Georgia Bottoms (21 page)

There was something so awful and definitive in the way Krystal had slammed that door.

Georgia didn’t even want to think what it could mean. She could not imagine a world in which Krystal was no longer her best friend.

She went to her car, drove out of the alley to the front of the house. Here came Little Mama shuffling up the sidewalk as if wandering the streets was her daily routine.

Georgia rolled down her window. “Mama, what in the world?”

Mama leveled her finger at Georgia’s nose. “I been looking for you.”

“What for?”

Mama indicated the house with a flourish. “A nigger tried to break into the house,” she said.

“Say what?”

“Big tall one. He was trying to come in the front door. He saw me through the glass and got to bangin’ and whalin’ on the door. I thought he was going to bust it down.”

“You are making this up,” Georgia said. “Get in, I’ll drive you up the hill.”

“I’m not going back up there,” Mama said. “He might still be there.”

“I said
get in the car.
” Georgia didn’t often order her mother around. Little Mama came meekly around the front bumper and got in.

Georgia had learned to deal with extreme forgetfulness. She wasn’t sure she was ready for full-blown delusions. “If you thought somebody was trying to break in, why’d you go off and leave the back door wide open?” She looked over her shoulder to execute the three-point turn.

“That nig must have seen me leave, and broke in again.”

“Why did you leave?”

“I don’t remember,” Mama said.

“Think about it. You left home because… you were looking for me?”

“For somebody. Maybe it was you. But why would I be looking for you?”

“To tell me somebody was trying to break in?”

Mama said, “Could you give it a rest with all these questions? I’m exhausted.”

“Okay, but—”

“
Georgia!
That’s enough!”

Georgia drove up the hill thinking the whole thing was just another load of hooey from the dump truck that never stopped giving. But when she glanced at the front door she saw a young black man leaning against it.

She hit the brakes so hard her tires chirped.

He stood with arms folded, as if he was waiting for her. She was struck by the casual insolence of his pose. He wasn’t trying not to be seen.

He must have been standing there when Georgia was around back, looking through the house.

“Is that the guy, Mama?”

“Lord, he’s come back!” Mama cried. “Back up! Back up! Get away! Go!”

“Would you be quiet? He can hear you.”

He refolded his arms and cocked one foot against the other ankle. He was a tall, good-looking young man—awfully young, she saw, as she got a closer look. A boy with a pretty face.

Georgia rolled down her window. “Can I help you?”

He just stared at her.

“Hello?” Georgia said. “Were you trying to break into our house?”

He didn’t say a word. He wore his oversized black windbreaker zipped up to the neck (in this heat!), baggy oversized basketball shorts of shiny polyester, and the largest sneakers Georgia had ever seen, huge black boats with a white stripe to match the
stripe on the jacket sleeves. The boy’s legs tapered like skinny brown pipes into those shoes. On one shoulder he carried a black nylon backpack.

Georgia had just about decided to be scared after all when he said “No” in a soft dry voice that wasn’t the least bit scary.

She got out of the car. “How can we help you?”

“Omnay,” he said.

“What?”

“Omnay. F’na’walyins.”

After a few more exchanges like this, she told him to stop talking like he had marbles in his mouth. He tried again. This time she made out, “I’m Nate from New Orleans.”

“Nate?” she said. “I don’t know any Nate.”

The boy said, “Nathan.”

“Nathan? You mean… you’re…”

She felt as if she’d fallen over backward. But she was still standing upright.

No wonder she thought he was pretty. Look at that face! That was Georgia’s face, blended with Skiff’s face.

It was the weirdest sensation, like looking into a mirror and seeing two faces overlapping.

Dear God, this was Georgia’s son.

Her own flesh and blood—
her own black son
standing there with his arms crossed, mouth turned up skeptically at one corner.

A huge smile opened up on her face. “Well hey, Nathan!” She should open her arms and embrace him—but how could she, with Little Mama watching from the car?

Inside, Georgia was dying. Inside, she was crying out,
No!
But she did not want him to think she was not glad to see him.

“You must be hungry,” she said.

His eyes came to life.

“Lucky for you I can cook,” said Georgia. “Come on in this house.”

For a minute, she had been too shocked to know what to do. But now she knew: feed him, give him a bed for the night, then put him on the next bus to New Orleans. Little Mama wouldn’t remember him for long, and no one else would ever have to know.

