The Darling Dahlias and the Naked Ladies (28 page)

“But I am
not
being married!” Lizzy exclaimed fiercely. “I am not leaving my house. And I have no intention of allowing my mother to move in with me.” This last, she knew, was an awful heresy, for every decent daughter ought to be glad to provide her impoverished mother a home.

Mr. Johnson’s black eyebrows went up. “Well, then,” he said after a moment. “Mrs. Lacy will have to find another place to live, I suppose. I am sorry.” It was not clear whether he meant that he was sorry Lizzy was not going to marry, or sorry that she refused to take in her mother.

Lizzy leaned forward. She had been taught that a lady could always catch more flies with sugar than with vinegar, but at this moment, she was in no mood to be sweet, or to be a lady, either. She was angry. She spoke with as much reasonableness as she could summon.

“Mr. Johnson, my mother did a very foolish thing, and she is paying a high price. I cannot excuse what she has done. But there is nothing to be gained by evicting her from that house. If it is occupied and maintained, the property will someday be of value to the bank. It can be sold when the real estate market turns up again, for a much better price than it could command now. If it’s empty, it will be the target of vagrants and vandals. I think you ought to allow my mother to live there and maintain your house—the bank’s house—and pay a rent. A modest rent, I’m afraid, because that’s all she can afford.” Actually, she couldn’t afford any rent, but Lizzy hadn’t thought quite that far.

Impatiently, Mr. Johnson tapped his pencil on his desk. “And why should I do this?” he asked in an arch tone.

“Because it’s the right thing to do!” Lizzy exclaimed heatedly. “And it’s the smart thing. You—the bank, that is— should be doing it with every single house you’ve foreclosed on. Empty, they are a disgrace. You should let people stay in their houses and take care of them, at least until they can be sold.”

“Come, come, Miss Lacy.” Mr. Johnson pulled down the corners of his mouth. “That’s not the way the system works. People need to learn that credit isn’t cheap. They must be obliged to take responsibility for their foolish choices. They must learn that their actions have very real consequences.
That
is how the system works.”

“But not everyone who has lost a house was foolish,” Lizzy burst out. “Some people have had accidents or gotten sick and some have lost jobs through no fault of their own. Don’t you see? That mean, cold-hearted, calculating attitude is exactly what makes people despise the bank and hate—” She stopped. It was true, but she couldn’t bring herself to say it.

Mr. Johnson said it for her. “Hate
me
?” He leaned forward on his elbows, his brows pulled together in a deep scowl. Lizzy quailed, thinking that he looked exactly like Satan. “Miss Lacy, I am quite aware of the . . . esteem, shall we say, in which I am held in this town. Given the situation, that is unavoidable. People need a villain. They need someone to blame for their sad plight, and I—and the bank—will do as well as any. Better, in fact, than most. I cannot blame them, either, for they are not privileged to see the many, many instances in which the bank—and I—have given extensions and made accommodations. That is only as it should be, of course, since we must respect our clients’ privacy.”

Lucy was about to speak when Mr. Johnson held up his hand and continued.

“In your mother’s case, she was offered the opportunity to remain in the house and pay a rent—a modest rent. She declined.”

Lizzy felt as if she had been punched in the stomach. “She . . . declined?”

“Yes. She said that she preferred to live in a house where she didn’t have to pay any rent at all.” Mr. Johnson was looking at her with what seemed to be a genuine sympathy. “She also said that your house has recently been modernized and she likes it better.” He sighed. “There was something about an electric refrigerator, if I remember correctly. She prefers it to her icebox. Her
musty
icebox.”

Lizzy was staring at him, struck speechless. By now, there was no mistaking the compassion in his voice.

“I am deeply sorry to have to tell you this, Miss Lacy. The bank is not in the least anxious to find itself in possession of all these empty houses. We have tried to work out arrangements with the defaulting owners, and in some cases, we’ve been successful. Not, I’m afraid, in your mother’s case. The mortgage payments, principal and interest, were twenty-five dollars and ninety-seven cents a month, on a balance of—” He shuffled through his papers and came up with one. “A balance of nineteen hundred dollars, at four percent interest, on a note to be repaid in seven years. She has been delinquent since the beginning of this year. In January.”

Lizzy pressed her lips together.
The bank had tried to make an arrangement? But her mother had said—
She took a deep breath.

“Is . . . Is it too late?”

Mr. Johnson put down the paper, frowning. “If you mean to ask whether the bank is still willing to come to an agreement with your mother, the answer is yes, of course. However, she maintained that she had no source of income and that the payment of any sum at all—not even the fifteen dollars a month I proposed to her—was an impossibility. I pointed out that I was aware that she does indeed have a source of income, an annuity that is deposited every month in her account here at the bank. That, at least, was not compromised by her stock market losses.”

Lizzy pulled her attention back to Mr. Johnson. “It is also in my power,” he was saying, “to debit your mother’s annuity for the amount of her mortgage payments. I have declined to do this, since it appears to be her only source of income.” He sighed. “Therefore, since the payments are in serious arrears, foreclosure is the only—”

“Don’t foreclose,” Lizzy heard herself saying. “Sell the house to me. I’ll assume the existing loan.”

The words came out of her mouth without her even thinking of them, and she almost bit them back.
Buy her mother’s house? Twenty-six dollars a month?
Could she pay that much?

Well, she supposed she could. She earned eighteen dollars a week at Moseley and Moseley and was managing to save five dollars a week for the car she hoped to buy. That was twenty dollars a month, right there. She lived frugally, her own house was paid for, and her mother’s house was certainly worth more than the nineteen hundred dollars she had borrowed against it, or would be, when property values picked up again.

Yes, she could manage it. But
should
she? What would her mother say when she found out that Lizzy had bought her house?

