Free Between, Georgia by Joshilyn Jackson Page A

between horrified listening and a to-do list to get myself on the road to Between as quickly as possible.
    “Don’t go leaping in the car all harum-scarum and blast over here and have to go back tomorrow because you didn’t get your work squared away. Genny’s not going to be able to do for herself, and when that dog knocked your mama in the road, she scraped half the skin clean off her back. She needs you, Nonny. I have to go.”
    “Wait a sec. What aren’t you telling me, Bernese?” I said.
    “Just do what you need to do to be able to stay over here with us. If you can’t get here by eight or so, tell me now. I can hire that mealy-faced worm-boy to drive over from Atlanta and interpret.
    Someone has to tell Stacia what happened when she wakes up.”
    For the ninety-seven millionth time, I silently cursed Bernese for not learning to sign, but the Fretts’ system of communication had been in place for decades and was ingrained and habitual.
    Genny and Mama were twins after all, and as toddlers they had made up their own sign language. When Mama started school, Genny picked up ASL almost by osmosis, and to the rest of the family, there was no recognizable transition. Mama had always spoken by gesture, and Genny had always interpreted. The pattern was set.
    “I’ll be there before Mama wakes up,” I said.
    Amber was bobbing in my peripheral vision, trying to get my attention. When I looked up at her, she mouthed, “Is everything okay?”
    I waved her off, but instead of leaving, she slid back into the booth across from me, sinking into the leatherette upholstery.
    She folded her legs up into the seat after her, crumpling up into a wad with her knees poking up over the table. She looked about twelve.
    I heard Uncle Lou talking in the background again, and Bernese barked, “She needs to know what all is happening. Can you clamber on down out of my butt, please?”
    “Good grief,” I said. “Don’t take it out on Uncle Lou.”
    There was a slight pause, then Bernese said, “That’s not Lou.
    He’s in Loganville.”
    “Wait a minute, then. Who are you yelling at?” She didn’t answer me, and I remembered the number on my cell phone had been a Between number, not Loganville. “Where are you, exactly?
    Why aren’t you at the hospital?”
    “I’m going over there soon as I can,” said Bernese, then didn’t say anything else.
    “Bernese,” I said. “You better get straight with me right now.
    Where are you, and where is Fisher? Is she okay?”
    “Oh, take a pill, Nonny. Your uncle Lou is picking Fisher up at her little friend’s house. She had a playdate set for today after kindergarten, praise Jesus in heaven, or she’d have been there with me and seen the Bitch eating up Genny.”
    “Then who is that man I heard talking?” I said.
    I could hear Bernese drumming her fingers, impatient and annoyed. Finally, she said, “That’s just Thig.”
    “Thig Newell? Sheriff Newell? Are you pressing charges against the Crabtrees?” She didn’t answer me, and my spine began to straighten, elongating involuntarily, until I was sitting up as stiff and taut as if I were being inflated. “Bernese, quit dancing with me and tell me what the fuck is going on.” Amber’s eyes were as round as quarters, and I got dirty looks from a young couple spooning ice cream into a baby at the next table.
    “I’m a little bit arrested,” said Bernese primly. “And I wish you wouldn’t use the F-word.”
    I sank back down in the booth and covered my eyes with my free hand. “Arrested! What did you do?”
    “I did the only thing I could and still look at myself in the mirror, Nonny. What do you think I did?”
    I took a deep, cleansing breath that didn’t leave me feeling any cleaner. I lowered my voice and said, “I think you stood there until everyone left for the hospital or went back to the square, and then I think you pulled your illegally concealed pistol out of your purse, and I think you shot the Bitch