Authors: Mark Childress
There was also the lingering disturbance from
NOVA
last night. She had looked forward to the show all week, after spotting the listing in the Sunday
Light-Pilot.
She was a sucker for ant documentaries, always glad for any chance to embroider her
grand theory of the Ant Connection. Ten minutes into the program, the camera focused on a mob of particularly murderous ants digging a pale wriggling white worm out of the earth.
The ants swarmed over the blind, defenseless worm, testing its worm skin with their cruel jaws, finding the soft places between its segments. Georgia emitted little cries of “Oh! Poor worm! Poor worm!”
The worm writhed, trying to throw off its torturers, but soon they were clamping their hideous mandibles, slicing into the worm so as to eat it from the soft jelly outward. That was when Georgia felt the rising surge in her throat, a mad scramble for the remote control turn it off!
She sat in darkness for a while, breathing, trying not to throw up.
It took half a bottle of Chardonnay and three Excedrin PMs to knock her out that night. Then it was the kind of restless sleep that leaves you more exhausted in the morning.
“I watched a terrible show about ants last night,” she said, just to hear a live voice in the car.
“Why did you watch it, then?” Mama said.
“Normally I like ants,” Georgia said. “Not these ants.”
“Why not?”
“They were vicious,” said Georgia. “They all ganged up on this one worm.”
“You ought not to watch it if it bothers you,” Mama said.
“But I love ants,” said Georgia. “Normally.”
After a long pause Mama said, “Where are we going?”
“Home.”
“Can’t we go any faster?”
“No, Mama. This is the legal limit.”
“What were we talking about before?”
“The song on the radio,” Georgia said. “The Supremes.”
Little Mama said, “I always liked the Supremes.”
If it hadn’t been nighttime on a curvy stretch of road, Georgia would have pulled to the shoulder just to get a good look at her. “You
what?
”
“I said, I like the Supremes.”
“The singing group,” said Georgia. “Diana Ross and the Supremes.”
“Uh-huh,” Mama said. “I like their songs.”
“Oh Mama, you don’t,” Georgia half scolded her. “You know the Supremes are colored girls.”
“So what?” said Little Mama.
“So
what?
You don’t like colored people, that’s all.” For as long as Georgia could remember, the appearance of any black entertainer on TV was Little Mama’s cue to change channels with a muttered curse.
“Don’t tell me what I like and don’t like,” Mama said.
Georgia was astounded. Not liking colored people was Little Mama’s big thing. It cut to the heart of who she was.
For the moment, at least, she seemed to have forgotten entirely.
Georgia said, “What about Nat King Cole?”
“What about him?”
“You like him too?”
“I do. That song about sailboats, in the sunset.” She even hummed a bit of the tune.
“Oh Mama, you’re pulling my leg now.”
“I hate to disappoint you,” Mama said, “but I am not your mother.” She spoke in a kindly voice, as if gently breaking the news. “I never had any children of my own.”
Georgia said, “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine. How are you?”
“Do we need to go to the hospital?”
“I don’t think so,” Mama said. “Where are you taking me?”
“Home.”
G
eorgia changed clothes three times before settling on the textured knit jacket and skirt by St. John in an especially hot pink called peony. The jacket was sharply tailored to show off her figure. The straight skirt cut a sexy line above the knee. There was no way Brent Colgate could look out over his new congregation and fail to notice her.
She hadn’t counted on word of the handsome new preacher racing through Six Points like a wildfire, bringing forth the biggest one-week rise in attendance in the non-Easter history of the First Baptist. The new worshippers were almost all female, and sat near the front. Each, in her own way, seemed to have dressed to attract the attention of Brent Colgate. Within Georgia’s field of vision were three other women in hot pink—none quite as hot as peony, but still it embarrassed Georgia to be in any respect like those women, to have had the same idea. She considered bolting out the door to go change—into what? There wasn’t a color in the rainbow that someone was not already wearing in an effort to be seen by the new preacher.
With all the buildup, you might expect the sight of Brent Colgate himself to come as a letdown. It was just the opposite. The members of the pastoral committee lined up in front of the pul
pit to emphasize that it was they who had gone forth into a world full of ugly preachers and brought back this dreamboat reverend, this vision in a velvet black robe with regal blond mane and gleaming smile, making his way up the center aisle, kissing and blessing, embracing his new flock as if he’d been among them all his life—a favorite who had been away too long, returning now in triumph.
