking it. She pushed harder. Whatever-it-was slid heavily across the porch,
shhhh
.

Georgia put her head out to see what: a cardboard box, a jumble of items. On top was a plastic replica of a big-mouthed bass on a plaque.

Georgia knew this fish.

If you pushed the red button, the fish would wiggle and sing “Elvira.”

Georgia had paid good money for this thing at the Dollar General last year, and presented it with great ceremony, elegantly wrapped, to Krystal for Christmas. Their history of gag gifts stretched all the way back to high school.

Georgia was careful not to touch the red button, but the song started up anyway when she lifted it from the box. The fish writhed and moved its hideous mouth. “Elvi-RA!” There was no stopping it—once it started, it sang the song all the way through before shutting off. That was part of the joke.

Giddyup a-oom papa oom papa mau mau
…

Underneath the fish was a monkey that clanged cymbals and turned somersaults. A red-white-and-blue headband with spangly stars on springs. A Pet Rock. A dachshund in a Santa hat that barked “Jingle Bells.”

These were Georgia’s Christmas gifts to Krystal, each lovingly repacked in its original box with the original gift card and the bow. This box was a museum of their friendship, going back twenty years. The Reagan doll “with articulated limbs!” A Nancy Reagan Halloween mask. A pair of “clackers,” acrylic spheres on
a string that bounced loudly off each other; they were wildly popular for about ten seconds in the midseventies. A piggy bank with a bent-over hillbilly, a coin slot in his butt crack.

Georgia had also received a gag gift from Krystal each year, but she would be hard-pressed to name a single one. Okay, one, from years ago: a corncob on a stick, labeled “Executive Backscratcher.” The gifts were supposed to be jokes, Georgia thought—fun for the moment, then out they went with the wadded-up wrappings, the day after Christmas.

Krystal had hung on to every stupid little gift. As if they were priceless antiques.

And then dropped this box at Georgia’s door without a word. What more final a statement could there be?

Georgia went to the kitchen phone and dialed the familiar number. The last four notes of the touch tone always sang a little tune, “Here comes Krystal!,” into her ear.

The phone rang and rang. No answer, no machine.

Georgia went to her car. This felt like one of those frustrating dreams where you’re trying very hard to perform an important task you can’t quite remember, but obstacles keep cropping up. Instead of taking time to back down the driveway, she did what she used to do as a teenager—drove straight across the yard to the alley, and screeched the tires making the turn onto Magnolia.

She hoped she wasn’t too late.

Krystal lived in her parents’ sprawling old one-story house on Live Oak Street. After her mother died, she spent a fortune gutting the house, redoing plumbing, electrical, kitchen, and bath, fancying up the yard with gazebos, pergolas, trellises, waterfalls, bird feeders, statues of gnomes and elves and classical Greek
naked ladies. It was way too cottagey and girly-girl for Georgia’s taste, and it didn’t resemble Krystal’s personality in the slightest, but she poured her heart into it. Once the landscaping grew in, Georgia had to admit the yard was lovely in a tacky kind of way.

What looked wrong was the great white truck parked in front, a crowned man riding a bucking moving van: Charlie Ross Regal Moving.

Georgia’s heart sank. It hadn’t been forty-eight hours since the League of Women Voters. Could Krystal have made up her mind to leave, and arranged it that fast?

Of course. Georgia knew Charlie Ross would come on short notice. And if there was anyone in Six Points more determined than Georgia, once she made up her mind, it had to be Krystal.

Georgia parked in front of the truck, blocking its path. That’s when she noticed that the ReElect Mayor Lambert sign by the mailbox had been replaced by another sign. For Sale.

She looked up to see Krystal on the front porch, lifting a geranium basket off its hook.

Their eyes met.

Georgia knew she could fix this. All she had to do was throw herself on Krystal’s mercy. Convince her the whole thing was a huge misunderstanding.

She got out of the car. “What the hell are you doing?” was the first thing out of her mouth. She didn’t mean to sound so combative, but it was all too alarming, the moving truck, the For Sale sign.

Krystal turned and went inside, letting the screen door bang behind her.

All right, now who’s playing games? Georgia hurried up the sidewalk, under the willow-rush archway, and barged through the door without knocking.

It was startling to see all the way down the shiny dogtrot hallway, long as a bowling alley, without a stick of furniture to stop the eye.

“Krystal?” Her voice echoed.

“Back here.”

Two big moving men were wrestling a dresser out of the late Mr. Lambert’s room. Georgia ducked around them and hurried back through the house.

In the kitchen, a chaos of boxes and wadded-up paper. Krystal was wrapping a cut-glass goblet in a sheet of blank newsprint. She had on her Saturday clothes, flannel men’s work shirt and brown holey corduroy pants. She barely glanced up. “I wondered if you were gonna put in an appearance.”

Georgia had practiced her speech on the way over. “Look, Krys. There’s just one thing I want to tell you—”

“No, wait. You
always
get to talk first,” Krystal said. “Then I’m stuck having to say whatever is left.”

A bit bewildered by this accusation, Georgia chose not to respond.

“I’m leaving everything in order,” Krystal said. “The city accounts are balanced to the penny. Everything that might need signing has been signed. I’ve written a formal letter to the city council. The personnel and tax forms are in a box on my desk. In case anyone asks.”

“Krystal, you can’t just leave,” Georgia tried.

“Well, yes, as it turns out, I can,” she said. “There’s no law against resigning when you’ve had it up to here.”

“Look, if this is because of what I did the other day—I just don’t know how to even start telling you how sorry I am.”

“Save it for somebody who gives a shit,” Krystal said, not unpleasantly. “This time it’s not about you, Georgia. Believe it or not, it is not… always… about
you.
”

Okay, well, I deserve that, thought Georgia, for not being available when she tried to call me all night. But bringing in a moving van to make me feel bad is a hell of an overreaction! Sometimes Krystal can be such a brat.

I was only trying to save her from herself.
But now was not the time for establishing the facts of the case. Now was the time for heartfelt apologies. Georgia tried again. “If you would just—”

Krystal cut her off. “I said
save it
.”

“Okay.” Georgia folded her hands.

“Actually you did me a favor,” said Krystal. “I didn’t realize how stuck I’d gotten in this place. Suffocating. My sorry excuse for a life. And that stupid-ass job.”

“Don’t say that. You are a great mayor. I was just talking to Irma Winogrand about what a great job you’ve done.”