FREADA DILLON is southern born. She has served on the staff of Habitat for Humanity in Atlanta, the Atlanta College of Art at the Woodruff Arts Center, and The High Museum. Freada is currently the Poetry Editor for Beginnings magazine.

                                                           southern fried


Did you ever live next door to a whore?

I did. Not just one old streetwalker, but Nadine and Reba, the Mother-Daughter striptease act. They even managed to get interviewed by Geraldo Rivera. Nadine’s dope-dealing twin boys completed the family unit of my neighbors to the right. Inner City? Ghetto? Hell, no: small town suburban Georgia. No lie.

Don’t get me wrong; I’m all for free enterprise, but drive-thru pot distribution would seem a bit brazen even in downtown Atlanta.

Over the years the twins were arrested for everything from vandalism to minor drug charges. Nadine and Reba had a string of interchangeable suitors. Various ‘relatives’ came and went by the hour. Boxes of all sizes were hauled in and out of the house at odd hours. A variety of vehicles came and went at alarming speed.

The residents of the cul-de-sac would gather on Saturdays to discuss Nadine’s escapades. All events were bantered about with gusto. When I wondered aloud why the illegal activities of Nadine and family went unnoticed by the policeman living only two doors down, I learned Nadine had worked in the Sheriff’s office. So much for justice.

My husband came home early one January day to find Nadine’s front door wide open to the elements. Although ordinarily not a cautious man, Joe hesitated to walk over and close the door. Fearing a crime may be in progress he called 911. When an officer arrived, a walk-through of each room revealed scant furnishings and doors ajar to bare closets. However, finding no justification for undue alarm, they left closing the front door on their way out. Case closed. (Or so we thought.)

That same night, shortly after midnight I was awakened by a loud popping noise. I leaped out of bed and ran to the window to see a flaming trashcan roaring in Nadine’s open garage. There were no cars in the driveway. No lights were on in the house.

By the time fire trucks arrived, the house was a total loss. Neighbors were making bets on how long it would take to prove Nadine had set the fire. It never occurred to any of us, including the fire chief, to assume Nadine was innocent.

Her insurance claim was her downfall. Nadine wanted several fur coats, entertainment centers and dirt bikes replaced. No evidence of these items was found in the ashes. No surprise to Joe.

It took two years, but the insurance company was relentless in pursuit of justice. Last I heard she was doing time. Hell hath no fury like a woman with no cash flow.

                                                                   # # #

© 2001 Freada Dillon