The Darling Dahlias and the Naked Ladies (12 page)

Everybody turned to look at Mrs. George E. Pickett Johnson, because the Treasure Fund was in Mr. George E. Pickett Johnson’s bank, the Darling Savings and Trust. “I so move,” Mrs. Johnson said. “Both the stovepipe and the coal.”

“I second it,” Beulah Trivette spoke up briskly. “But be sure and tell Mr. Westheimer to bring us some
clean
coal,” she added. “We don’t want none of that dirty ol’ smoky stuff he’ll deliver if you don’t especially tell him not to.”

“I agree with Beulah,” Alice Ann Walker said firmly. “More than once, I’ve had to sweep Sam Westheimer’s black coal dust up off the floors before the kids and the dogs tracked it all over.” Everybody (except for Mrs. Johnson, who had a gas furnace) agreed with Beulah because at one time or another most of them had been on the receiving end of one of those dirty coal deliveries and knew about the extra work it caused.

Then it was Mildred Kilgore’s turn, so all the Dahlias took deep breaths and sat up straighter in their chairs. Mildred (who had that effect on people) was in charge of this year’s talent show. She and her husband Roger lived near the Cypress Country Club, where Mildred grew Darling’s most gorgeous camellias. Her garden was always scheduled as the last stop on the annual Garden Tour, because no self-respecting Dahlia wanted visitors to see
her
garden after they had been ooh-ing and ahh-ing at Mildred’s camellias.

“The show is less than four weeks away,” Mildred said, in her brisk, I’ve-got-everything-under-control voice, “so it’s time to roll up our sleeves and get busy. I’ve been working on the program for the past month, and so far, I have nine acts lined up. You’ll probably recognize most of them.”

Mildred took out a typed list and began to read names. “I thought we would start with the Carsons’ Comedy Caravan, then Sammy Durham’s drum solo.” Aunt Hetty groaned and everyone else smiled. Sammy Durham considered himself to be a jazz drummer. Most people thought he was just plain loud. “Then the Tumbling Tambourines—they’re bringing their own mat this time—and after that, Mr. and Mrs. Akins will do their famous Spanish fandango.”

Mrs. Johnson cleared her throat delicately. “I thought there was an objection to that dance at the last show. Something to do with Mrs. Akins’ costume, wasn’t it?”

“Mrs. Akins says she’s adding more frills to lower the hem, and putting a ruffle at the neck,” Mildred replied, and Mrs. Johnson gave a grudging nod. “After the dance, Mr. Trubar and Towser will do their trombone act, and then we have something brand-new. It’s a family of jugglers from over near Monroeville. The Juggling Jinks.”

“Oh, I’ve seen them!” Lucy Murphy exclaimed. “They juggled at the Methodist picnic in July. They’re amazing!” Lucy was the club’s newest member, bringing their number to thirteen. She had been nominated by Ophelia Snow, whose husband was Lucy’s husband’s cousin. Lucy and Ophelia had had an exciting little adventure the previous May, when a convict escaped from the prison farm and ended up in Lucy’s kitchen. Ophelia beaned him with a jar of raspberry jam.

“I understand they’re quite good,” Mildred said, “but unfortunately, they’re the only new act in the program. After them, our very own Miss Rogers will perform Tennyson’s ‘The Charge of the Light Brigade.’ ”

“No matter how many times I’ve heard it, I always love it,” Earlynne Biddle said enthusiastically. “It’s my favorite poem.” Miss Rogers gave her a modest smile.

“The last number will be my own little Melody,” Mildred said, looking up from her list. “She will tap dance to a recording of Nick Lucas singing ‘Tiptoe Through the Tulips.’ ”

There was a scattering of applause, but Aunt Hetty Little piped up. “Mrs. Eiglehorn isn’t going to recite ‘Curfew Must Not Ring Tonight’? Why, she’s practically an institution.”

“She said she thought she wouldn’t perform this year,” Mildred replied diplomatically, and one or two people tittered. At the last talent show, a child in the front row had started to cry at the most theatrical moment in the poem, and poor old Mrs. Eiglehorn—eighty if she was a day and proud of her ability to memorize—had gotten so flustered that she forgot her lines. While the embarrassed mother carried out her screaming child, Mrs. Eiglehorn’s husband (several years older than his wife) had to find the place in the book and prompt her.

“It’s a pity you couldn’t find another new act or two,” Mrs. Johnson said in a negative tone. “The program is fine, but everyone has already seen and heard the whole thing.”

“I could work up another poem, I suppose,” Miss Rogers said doubtfully. “ ‘The Rime of the Ancient Mariner,’ for instance.”