I
t took ten minutes to coax Little Mama out of the car into the house. Casting a baleful glance at the tall black boy hunched over the kitchen table, she muttered “Never in all my born days!” and fled to her room.

Nathan barely glanced up. He was fully engaged in his first round of eating. Georgia remembered Eugenia complaining about his appetite. If anything the old lady had understated it.

Georgia went up to tell Little Mama about her old high-school chum Dorothy Blanchard, a person she invented on her way up the stairs. Poor Dorothy had recently died, she explained, of very sad natural causes, and this was her son Nathan come to Six Points to look for a job.

“I can’t believe you letting some nigger sit at my table,” Little Mama said. “You must have forgot whose table that is.”

“Hush your mouth with that word,” Georgia shot. “If you can’t keep a civil tongue in your head, just stay in your room till he’s gone.”

That’s exactly what Mama used to say if Georgia said “damn” or “shit.”
If you can’t keep a civil tongue in your head
… Saying it back to her mother now made Georgia feel sad. And tired. Somehow, without noticing, or wanting to, she had turned into her mother.

No. Worse. Into her mother’s
mother.

“Hmp!” Little Mama folded her arms. “You can’t wait till I’m dead so you can let niggers run wild all over the house. You’ll probably throw parties for ’em and let ’em sleep in my bed.”

“That’s true,” Georgia said. “That is actually my secret master plan. I’m surprised it took you this long to catch on.”

Little Mama said, “Did you know Rosa Parks is running for mayor now? They got her damn picture up all over town.”

Georgia had to smile. “That’s not Rosa Parks, Mama. That’s Madeline Roudy. The pediatrician at the clinic. She’s running against Krystal.”

“I know Rosa Parks when I see her,” said Mama.

Georgia went downstairs to find that Nathan had consumed a whole jar of Skippy with a loaf of Holsum bread, half a roasted chicken, a bag of Doritos, and a quart of milk. Georgia cleaned out the fridge and moved on to the pantry. Good thing she always kept tons of canned and frozen food in case of tornado, power failure, or famine. From the freezer she brought out Colonial “heat-n-serve” rolls, a spaghetti Stroganoff casserole, and a spiral-sliced honey-baked ham.

Nathan ate silently and fast, as if he’d never been allowed to eat before and this might be his only chance. Georgia was tentatively impressed with his manners. He didn’t gobble. He used the correct implements correctly. Only once did he rest his elbows on the table, and he moved them the moment she pointed it out.

She stood by the stove, watching him eat. “You like peach pie?”

He nodded. She put the pie plate in front of him. He assumed the whole thing was for him, and ate it all.

Georgia was beginning to like this boy.

Liking him was the last thing she needed to do. The situation was absurd. First thing in the morning she would drive him to the Texaco station and put him on the bus.

She still felt a trace of shame from her very first thought upon seeing him, which was what a pretty face he had, and how much she might like to… It was wrong even to remember thinking that. Of course she hadn’t known who he was, but still.

Until today, Nathan had been an abstraction, a kind of make-believe boy. At some level Georgia hadn’t quite believed in him. Now here he was, so real she could smell him—the pungent smell of a man, not a boy, who badly needs a bath and a change of socks.

Nathan ran his finger around the pie plate to get the last crumbs.

“You still hungry?”

He hesitated, then shook his head.

“Well, hallelujah.” She intended it as a joke but Nathan didn’t smile. “What I mean is, I’m glad we finally got you enough to eat. You were so hungry when you got here.”

That was so inane Nathan didn’t bother answering. He trained those big, brown, unblinking eyes on Georgia. She didn’t need a birth certificate to know whose eyes those were—Skiff’s, just as luminous and bottomless.

She was surprised how dark-skinned Nathan had turned out. From that glimpse in the delivery room she thought he would be lighter. It didn’t matter to her, but she had heard that lighter-skinned blacks were treated better by their peers.

She saw a reflection of herself in the shape of his face, the curve of his mouth. But she doubted anyone would ever guess their relationship just by looking.

“So, Nathan. What brings you to Six Points?”

“The bus,” he said.

Oh no. Was he stupid, too? “I mean, what made you decide to get on the bus?”