It seemed a bit much. Georgia made a skeptical face to the back of the pew.
Colgate hugged a few of the front-pew ladies, shook hands with the committee, and ascended his pulpit in a cloud of mass approval. “What a kind welcome, friends,” he said. “Thank you so much, thank you.”
Brent’s voice came from deep, deep down in his chest. Georgia found herself drifting off before a word ever registered in her brain. His voice cast such a spell that she was able to perceive the essence of what he was saying without even listening to the words. He spoke about goodness and welcome and solid and fine… She was happy just drifting along gazing up at his face, feeling the rumble of his voice to her toes.
Then suddenly it was over, they were on their feet singing a hymn. That had to be the fastest sermon in history. Georgia looked at her watch. A full forty-five minutes had passed. Had she fallen asleep? Or been hypnotized?
She noticed several other women in a similar daze.
Reverend Colgate and his wife went to the main entrance to greet the departing congregation. Mrs. Colgate positioned herself so that you had to greet her first, then she would present you to her husband. On the surface this seemed gracious; to Georgia it gave a strong hint as to who ran the Colgate household. This
wife would be a tricky proposition. This was no Brenda Hendrix or Mrs. Judge Barnett, this put-together brunette still in her twenties with the beauty-queen violet eyes and a stylish sloping haircut straight out of
Vogue
.
Young Mrs. Colgate placed herself astride the approach lane to her great-looking husband, as if to say, “I’m as good-looking as he is, so unless you can compete with me, don’t even try.” Brent Colgate looked pleased to be standing beside her, radiating pastorly good cheer.
“Do they have children?” murmured Stephanie Durant, at Georgia’s elbow.
“Not that I’ve heard of,” said Georgia. “She doesn’t really look like the type.”
“No,” Stephanie said, “but those kids would be freaking gorgeous.”
“Hello, I’m Daphne Colgate!” The wife trapped Georgia’s hand between her own two in a graspy overfamiliar way that made Georgia’s skin crawl.
“Georgia Bottoms,” said Georgia. “That suit is so attractive—where on earth did you find it?”
“Why thank you! How nice of you to notice. I think it was Macy’s in Birmingham. Have you met my husband, Brent?”
Brent smiled. “Oh, sure. Miss Georgia and I are old friends from the drugstore.”
“He was downtown trying to drum up church attendance,” said Georgia. “I’m only here because he ordered me to come.”
“Just like the passage in Brent’s sermon,” said Daphne, “when every lamb was redeemed with a firstborn donkey.”
“Exactly.” Georgia smiled as if she had some inkling of what
Daphne meant. If Georgia had just been insulted, her insulter gave no outward sign.
Brent’s eyes gleamed. “Daphne’s the only one who really listens to my sermons.”
Old Mrs. Haworth took Daphne’s arm and turned her away. Brent used the moment of distraction to pounce. “Miss Georgia, I think your idea for a church-wide garage sale is absolute genius. Would you mind sticking around after I finish greeting the folks, so we can discuss it some more?”
Georgia did not miss a beat. “Of course,” she said. “I’ll just wait in the sanctuary for you.”
She ducked her head into the foyer and swam back upstream through the crowd. She sat down in her pew.
She felt her heart thumping. She had not given Brent Colgate any idea about a garage sale. By tossing out a blatant lie, forcing her to go along with it, Brent had made her complicit in whatever game he was wanting to play. It was, to say the least, an unusual beginning to the minister-parishioner relationship.
Georgia ran her hand along the silky wood of the pew, worn smooth by generations of Bottoms. She would tell the reverend she hadn’t wanted to seem rude, but it was not she who had mentioned the garage sale to him. Shake his hand and walk away. If the vibe didn’t feel right.
But she was fairly sure they were on their way to a satisfactory resolution. They had already cheated a little: a small made-up cheat between the two of them. It was not very far from there to the place Georgia wanted to go.
As a matter of fact, the shortest way there might be the long
way around. Get out of here now. Let him come looking for you, and not find you.
Georgia walked quickly to the side door of the church, and out.
Sink the hook. Make sure it’s in deep.
Then give a little tug. That fish will land itself.
