Georgia On My Mind

She sat there eyeing me like a lion seeking out his prey. I tried to turn my head, but her eyes followed me wherever I went. The judge read off dem charges and I could do nothin’ but smile on the inside. Ms. Jackson finally got what she deserved. And I got what I deserved, justice.

We always worked for the Jackson family. My mama was the nanny of Mr. Jackson, my grandma was his daddy’s maid and Mr. Jackson’s great- granddaddy Mr. Pope owned ha mama. Folks round these parts say that my grandma was Mr. Pope’s bastard and that’s why my mama got them light green eyes, and that sandy brown hair that runs down ha back. She’s a high yella woman that ain’t never did no fieldwork in her life. She was always in the house, cooking and cleaning for white folks. Me on the other hand, I’m black as the night sky and my head so nappy, mama just kept it braided in six small plaits. She kept a string tied on the end for it to grow. That ain’t never work for me. When I got old enough, I decided to just cut it off and start over. I got just a big enough afro to put a band around it. Mr. Jackson and me grew up together kinda like brothas and sistas. We used to run through dem cotton fields, stepping on dem sticky things. Our feet would be so sore when we got back up to the Big House, that mama would pat it with some green alcohol and wrap some ole cloth round em. When he married Ms. Emily Hopkins from cross the creek, she became Mrs. Jackson and he begged his daddy for me to come be his maid. He told him, “But ya better take good care of Georgia now. Dat’s my girl.” I been there ever since.

4601 Wire Road is the Jackson residence. It’s a little brick house on bout an acre of land. The white shutters is always clean cause I spend quite a few afternoons wipin’ dem down with bleach. Two white rocking chairs on the front porch and Mrs. Jackson insisted that they paint the front door yella. It’s a long dirt road from the main highway to get back here. I walk from my house on Sugar Hill, which is about three-mile’s everyday. Most times Lou Ellen (the Jackson’s baby) is sitting on the front porch steps waiting for me. Now dat’s my baby. I done raised ha from birth. She a tiny thing, no more than thirty pounds. She got eyes that’s so blue, you’ll think you lookin’ into the ocean. Ha three blonde strands of hair always brushed to the side. Mrs. Jackson tries to put a bow in it to match her dresses but it always ends up sliding out. Her favorite thing for me to bake/cook is my famous chocolate cake. I puts the butter, eggs, flour and water together with about a cup of sugar and mix it with one of Mrs. Jackson’s brand new Sunbeam mixers she ain’t never use. Me and ha would finish the cake before the end of the week, if Mr. and Mrs. Jackson didn’t eat it all first.

While I would stand there in front of the counter getting out all my ingredients, Mrs. Jackson would watch me. She’s a mean ole heffa who's mad that she ain’t never gonna be nothing but a wife and mama. Hell, she’s barely a mama. Every now and then she’d ask, “Bout how many eggs you put in there Georgia? How long you keep it in the oven?” I knew she was fishin’ for something but I let ha be. One particular Wednesday morning, while I was seasoning some fried chicken for lunch, she slithered in the kitchen like a snake. She ain’t got much hair but the few strands she got, she likes putting it up into a ponytail. She knows she too old for a ponytail. Ms. Jackson ain’t nothin’ but one hundred pounds wet. She got the same blue eyes as Lou Ellen. Only difference is her eyes more like the deep dark sea where all the scary creatures live. She started clearing her throat, I knew she wanted something. “Say a Georgia, you think you could whip me up about five of them chocolate cakes? We have a bake sale down to the church and I want to make some money for Lou Ellen to win the baby contest this year.” She knew I couldn’t say no to my baby, so I rolled my eyes and started baking. When I finished em, she loaded them up into her 1960 Blue Chevy Impala and rode into the dust. Before long, every week she was asking for five to ten cakes on top of me cleaning, cooking and looking after Lou Ellen.

One Friday evening, I felt a hole in the bottom of my work shoes. I decided to walk into town and go to Week’s Department Store for another pair. Town was usually busy round that time (6:00), and I knew if I didn’t catch 'em before the end of the day, I would have to wait until Monday. Ms. Birdies Restaurant was packed. All the white folk’s inside eating her homemade butter biscuits and fried fish. All the colored folks were in the front of the restaurant outside in lawn chairs. When I passed Mr. Maxwell’s TV shop, CBS was talking about those four little girls that got blown up in that church in Birmingham last Sunday. It was so sad that now the chern was suffering because of crazy white folks. I was a member of the NAACP, but I ain’t march or nothin’. I liked my job. It was a respectable job and I couldn’t afford to lose it. Ms. Queen Bowman owned a local bakery. She hated black people so much she would stop, stare at you, and still not speak. She would muscle up enough strength to tell me “hey,” but that was only because my sista Maxine is her nanny. When I passed her window, something caught my eye. I backed up and saw a familiar looking cake in the window. I knew my cakes. My frosting from scratch ain’t look like everyone else’s. That bitch was selling my cakes to Mrs. Queen! The sign read, “Come in for a piece of Mrs. Jackson’s creamy chocolate cake! It’ll make ya taste buds sing.” It was going to be some singing, but not good singing.

