Georgia Bottoms by Mark Childress Read Free Book Online

Brother wound up the front man, the lookout, driver of the getaway car.
    Am I my brother’s keeper? Not on your life.
    Georgia had to focus on what was important: it was the Sunday evening before the Tuesday luncheon, and she was out of waxed paper. You cannot make Chow Mein Noodle Cookies without it.
    She hated to drive all the way out to Hull’s for one item, soshe drove across the tracks behind the water tower to the Kwik-M Mart knowing she’d pay double, then they didn’t have waxed paper, so she had to go to Hull’s anyway. It would have been a total waste of an hour if she hadn’t come back downtown via Camellia Street and spotted Krystal’s forest-green Subaru in its spot behind city hall. Georgia slid her Civic in beside it. Twenty minutes of Krystal was as good as two hours of anybody else.
    “Girl, don’t you come in here wasting my time,” Krystal crowed when she saw her. “You know some of us peons have to work for a living.”
    “This is what you call work?” said Georgia. “How many times have you beaten Sol today?”
    Rhonda Peavey smiled up from the desk at Krystal’s door. “Well hey Georgia! Don’t you look good!”
    “Thanks, Rhonda. I can’t believe she drags you down here on a Sunday night just to watch her play Sol.”
    “I ain’t playing no Sol!” Krystal rose up from the huge cherry mayoral desk, her arms spread for a big friendly hug. “I’ve been down here since church, doing the people’s vital business. And here comes you, waltzing in to mess me up.” Krystal went to the Methodist, as her family always had. “Mmm, you smell as good as you look. What is that, Calvin Klein?”
    Georgia settled into a wooden armchair. “Don’t tell me you don’t recognize Chanel Number 5.”
    “That ain’t Chanel,” Krystal said. “Too fruity.”
    “You’re just smelling my Juicy Fruit,” Georgia said. “And don’t say ‘ain’t.’ It makes you sound country.”
    “I am country, and I truly do not give a shit who knows it.” Krystal was barrel-shaped: wide, round, low to the ground. Twice a year she came back from Montgomery with another load ofcropped mayoral jackets and industrial-strength wool suits from Dillard’s. Being a short, portly lady mayor in lower Alabama was definitely a fashion challenge. Occasionally Georgia tried to offer suggestions, to lighten her look with a scarf or a colorful blouse—but it was like putting a feather on a battleship. Anyway Krystal had gotten herself reelected three times with this look. It was pointless to change.
    Through the door Georgia saw Rhonda pretending to file a piece of paper while hanging on every word of their conversation. Georgia asked Krystal with her eyes:
Can we shut the door?
    Krystal pantomimed, one hand cupped to her ear,
If we do, she’ll just listen through the crack.
They were such old friends they didn’t need words to communicate.
    Krystal cleared her throat. “Rhonda, could you run over to the judge’s office and see if Shelley’s got that ruling yet?”
    “She didn’t, when I talked to her ten minutes ago,” Rhonda replied.
    “Well, maybe she does now. Run over there and wait for it, would you please, ma’am?” Lady mayors had to be five times more polite than anyone, Georgia thought. Even to subordinates.
    Georgia said, “Don’t you know only sinners work on Sunday?”
    Krystal explained that it was all Judge Barnett’s fault, goddamn garlic-reeking old dinosaur. He had been working nights and weekends to thwart Krystal’s annexation plan. She was awaiting a copy of his latest ruling so the city attorney could file an appeal. The whole thing was so complicated it made Georgia’s head swim, millage rate differentials and periodic fee adjustments… Krystal’s goal was to bring city services to the black, unincorporated side of town, East Six Points, commonly known as “East Over,” as in “east, over there.” Her annexation plan hadrun into a wall of white male dinosaurs who didn’t want