“Mamaw,” he said.

“Mamaw. That’s Eugenia?”

He nodded.

“Something wrong with her? Is she ill or something?”

He shook his head.

“Come on, Nathan, you can tell me. Whatever it is. Surely you know this comes as a pretty big surprise for me.”

“I try to call you,” he said.

“You did? When?”

“Last night.”

“I didn’t get any—wait… Did you start to leave a message then hang up?”

He nodded.

“I wondered who that was.” If only she’d gotten to the phone in time, she might have headed this off. “Why did you hang up?”

He shrugged.

“Well, what were you planning to say?”

The boy stared for a long time. Evaluating her trustworthiness, she thought. He glanced at his plate. She could almost hear him thinking:
At least the food is good.

“Mamaw say you rich and she ain’t got nothin’, if I ain’t do zackly what she say every got-damn minute of my life, I just as well carry my sorry ass on up here and let you look after me,” he said in a rush. “That’s all she been say since Aunt Ree gone to jail.” He pronounced it “awnt” in that old-fashioned colored-folks way.

“What did you do to make your Mamaw mad?” Georgia said.

He cut his eyes at her—she was sharper than he had suspected. “Nothin’.”

“Nothin’? Aw now, come on, Nathan, she didn’t throw you out for
nothin’
. What did you do?”

Nathan studied her. His brow wrinkled up in a frown. “I smoke some a her weed.”

Georgia sighed. “Sorry I asked.” She had no idea what might be an appropriate punishment… Go get Mamaw some more weed?

“Well she done smoke up all of mine,” Nathan said. “I just took some back, no need for her to get all riled up like ’at.”

“You and Mamaw smoke each other’s weed all the time?” Georgia said with a tone she thought sounded lighthearted.

Nathan glared at her.
“Sheeeit.”

“What?”

“What you mean with that bullshit, ‘You and Mamaw smoke each other’—yeah we smoke each other weed, what the hell you got to say about it?”

“Nathan, all I was saying was—”

“Look, you ax me what I done,” he said. “I told you the truth. You want me to lie?”

“Don’t say ‘ax,’ ” Georgia said. “The word is ‘ask.’ ”

“Aw fuck off, lady, damn,” Nathan said.

Twice! In one day! Georgia had now been told to
fuck off
by her best friend and her half-black offspring.

“I beg your pardon?” she said stiffly.

“Why the fuck you want to say some like that for,” he said. “Ain’t nothin’ wrong the way I talk! Just cause e’body in the world don’t talk like you.”

“Oh I get it, you can talk just fine when you want to,” she said. “When you want to be understood you have no problem. Now Nathan, listen to me. This is my home, mine and Mama’s. And you are welcome here. But not that gutter language. I won’t have it. Understand? I don’t care if you’re twenty years old or two thousand, I do not allow that word in my house. You got that?”

He gaped at her.

“I said, do you
got
that?”

He tried to hold his mouth still, but a little grin leaked out.

“What are you grinning at?”

“Do you
have
that,” he said. “If you gonna bitch me out, at least get it right your own damn self.”

My God, the balls on this kid! He got those directly from Georgia. She struggled to hide how much his cockiness pleased her.

“Well okay, smarty-pants. And don’t say ‘bitch.’ ”

He rolled his eyes. “Ah-ight, bitch.”

She was on him in a flash—towering over him, her hand raised to slap his face—and it was going to hurt, too. “Call me that again,” she urged. “Go on. I dare you. I’ll slap you from here to the middle of next week. Go ahead. I’m waiting.”

This was not the reaction Nathan had expected. His eyes loomed large. “Jokin’,” he said.

“No. A joke is funny and that was not funny.” She lowered her hand. “You watch that mouth, young man.”

He squinted his eyes. “You really gonna hit me?”

She raised the hand again. “Try it and see.”

“Dayum,”
he said.

“You probably thought I was some little shrinking violet,” she said, “some little Southern belle you could come up here and push around. Well, I am not afraid of you.”

“Ain’t you rich?” he said.

“Hell no I’m not rich! I work hard for every penny I make.”

“What kinda job you do?”

That’s for me to know, Mr. Smelly Socks.
“I make quilts. Collectible quilts. I make them, and I sell them in a gift shop in town.”