Jade had rarely gone into that part of town—and certainly never alone. To get there she had to cross the railroad tracks and drive past the deserted depot and the cotton gin, which was no longer in operation. Only then was she officially in “nigger town.”
Several years earlier, Velta had hired a black woman to do their ironing. Whenever they went to the lady’s house, Velta would order Jade to stay in the car and not to speak to anyone. After a few months, Velta had decided that having the ironing done was too expensive. “Besides,” Jade overheard her telling a friend, “it scares me to death to go into that part of town. You never know what they’re going to do.”
A child, Jade hadn’t understood what Velta feared would happen to them when they ventured across the tracks. No one had ever approached the car, spoken to them, or exhibited the merest interest or suggestion of threat. In fact, the ironing lady had always sent out several teacakes wrapped in a paper napkin for Jade. Flaky, buttery, golden, sugar-sprinkled disks—they had looked and smelled mouth-watering. She’d never had an opportunity to find out how they tasted, though. Velta had refused to let her eat them and threw them away the instant they returned home.
Jade parked her mother’s car beneath a crepe myrtle tree a block away from the address Patrice had scribbled down for her. As she had pressed the slip of paper into Jade’s hand, she whispered, “I’ll call Georgie and tell her to be expecting you. Take cash.”
The cash, which was most of what she had saved from working in Pete Jones’s store, was inside the pocketbook she tucked beneath her arm as she went down the cracked and buckled sidewalk. Some of Velta’s prejudicial paranoia had rubbed off on her, she was ashamed to realize. She kept her eyes lowered, looking neither right nor left as she passed the row of small houses that were packed wall-to-wall against each other on their narrow lots.
Georgie’s house looked exactly like all the others. In spite of the cold fear in her gut and the serrated blade of her conscience that was sawing against her heart, Jade was curious about what went on there. The house was only two rooms wide, but deep, so that the back porch was almost even with the alley behind the house. It had been painted at one time, though now that white paint was a distant memory. The green tarpaper roof was patched and peeling. The metal chimney had rusted and left a brown stain bleeding down the exterior wall.
“Don’t let appearances fool you,” Patrice had told her. “Old Georgie’s one rich nigger. She could blackmail half the population in the county if she saw fit.”
From the outside, it appeared that no one was home. Heavy shades had been pulled over all the windows. Mustering her courage, Jade went up the front sidewalk, stepped onto the porch, and knocked on the frame of the screen door.
She felt dozens of eyes boring into her back from hiding places, but she reasoned that that was only her imagination. She didn’t dare turn around either to nullify or to confirm her fears.
It suddenly struck her that there was no one else on the street—no cars passing by, no children playing in front yards, no young mothers pushing baby strollers along the sidewalks. Georgie’s neighbors were as wary of white intruders as whites were of venturing into this neighborhood. That regrettable racial schism was one of the things that she and Gary had hoped to correct.
The front door was slowly pulled open, and Jade got her first look at Georgie through the screen. She was much younger than Jade had expected, or perhaps she only looked young because of her smooth, unlined face. Her full lips were enhanced with bright red lipstick. Her eyes were implacable disks of ebony. She was tall and so slender that her limbs looked almost spidery. Her hair had been cut close to form a tight cap around her head. She was dressed in a lilac cotton shirtwaist. Jade was relieved to see that she was immaculately clean.
She swallowed dryly. “My name is Jade. I believe Patrice called for me.”
Georgie pushed open the screen door and Jade stepped inside. The house didn’t smell unpleasant, as she had feared it might. She wondered what Georgie put in all the Mason jars. There were crates of them stacked in the hall.
The woman raised her hand and indicated that Jade should precede her. Moving toward the back of the house, Jade followed the hallway that divided the house into halves and formed a straight line from the front door to the back.
In the silence, a ticking wall clock sounded inordinately loud. From the kitchen came the high, thin, feeble whistle of a simmering teakettle.
Georgie indicated a room on their left. The only thing in it besides a table draped with a white rubber sheet was an old-fashioned, free-standing, enamel medicine cabinet. Jade hesitated on the threshold.
“Why did you come to me?”
She jumped at Georgie’s whispery voice, even though she was much less frightened of the woman than she was of the table with the white rubber sheet and the medicine cabinet, which contained stainless steel implements capable of maiming or killing.
“I have something that needs taken care of,” Jade answered huskily.
Georgie held out her hand. At first Jade was puzzled by the gesture. When she realized what it signified, she fumbled in her handbag for her wallet, took out five ten-dollar bills, and stacked them onto Georgie’s pink palm. She was professional enough to get her money up front, but lady enough not to bluntly ask for it. It disappeared into the skirt pocket of her dress; she didn’t thank Jade for it.
“Please remove your underpants and lie down on the table.”
Jade’s teeth began to chatter. Now that the time had come, she was overwhelmed with dread and fear. She clumsily laid her purse on the end of the table and reached beneath her skirt for her panties, which she pulled down and stepped out of. Stooping over to pick them up, she asked, “Shouldn’t I undress completely?”
“Not until I’ve examined you. I might not do it.”
“Why not?” Almost as much as Jade feared the abortion, she feared being turned down as a candidate. “You’ve got to do it. You’ve already taken my money.”
“Lie down. Please,” the woman said, not unkindly. Jade lay down. Georgie raised her skirt, folding it back over her chest, exposing her from the waist down. Jade turned her head and stared at the blank wall.
“Some girls come to me too late,” Georgie expla
ined. She laid her hands on Jade’s lower belly and began massaging it. “I can’t help them if they wait too long.”
“It’s not too late for me. I asked Patrice.”
“We’ll see.” Georgie continued kneading Jade’s abdomen. Her eyes were closed. She let only her pressing hands guide her across the space between Jade’s pelvic bones, working as high as her navel and as low as her pubic triangle. At last, satisfied, she gave Jade a hand up and lowered her skirt back into place.
Jade sat on the edge of the table, her legs awkwardly dangling over the side. The rubber sheet felt cold, clinical, and foreign beneath her bare bottom. She tried not to think about it. “Will you do it?”