That night when I got home, I was fussing so much to my mama that my head started hurting. “Georgia, you gotta calm down baby before you have a heart attack.” I wasn’t tryna hear none of that. How could she take my gift and flaunt it like it was hers? I had been mistreated before but not like that. She would leave dishes in the sink when I wouldn’t come to work and tell Mr. Jackson that I ain’t clean em from the day before. He and I both knew I made sure the house was clean before my day off but to appease ha, he would take $2.00 out my check. They paid me pretty good. $20.00 for the week, $5.00 a day for Monday-Wednesday and Friday. I was off on Thursdays cause mama had dialysis. I was goin’ to fix her but I just didn’t’ know how.

Apparently Mrs. Jackson had been goin’ around for weeks claiming my cake. She was selling it to all the neighbors and some people in the next town over. May Boone, who works over at the Carmichael house, said that Mrs. Carmichael was buying a cake every week. She said that Mrs. Jackson had the best cake on this side of the Edisto River. I said “hmmm,” and kept right on walking to work. A few days after my discovery, I came to work as usual. Lou Ellen was sitting on the front porch waiting for me but Mr. Jackson was still home. I quietly came up to the porch and tried to eavesdrop through the window. “Honey, I know you been baking delicious cakes while I’m at work and everybody in town is talking about em. Mr. Jake Newton is coming into town, you know, that fancy politician who is running for senator? And they hosting a banquet for him down at town hall. They’d love for him to indulge in one of your sweet cakes.” I was shocked. Now Mr. Jackson knew I was baking dem cakes and he didn’t even like his wife like that to be asking her to do anything for him. They say that he courting Mrs. Susie Carmichael. Ha husband is the sheriff but a drunk first. Since Mr. Jackson is the magistrate, they always playing golf or getting so drunk until Mr. Jackson has to stay the night. You know the rest of the story. I grabbed Lou Ellen and took her to the back porch to finish folding clothes. I couldn’t hear anymore of that.

Before long, Mrs. Jackson came to the back sniffing round. “Hey there Georgia. How’s ya mama gal? I ain’t seen her since the woods burned off.” She never asked bout my mama before, so I knew something was fishy. “She’s fine,” I said sternly and kept folding clothes. Lou Ellen was in the bottom of the basket wrapping a blanket around herself. She stood there another five minutes before asking me, “Ya think you could make me one of those cakes again? Perry (Mr. Jackson) wants one for his masonic lodge meeting this Saturday night.” I knew she was lying. I had heard of that Mr. Newton before. He was the one who was telling them people in city hall that us Negroes didn’t need to vote. We didn’t know what was best for us. I even heard that he was a member of the Klan. I mumbled under my breath, “Sure ma’am, whatever you say.”

It only took me thirty minutes to bake the cake, but that time, I did it at my house. I thought to myself, “Well since she wants credit for something she didn’t make, it would be a cake both of them would remember forever.” I put a little extra lovin’ in it for Mr. Newton.

The night of the banquet, I slept peacefully in bed. I had prayed to God that his will be done because I was sick and tired of being sick and tired. Just as I fell into a deep sleep, mama came into the room screaming. “Georgia wake up! Wake up child! The man is DEAD!” At first I didn’t know what man she was talking about. Then it hit me, Mr. Newton. I thought he might get a stomachache or maybe a little drowsiness but not dead. I started panicking. What if Mrs. Jackson tell da police that I poisoned him? Then that meant she would have to admit that she wasn’t baking the cakes. She wouldn’t do that, not and ruin her reputation. I guess His will was done.

Now I’m sittin’ here in this courtroom. All these white folks sneering down at Mrs. Jackson cause they think she a killer. The prosecutor walkin’ back and forth explaining how this was a crime of passion. Somehow she found out that Mr. Jackson was sleeping with Mrs. Susie Carmichael and to get her husband back, she killed Mr. Newton and was planning on pinning it on Mr. Jackson. Her attorney said that Mrs. Jackson had been struggling with her vision for a few months and had doctor’s notes to prove it. She “accidently” placed a substance in the batter thinking it was something else. I tried to disguise myself with dark shades and a scarf tied around my head, but she still found me in the crowd. She watched me, I watched her. I watched her march into a cell.