Georgia Bottoms by Mark Childress Read Free Book Online Page B

thank you. That’s nice of you to say.”
    “Don’t get the bighead,” said Georgia. “I’m just stating a fact.”
    She knew Brother wouldn’t come to meet her. She went to the rendezvous point anyway, so she could hold it over his head. She waited precisely five minutes, then drove around the front of the T. C. Looney Community Health Center. Ralph Lemmon leaned against his car, smoking, talking to J. T. Cobb of the savings and loan. Georgia started to roll down her window to ask, but no, they were “anonymous.” Besides, it was no mystery where Brother had gone—to shoot pool with Sims, like he said. If he wanted to violate his parole, let him. Let him go back to jail if he had no more self-control than that. Georgia always got a better night’s sleep when he was behind bars, anyway.
    She pointed her Honda toward home. This was the first evening that actually had a feeling of September: angled shadows, a touch of gold in the light, a river of blackbirds streaming overhead. Just when you thought you couldn’t take another minute of summer, here came the first hint of cooler, longer nights ahead.
    All this golden light raised a lump in her throat. The old town seemed suddenly lovely: long green lawns stretched out under live oaks, sprinklers chattering, flinging arcs of bright glitter. Some of the clapboard cottages were as old as the live oaks. Kids made skateboard racket on the broken sidewalks.
    At home, Georgia stirred up a pan of cornbread to go with the peas. She propped Little Mama in her chair with her blanket and supper and the Channel 12 news from Montgomery. Little Mama loved to rail against the black weather girl, Gwen somebody, who was actually very pretty, Georgia thought. Well-spoken.
    “Look at her,” said Little Mama. “They all dress like prostitutes these days. Look how low cut that blouse is!”
    “I’m gonna go get my bath,” said Georgia.
    Little Mama said, “Did you bring the Mentholatum?”
    “It’s right there by your hand. If it’d been a snake woulda bit you.”
    “I thought you forgot it again.” Little Mama opened the jar, put a dot of ointment on her upper lip. She used vats of Mentholatum but never had a cold. Georgia suspected the smell reminded her of all the Kools she used to smoke.
    Mama waved a claw at the TV. “Would you look? Everything she’s got is hanging out!”
    “I know, Ma. You hate poor ol’ Gwen. You’ve hated her for years.”
    “They used to have that nice gal from Evergreen, whatever happened to her? Oh, that’s right—she was white, so they took her off. Everything for the Nigroes these days.”
    “Yes, Mama. You’re right.” You had to agree with her, or she would never shut up.
    “They never let one of ’em have their own show until thatDiahann Carroll. Now they done taken over the whole damn TV! I mean, come on! Give ’em a channel of their own, I don’t care. But do they have to be on every last one of our channels too?”
    “Yes, Mama, they do. It’s the law now. They have to be on every channel.”
    “It’s that goddamn Rosa Parks.”
    “That’s exactly who did it,” said Georgia. “They should never have put her in charge of television.”
    “Did you bring my Mentholatum?”
    Georgia peered at her. “Mama. It’s next to your hand.”
    “I thought you forgot it again,” Mama said.
    Georgia didn’t say if it had been a snake it would have bit her. She loved her mother, although when she tried to think of reasons why, all she got was a headache. She hoped Little Mama would have a happy old age, but secretly she also hoped it didn’t drag on and on, like some mothers. Even if you love them, you don’t want them hanging around forever, do you?
    Also, Little Mama was a terrible patient. You could not do a thing to suit her. She used to say, “When I get old, I hope you just take me out in the woods and shoot me.”
    She hadn’t said it lately. Probably thinks I’ll take her up on it, Georgia thought grimly.
    Ah, well,