I
n the first place Ted Horn was a medical doctor so whoda thunk it? In the second place Ted always had been an ol’ horndog, so much so that “Ol’ Horndog” was Georgia’s pet name for him. He liked her to use the nickname at certain crucial moments on a Wednesday evening. Add in the fact that on this hot July Wednesday Ted had had more than his usual glass or two of red wine. He and his pals had laid it on beforehand at the Hopalong Steak House BYOB Early Bird Special. Then when he arrived at Georgia’s, he insisted she make a pitcher of her famous Cajun martinis. This put him in a festive and rambunctious mood, and also served to open up his blood vessels, in combination with the self-prescribed pharmaceutical.
Ted liked martinis and black leather. He liked to wear the zippered hood. He liked the silk handkerchiefs with which Georgia fastened him to the four-poster bed. Of all her clients, Ted was easily the most exotic in his tastes. Georgia looked forward to Wednesday—a bit of variety in the middle of the week, when one’s energy naturally tends to flag.
Adjusting her approach to the peccadilloes of each man was what kept the game interesting. As much of a pain as it was to launder, starch, and iron the layers of petticoats needed to turn
herself and Judge Barnett into Scarlett and Rhett once a week—not to mention the French maid getup she wore for Jimmy Lee Newton—all that effort had paid off in years of customer satisfaction. Jimmy Lee fancied himself a sophisticated gentleman being naughty with his maid. At times he put on a French accent that wavered between Maurice Chevalier and Pepé Le Pew.
Lon Chapman liked her to dress as a shit-kickin’ country gal, in cowboy boots, frayed Levi’s cutoffs, and a Daisy Duke tight white T-shirt. Georgia ordered those T-shirts by the dozen so Lon could rip them off as he pleased.
Then there was Sheriff Bill, who preferred his Friday night loving as bland and flavorless as grocery-store pound cake. For one night of the week, Georgia got to experience married life, as she imagined it: lights off, radio on low, no sound of any kind save for his muffled grunting. They had to be quiet, as if there were children in the next room. Sheriff Bill was always on top, never took off his V-neck undershirt, kissed her dryly as he finished, climbed off and immediately started putting on his pants.
Sheriff Bill was crucial to her business plan, or she’d have eased him out of the schedule long ago. Ted Horn was so much more fun: Mr. Take Your Time, Mr. Tie Me Up and Make Me Pay the Price, Mister Ol’ Horny Horndog himself. Ted encouraged her imagination. She got to apply a variety of implements—a feather duster, a spatula, an old silver fork with rounded-off tines. She approached the problem like a scientist in a laboratory: a Slinky, an egg timer, a series of battery-powered appliances from the Adult Superstore in Mobile…
Ted was exceedingly sensitive. And he liked to be surprised. Once she got him spread-eagle and tied to the bed with the hood zipped shut, surprising him was easy.
The hard part, of course, was that Georgia had to do all the work. Ted just lay there and thrashed and groaned over the strains of Def Leppard, Van Halen, whatever eighties hair band she put on for him. Then there was the time they got frisky with the candle wax and glitter. Tiny sparkles kept showing up in the most unexpected places for months.
At some point Ted would decide to throw aside the toys and get down to business—but not right away. He liked for Georgia to take him right up to the edge, and keep him there—
—and hold him there…
—and hold it…
Personally, Georgia thought that level of tension would drive her mad. But Wednesday night was Ted’s night, and Ted liked it tense. Sometimes his face got so red it concerned her, but he rattled off this long Latin name for the underlying medical condition and told her not to worry.
Tonight all the wine and martinis made him redder and more vocal than usual. Double-glazed windows could only do so much. Georgia cranked up Bon Jovi, “Livin’ on a Prayer.”
Ted was one of those Southern straight men who seems kind of gay when you meet him—a mama’s boy, slightly effeminate in his speech, with a flair for dramatic expression. Ted wasn’t as gay acting as Tommy the Dixie Florist, but then, who was? Around town there were whispers about Ted, a kind of don’t-ask-don’t-tell attitude that even if he was “that way,” he was a good doctor, kept his private life to himself, and did whatever he did out of town. That’s all Six Points asked of people like that.
You can do what you want,
as the saying went,
just don’t shove it in my face.
Ted had never married; he was never seen to go on a date; Georgia was the only one in town who
knew that behind closed doors, Ted Horn was a raving heterosexual.