Georgia On My Mind
(Pt. 2)
Dallas drove from sun down to sun up, zipping down the highway and hitting the exits when need be. He was angry, blood boiling so hard his face is red. The band tried to pry out what made him angry enough to speed off the way he did, but trying to get information out of him was like pulling teeth. Even Ricky couldn't reach him; his words went through one ear and out the other.
He drove until the gas tank hit 'Empty' and they were on the border of Georgia. When it was time for the gas attendant to fill up the gas, Donald snatched the keys out of Dallas' hands and told him to cool off in the back.
Dallas went to the gas station bathroom, splashing water on his face to quell the burning from anger. He'd thought the only woman that could get him mad enough to strike her was Sylvia; the fact that the woman was old enough to be his mother (grandmother if he's being rude about it) was just another layer of shock. That hatred, that look like he was nothing…
He'd gotten looks like that when he was with Shirley. Men, women, even a few children, recoiled in disgust when Dallas walked down the street holding her hand. When Shirley tried to slip her hand out of the embrace, he only held it tighter.
People got a whole lot of nerve hating someone for shit that don't mean a goddamn thing.
"Bitch," he said at the mirror. That old hag better thank her lucky stars she was a woman…
Dallas slept in the back of the van while Donald drove. He dreamt about riding horses with Johnny, riding off into the prairie like cowboys. His mother and father sitting on the back porch, watching them with a smile. He dreamt about Shirley again, her belly swollen with his child. They walked down the streets of New York and no one batted an eye. He even dreamt about Delilah, her green eyes digging into his skull. Sylvia flies across, her English accent still getting him hot under the collar as she writhes on top of him in a haze of red light and black shadows, the words "Adulterer" and "Shame" scrawled into her chest as she moans out his name.
They spin around his head so fast he's dizzy, collapsing on the floor and screaming when hands shoot up and grab him, trying to pull him under. Johnny, Shirley, Delilah, and Sylvia, all chanting his name as he's sinking down like quicksand, screaming for help…
"Dallas…"
"Dallas…"
"Dallas!"
Water is splashed on him. He sputters and coughs, hastily wiping the water from his face.
"The fuck, Jim!"
"You need to wake up. You been talking in your sleep and it's getting weird. Might wanna grab a towel for your little…problem." Jim says, eyes downcast on Dallas' frame. Dallas looks down and blushes, snatching a random shirt and placing it over his crotch.
"Think about baseball, a dead puppy, something. I'll be outside." Jim adds, eyeing him with both amusement and repulsion.
When Dallas slipped into some new jeans and socks, he sees Donald at a payphone, talking into it with hand gestures and exaggerated facial expressions. He bursts into a bellied-up laugh and hangs up.
"We got a place to stay the night. My Auntie Marlowe got an extra room and can squeeze us in." he tells the crew.
"You ain't told us about no Auntie Marlowe. How far is she?" Ulysses asks.
"She located three blocks from where our gig at. We ain't got no more money to spend and I know y'all tired of sleeping in this funky ass van. She cool, man. Chill." Donald replies.
"She even cooking dinner right now. If we get there, we get a hot meal, a shower, and a place to sleep. Our gig is tomorrow. C'mon."
"I guess. I could use a hot plate." Ulysses replies, rubbing his stomach.
"We've been on a steady diet of chips, beer, and tea. We could use some real food."
Dallas finds himself at a cramped dinner table, tearing into a hunk of roast beef and shoveling carrots and potatoes in his mouth while a kind-hearted black woman eyes him silently, her judgment burning holes into his face.
"Seems to me you guys have quite the appetite." She says, her mouth making a thin smile.
"You don't know the half, Auntie. Been on the road driving like he—crazy." Donald replies, gulping down his drink. Dallas clears his entire plate and downs another glass of juice.
"That food was fu—" all eyes glare him down, "—It was very delicious. Thanks for having me over for dinner, ma'am." He finishes. The woman sniffs and nods her head.
"Why thank you, young man. The food was more for my nephew, but my husband won't be home till morning and I made too much food to begin with." She adds. She grabs the plates and makes her way to the sink, Donald picking the pot roast from his teeth with a toothpick.
