Read Online Georgia Bottoms by Mark Childress - Free Book Online Page B

freely, willingly. They were hers to give.
    In return—no, not in return for anything, but of their own free will, with no connection to any action of Georgia’s—the men offered gifts of their own. They knew she was not wealthy; everyone knew the Bottoms fortune had dried up shortly after Big Sue changed the family name. Everyone knows it’s expensive to keep up a big old antebellum falling-down house with a sick old mother and a worthless brother in tow. So they gave her gifts.
    In the movies, men gave their sweethearts diamonds, or roses, or fancy kitchen appliances. Georgia liked cash. No fuss, no raised eyebrows at the bank. If there was one thing we all learned from Richard Nixon, she thought, it was the importance of avoiding a paper trail.
    Sometimes it took a bit of extremely subtle hint dropping to get a man to come up with the idea on his own, to realize after the third or fourth date how lucky he was to be spending one night a week enjoying the lady’s company, and it might be the gentlemanly thing to offer up a little—a little gift, just to help with the upkeep of the place—not that she was his mistress, which would make her beholden to him, but—after all she had been so kind, and there she was in that big old rambling house with the mother and the useless brother. What harm could there be in a gift?
    He was clumsy the first time, trying to press a wad of bills into her hand or some such, so that she had to pull back in a huff and refuse, horrified by the very idea, whatever he meant to imply she was definitely not that kind of girl! Of course he would rush to reassure her he hadn’t meant anything at all. A gift! That’s all. Just a gift. Eventually he would come to insist that she take it, practically force it on her, to prove it was only a gift. With no strings attached.
    And although she resisted, acted hurt by the very idea and turned her face away, eventually she came around to telling him how awfully kind he was, how sensitive to notice that her family was not exactly made out of money. She discreetly let him know that any such gift would not go for dresses or frivolous things, but directly to the stack of household bills.
    She was so honestly, quietly grateful that the man would be moved to offer the same gift every week.
    Each man thought he was the only man. Each thought the whole idea was his idea, his gift the only gift. That was the secret to making a living, the Georgia way.

4
    E mma Day Pettigrew’s Florida room had a great view of the relevant side of the parsonage, the front door, driveway, and garage.
    Georgia considered each of the four houses that backed up to the church property before deciding that Floyd and Emma Day’s Florida room had the best view. With its fifties-style screened windows, frosted glass slats that cranked open to let in the heat of the morning, sitting in that room felt like being in a garden with no bugs.
    Once Georgia made the calculation, it was only a matter of how to get herself invited to Emma Day’s house at ten minutes till eight on a Monday morning.
    Thank God Emma Day said, “Of course, come on over, I’ve been working in my garden for hours.” When she answered the door, Georgia led her through her own house, singing the praises of the Florida room all the way there. She sank down on an elegant wicker settee.
    Emma Day was a morning person, in a morning-gardening outfit straight out of
Southern Living:
cute turquoise flip-flops, white pedal pushers, white cotton sweater with pink stripes, and a little more makeup than is advisable in broad daylight. Her hair was a blond ball of cotton candy. Her skinny white pedalpushers bore not the first grass stain, not a mark of any kind. How could you garden in white pants and stay that clean? Perhaps she had run inside to change when Georgia called.
    Here she came dragging a folded-up card table as if it was too heavy for a woman of her petite build. “Is one table going to be enough?” Emma Day said.