“You did that one at the library benefit last year,” Verna reminded her.

“Well, then, perhaps ‘The Raven.’ ” She deepened her voice. “ ‘Once upon a midnight dreary, while I wandered, weak and weary—’ ”

“Pondered,” Verna said helpfully.

“Excuse me?” Miss Rogers asked, blinking.

“Not wandered, pondered. ‘While I pondered, weak and weary.’ ”

“I think ‘The Raven’ would be wonderful, Miss Rogers,” Earlynne Biddle hurried to say. “It’s my second favorite poem.”

“We ought to have another new act or two,” Mrs. Johnson insisted.

“I have done my best,” Mildred replied defensively.

“I’m not suggesting you haven’t, Mildred,” Mrs. Johnson said. “I’m only saying that we need new blood.”

Mildred frowned. “Then it’s up to the rest of you to come up with a new act or two. Any volunteers?”

Beside Lizzy, Verna leaned forward, opening her mouth. But Lizzy, who had the feeling that Verna was about to suggest Lorelei LaMotte and Lily Lake, fastened a firm hand on Verna’s knee and shook her head. Verna sighed and sat back, folding her arms.

“Well, if you don’t want to show off your talents on stage,” Mildred said, “there’s still plenty of other work to be done. We need somebody to type the program onto mimeograph stencils and be responsible for running off copies on the Academy’s mimeo machine. We also need someone to organize the refreshments we’re selling at the intermission, and another couple of people for tickets sales. Who will volunteer?”

She looked around expectantly, and when nobody raised a hand, heaved a resigned sigh. “Well, then, ladies, I’ll just have to start naming names. Mrs. Johnson, you and Lucy Murphy will be in charge of organizing the ticket sales. Myra May and Ophelia, refreshments—yes, I know Myra May isn’t here today, but she’s logical because she owns the diner and Euphoria can bake up a couple of batches of those praline cookies she makes. Ophelia, if you would please tell her, I’d appreciate it.”

“I’ll bring some of my Southern Comfort cookies,” Aunt Hetty Little offered.

“Southern Comfort cookies?” Miss Rogers asked, frowning. “But liquor is prohibited!”

A titter ran around the room. “Miss Rogers,” Verna said, “where
have
you been?”

“I’m sure Aunt Hetty knows where to get whatever ingredients she needs for her cookies,” Mildred said hurriedly. She looked down at her list. “Just two more things. Verna, you did a great job with the stage management last time. Please do it again. And to type and run off the program—”

Lizzy raised her hand. “I’ll take care of it,” she said, preferring to volunteer before her name was called. She was a good typist and she didn’t mind typing the program. But she hated wrestling with the Academy’s old mimeograph machine, which was known to eat stencils and couldn’t be counted on to produce more than forty copies in a run. But unless they got some new acts for the show, they might not need more than forty copies.

Mildred gave her a grateful smile. “I think that takes care of it for now. Thanks, ladies.”

Lizzy took over the meeting again, with a few reminders. Monday night was the usual Dahlias’ card party. Bessie’s Bible Study had been changed to Thursday nights, so she was hosting the party at the Magnolia Manor. Lizzy also reminded everyone to turn in their items for the gardening column in Friday’s Darling
Dispatch
.

“Tuesday’s the deadline,” she said. “That’ll just give me time to get it typed up before I have to hand it over to Mr. Dickens on Wednesday. Oh, and if you’ve got any more housecleaning tips for the other column we wanted to run, let me have them, too. I only have about six or eight, and I was hoping for a dozen.”

That wrapped up the meeting, and Liz asked for a motion to adjourn. Verna moved it and Alice Ann seconded it speedily, and the ladies descended on the refreshment table as fast as grasshoppers on a bean patch. It was a pretty table, too, spread with an orange cloth and decorated with a large wicker cornucopia spilling colorful autumn gourds and blossoms of asters, zinnias, marigolds, and sunflowers.

While the ladies were filling their plates and chatting noisily with one another, Ophelia Snow came over to Lizzy. Ophelia, a short person with a cherubic face, flyaway brown hair, and an irrepressibly optimistic outlook on life, was usually wreathed in smiles. But just now she wore a look that was halfway between impatient and cross.

“We need to find another member,” she said shortly. “I was going to bring it up at the meeting but I thought it was something the officers ought to talk about first.”

“Okay,” Lizzy replied, and beckoned to Verna to join them. “Ophelia says we need to find another member,” she said.