"Hey, Auntie. Where my cousin at?"
"She's working graveyard tonight. Nicholas is fast asleep, so you best keep quiet. I don't want him bright-eyed and bushy-tailed this late in the night." She cocks her head to the corridor adjacent to the dining room.
"Where we sleeping?" Ulysses asks.
"Spare room next to the bathroom, two doors down on the left. You can't miss it." She says over her shoulder.
"Let me help." Dallas offers, grabbing some of the dishes to wash.
"You're awful kind, but I got it. I don't like anyone else touching my china. Especially from folks that smell like outside. Brings bad luck." She says, a smirk ghosting her lips. Dallas, taking the hint, retreats back to go find the room to throw down his bags.
He knows it's two doors down, but a soft light catches his eye to his right. His peripheral catches an open door, showing a crib adjacent to a pink bed. Without thinking, his feet make his way inside the room and towards the crib. Holding in a breath, he peeks inside the crib.
It's a boy, no older than two, fast asleep on his side, a dinosaur blanket set covering his small body. He's got honey blonde ringlets framing his face, thick eyelashes, rosy cheeks and the softest snore that stirred something in Dallas' gut. His finger tucks away a silky ringlet, his throat catching. He leaves the baby like he's been burned. He takes in the room instead, trying to take his mind off the fact that he is where he shouldn't be. Posters of a college he knows nothing about plastered all over the walls, photos of family and prayers graced the dresser that's stuck between girlhood and motherhood with child-like lipsticks and diapers scattered across it. The mother's bed appears to haven't been made in days, the sheets clinging onto one side of the mattress and blankets tousled and messy. There appeared to be a book hiding in the corner of a pillow.
This is his cue to leave. It's time to get out of this woman's room and not intrude any further…
He picks up the book.
It's decorative; pink and white lace on the front and back cover, with the lock securing the pages. Dangling from the book, tied in a silk ribbon, is a key to the lock.
Taking the key, he unlocks the book.
It's just a peek, he tells himself.
"Dallas! Dallas, where is you?" Ricky's voice hisses. He jolts, the diary falling on the mattress, the key mocking him with the nightlight catching a glint of it. Snatching the diary, he snaps it shut and tucks it back under the pillow and leaves the room.
He lied in bed at night, crammed on the floor with his bedmates, staring at the ceiling and reflecting on what he'd done. He tried to read someone's diary.
He never read diaries. Not since he'd read Sylvia's when they were together; he found out she was cheating when she made the bright idea to leave it wide open for him to read. When he confronted her about it, she was more upset that he read her diary than anything.
He should let it go, but everything in his body is screaming at him to read it. It's just a peek, he's bored and no one is going to know about it.
Just one little peek.
Dallas found himself back in the lit room, the toddler fast asleep and none the wiser. The diary in his hands, he unlocks it.
When he puts it to the night light for better illumination, he freezes.
This handwriting…
This handwriting looks an awful lot like Shirley's.
WHACK.
A strong force cracks him upside the face so hard his head jerks to the side. Seeing stars, he turns his head to face the source of the strike.
Standing before him, angry and spiteful, is Shirley.
He knows those shapely legs and doe-like eyes anywhere.
Her afro has been replaced with long cornrow braids that have beads at the ends. She wears large earrings, colored glasses, and green nails.
"Put. It. Down." She says. She readies her purse for another swing, and Dallas immediately drops the book.
"Shirley," Dallas starts.
She freezes.
"Dallas…" she says, her voice softens.
Dallas cuts her off, pulling her into a tight embrace.
"I never thought I'd see you again." He says into her hair. He pulls away and strokes her braids.
"I really love your hair like this." He adds.
"How did you…" Shirley starts.
"My bandmate got an auntie that lives here—"
"—bandmate?"
"It's a long story." Dallas cups Shirley's cheeks.
"I've missed you. I have so much to tell you."
"Dallas…"
"What?"
"You have to stop. You're waking up Nicholas." She gestures to the toddler stirring in his sleep. She strokes his cheeks, and the toddler calms down and resumes his deep sleep.
"Is he your little brother? Cousin?" Dallas asks. Shirley stills herself, takes a deep breath and in an even voice says,
"He's my son, Dallas."