“Are you sure you are able to do this?” Mr. Johnson asked gently. “I know that you have had steady employment with Mr. Moseley, but I don’t want you to take on a financial burden that you can’t manage.”

“I’m sure,” Lizzy said. She took a deep breath and made herself unclench her fists.

“Very well, then.” Mr. Johnson put his pencil down and spoke with alacrity. “Under the circumstances, I think the bank will be willing to extend the mortgage period to ten years and reduce the payment to—say, twenty dollars a month, principle and interest. We can also waive the delinquent payments and closing costs, as a gesture of goodwill. Will that be satisfactory?”

Twenty dollars.
Lizzy let her breath out. “Yes. Very satisfactory. Thank you.”

“Excellent. I’ll have Mrs. Tate draw up the papers for you. If you would like to have Mr. Moseley look them over before you sign, that would certainly be agreeable.” Mr. Johnson paused, regarding her thoughtfully. “I don’t mind telling you, Miss Lacy, that in my estimation, this is an elegant solution to your mother’s dilemma. She is allowed to remain in her home, while you are making an investment that will appreciate in value.”

He didn’t add, “And the bank will get at least some money out of this mess,” although he might well have. Lizzy had just saved him quite a bit of trouble, not to mention money—and the dead weight of another empty house.

Lizzy nodded numbly. It wasn’t elegance she was after. It was her privacy. Her sanity. If she had to live with her mother again—She didn’t finish the thought. She couldn’t.

Papers in hand, Mr. Johnson stood. “Perhaps it’s not my place to say so,” he added diffidently. “But I did think that, with a little encouragement, your mother might be able to market her skills and earn enough to help with the monthly payment. I am not making a recommendation, mind you. Just an observation.”

Lizzy looked at him, not quite understanding. “Her . . . skills?”

“Why, yes.” He smiled. “That is an extremely attractive yellow hat you’re wearing. It’s one of your mother’s creations, isn’t it? And I happen to know that Mrs. Johnson—who has an eye for the latest fashions in hats—regularly admires the hats your mother wears to church. She has often said that she wished she could ask Mrs. Lacy to make one for her. I would have mentioned this to your mother, but I was afraid that it would seem—” He cleared his throat gruffly. “A little patronizing. Or worse. She might think I was telling her that she should go out and get a job in order make her mortgage payments.”

Lizzy regarded him, thinking how different he was from what she had expected, and from what the townspeople said about him. “Thank you,” she said, and meant it. “I’m glad to have the suggestion.”

As she left the bank a little later, Lizzy was turning Mr. Johnson’s observation around in her mind. She had planned to go straight to the diner to talk with Verna. Instead, she turned right on Rosemont and walked up the steps to the neighboring frame building, which had a decorated sign over the door: CHAMPAIGN’S DARLING CHAPEAUX. Lizzy had two reasons for making this call. One of them was to invite Fannie Champaign to become a member of the Darling Dahlias, something she had promised Verna and Ophelia she would do.

The other had to do with her mother.

Ten minutes later, Lizzy came out again with a new spring in her step and a new hope in her heart. Fannie Champaign, the only milliner in Darling, had taken a careful look—inside and out and from all angles—at the yellow straw hat she was wearing and said that she would be glad to accept Mrs. Lacy’s millinery creations on consignment.

“To be frank, Miss Lacy,” Miss Champaign said, “I don’t sell many hats here in Darling—the ladies don’t have much money and several of them enjoy making their own hats. But my sister has a shop in Miami, and my cousin has another in Atlanta. I often place my work there. I’m sure they would be glad to consider your mother’s work, as well.”

“I’m grateful,” Lizzy said simply. Between the annuity and the millinery work, her mother might make enough to support herself—if she would.

It was a big
if
. Lizzy didn’t think her mother had ever earned a penny in her life.

When Lizzy got to the diner, the noon rush was over, the place was almost empty, and a happy celebration was going on. Al Jolson was singing “Back in Your Own Backyard,” Myra May was dancing behind the counter, Verna was looking elated, and Euphoria, brandishing a big spoon, was beaming from ear to ear.

“Violet’s coming home on Thursday!” Myra May shrieked when Lizzy walked through the door. “We just got a call from Memphis.” She spun around in a circle, hugging herself, nearly sending the coffeepot flying. “ ‘Oh, you can go to the East, Go to the West,’ ” she sang along with Al Jolson. “‘But someday you’ll come, weary at heart, back where you started from! Back in your own backyard.’”

“That’s grand, Myra May,” Lizzy said happily. “What’s Violet done about the baby?”

“She didn’t say,” Myra May replied, and turned down the radio a bit. “You know Violet—she is so soft-hearted, I’m sure she’s found a good home for the poor little thing. Maybe the baby’s father has some family that’s willing to take her in.” She picked up a cloth and began to wipe the counter. “I am just so happy that she’s coming home!”

“We are, too,” Verna said emphatically. “But until she actually gets here, several of the Dahlias are happy to make themselves available to help out behind the counter, so you can be free to manage the switchboard.” She pulled a list out of the pocket of her dress and handed it to Myra May. “Mildred Kilgore organized the Dahlias. Here are the names. They said to call them and let them know when you’d like them to come in.”

Myra May scanned the list, then looked up, her eyes misting. “Verna, I don’t know how to thank you. What swell help!”

Verna shrugged. “Don’t thank me. Thank Mildred—and the Dahlias. They’re the ones with all the spare time on their hands.” She turned to Lizzy. “Say, Liz, how about if we sit down over there in the corner with a cup of coffee. I want to hear everything you couldn’t tell me over that party line. And we have to come up with some kind of plan.” She glanced at Myra May. “You want to join us? Since a lot of what happened went through your switchboard, seems to me you ought to be in on it.”