Verna frowned. “Why? Are we losing somebody?” The club had begun with fourteen members. Then Mrs. Ross had moved to Montgomery and Dahlia Blackstone, the founder, had died, leaving them with twelve. Lucy’s membership had brought them to thirteen.

“No—at least nobody that I know of,” Ophelia replied. She took a deep breath. “But some of the ladies are saying that thirteen is an unlucky number. And Beulah says she’s heard several people whispering about a ‘witches’ coven’ when they’re waiting to get shampooed and set.” Beulah Trivette owned and operated the Beauty Bower, which was gossip central for the Darling ladies. (The men, of course, preferred to get their gossip—which they liked to call “news”—from their buddies at the Darling Diner. And for shut-ins, there was always the party line.)

“Witches’ coven!” Verna repeated incredulously.

“Oh, really, Ophelia!” Lizzy exploded. At a questioning look from Mildred Kilgore, who was standing nearby, she lowered her voice. “That is just utterly ridiculous! Who is spreading such nonsense? We ought to stop it at the source, or it’ll get out of hand.” There were plenty of superstitious people in Darling, and superstitions—even silly ones—could cause trouble.

“I know.” Ophelia sighed. “I asked who it was, but Beulah didn’t want to name names, and of course you can’t blame her. They’re paying customers, after all. She’s probably afraid that if they found out she tattled, they might leave the Bower and go over to the Curling Corner.” Julia Conrad ran Darling’s other beauty parlor, and there was an intense competition between the two shops.

“Well, I suppose the problem is easily remedied,” Verna replied with a shrug. “All we have to do is find another new member, which will get us back to fourteen.”

“How about Violet Sims?” Ophelia asked. “She helps Myra May with that big vegetable garden, and we all know her. She’d be a great addition.”

“She would,” Lizzy replied, “but she’s up in Memphis right now. Her sister died, and she’s taking care of the new baby. Myra May doesn’t know when she’s likely to be back.”

“Maybe Bettina Higgens?” Verna hazarded. Bettina worked for Beulah at the Beauty Bower and was intimately acquainted with all the Dahlias—with their hair, anyway.

Ophelia gave her head a decided shake. “Bettina can’t even grow okra. Whenever the conversation gets around to gardening, she always says that she kills anything she puts in the ground. If Beulah nominates her, everybody’ll know it’s a desperation move on our part.”

“Fannie Champaign, maybe,” Lizzy suggested. Fannie owned Champaign’s Darling Chapeaux, Darling’s only millinery shop, on the west side of the courthouse square, next to the Savings and Trust. Fannie lived above the shop and had a small but lovely garden at the back. “She always says her garden is the inspiration for her hats. Want me to ask her?”

“Yes, do,” Verna said. “We’d better come up with a couple of other possibilities, too, in case we get turned down.”

“And we’d better hurry,” Ophelia said in a warning tone. “Halloween will be here before long, and we certainly don’t need people whispering that we’re witches.”

When the refreshments had disappeared and people were leaving, Lizzy stopped Bessie Bloodworth, who was on her way out the door. “Oh, Bessie, will you be at home for a few minutes? When we’ve finished the cleanup, Verna and I would like to come over for a little talk.”

“Of course,” Bessie replied. Short and stocky, in her fifties, she had thick, dark eyebrows and salt-and-pepper curls that always looked as if she’d combed them with her fingers, which she probably had. “I’ve been meaning to ask you to drop in, anyway. I wanted you to see my Angel Trumpet. It’s absolutely gorgeous. It’s a beautiful afternoon—we can sit out in the backyard and have some lemonade.” She gave Lizzy a curious glance. “What did you want to talk about?”

“Oh, just a little family history,” Lizzy said evasively. It was too difficult to explain.

“Goodie!” Bessie said with a broad smile. “There’s nothing I like to talk about more than family history. Unless it’s my own.” Her smile faded slightly. “That’s a different story.”

As the other Dahlias took their empty dishes and left, Lizzy and Verna stayed behind to tidy up the clubhouse, put the chairs back, and sweep the floor.

“Would you check the windows, Verna?” Lizzy called over her shoulder as she wielded the broom. “Make sure they’re all locked and the curtains are drawn.”

Until the last few years, nobody in Darling had bothered to lock their houses. But since jobs had gotten so scarce, men and boys (and sometimes even girls) were riding the rails, looking for work and food and a place where they could sleep out of the weather. Darling wasn’t on the main Louisville & Nashville rail line, but the hoboes often rode in on the freight cars that came to the sawmill. If a house looked vacant, they might try to break in. The residents of Darling weren’t exactly afraid, but they were—well, uneasy. The town felt different, somehow, with strangers traipsing through it.