The Darling Dahlias and the Naked Ladies (32 page)

Lizzy put her column on Mr. Dickens’ desk. She hesitated, remembering that, just a couple of days ago, she had planned to talk to him about writing a feature story about Miss Jamison (aka Lorelei LaMotte) and her stay in Darling. That was out of the question now, of course—as was Verna’s notion of getting the two ladies to put on an act for the talent show. But depending on what happened tonight, there might be a different story to tell. Of course, it would take a while to get all the facts and write it up.

She cleared her throat. “What’s the deadline for news this week, Mr. Dickens?”

“Thursday morning,” Charlie said, without looking up. He was balding and fleshy, a large man pushing fifty, with sharp, hard eyes that seemed out of place in his round face. He ripped the paper out of his typewriter. “Here’s a very important piece of news, don’t you think? Think I’ll run it on Page One, right next to the story about construction beginning on Boulder Dam.” He read it out loud in a mocking, sarcastic voice. “On Wednesday morning Mrs. Campbell Young entertained very delightfully at her charming home on Rosemont Avenue. The affair was a morning bridge party given on the vine-covered porch. At noon a luncheon of garden salad, cold cucumber soup, and tiny ham sandwiches was served to the appreciative guests. Prizes were awarded to the winning players.”

“Well,” Lizzy began politely, “I’m sure that Mrs. Young’s friends—”

“Wait, there’s something else. This goes on Page Two.” He picked up another piece of paper, which Lizzy could see was an ad. “Ironing Board and Electric Iron, $3.95. A convenience no modern housewife can afford to be without.” He snorted. “And a rattan porch rocker for three dollars and fifty cents, so the housewife can take her leisure when she’s finished ironing. Both of these swell bargains are courtesy of Mann’s Mercantile. Ain’t that just the bee’s knees?”

Lizzy might have said that an electric iron was a great improvement over the heavy flatirons that had to be heated on the cook stove, which Charlie would know if he had to iron his own white shirts, especially in the summertime. But of course she didn’t. There wasn’t any point in saying anything at all, really. Charlie Dickens was given to fits of depression, often brought on by what he thought of as the inconsequentiality of the things he had to put into the newspaper. It sounded as if he was at one of his low points today.

He raised one finger. “But don’t give up yet, Liz. Here’s something else for your edification, from one of the feature services.” He read:

He put down the paper and looked up at her. “This opinion piece ran a couple of weeks ago in the Anniston
Star
, right here in Alabama. And to my knowledge, nobody has burned the newspaper office or lynched the editor.” He squinted at her. “Do you think I ought to run it, Liz?”

“Well, I don’t know,” Lizzy said hesitantly. “Lots of Darling folks might not be too anxious to hear about what Mussolini is doing. Jed Snow says that he’s a Fascist dictator. He’s taken over the government. He’s outlawed political parties. He—”

“Yes to all that, Liz.” Charlie heaved a heavy sigh. “Jed’s right, of course. Mussolini is a dictator. But he gets things done, damn it. He gets things done.” He threw the paper down on the desk, pulled off his eyeshade, and dropped his head in his hands. “Why can’t we have a government that gets things done?”

Lizzy didn’t have an answer to that question. Instead, she said, “If I have a piece of news—important news—that I can’t turn in until Thursday noon, will there still be room for it?”

“Depends on how long it is and how urgent.” Charlie shrugged heavily. “I could cut Mrs. Campbell Young’s bridge party, I guess. Or I could move the Mercantile ad to the back page. Or—”

“Thanks,” Lizzy said, and fled.

 

 

When she got to her block on Jeff Davis, Lizzy could see her mother sitting out on the front porch. Not wanting to confront her just yet, she cut through Mrs. Hoffman’s side yard, walked up the alley, and entered her mother’s kitchen, letting the screen door slap shut behind her.

“Don’ slam that screen.” Sally-Lou didn’t look up from the piecrust she was rolling out on the pine-topped table. “How many times I gots to tell you, Miz Lizzy? You know yo’ mama don’ like it.” She was wearing her usual gray uniform dress, neatly pressed, and a white apron. On the table beside her was a metal pie tin, the bottom crust heaped with sliced peaches and topped with dots of butter and a sprinkle of cinnamon.

“Sorry,” Lizzy said automatically, reflecting that one of the pleasures of being grown-up and having her own house was being able to slam the screen whenever she felt like it.

Sally-Lou gave a final push to the rolling pin. “Yo’ mama out on the front porch, where it’s cool. She makin’ a list of all the things that’s gots to be done afore we move ’cross the street to yo’ house.”

Oh, dear,
Lizzy thought, and her stomach clenched. There was going to be another big argument, and she hated arguments. But there was something else that had to be taken care of before she could tell her mother that there would be no move.

“Sally-Lou,” she said, “I wonder if you could go over to Miss Hamer’s house this evening and have a little visit with DessaRae.”

There was a silence. “Might could.” Sally-Lou rolled the piecrust around the rolling pin and then neatly unrolled it over the top of the peaches in the pie tin, something that Lizzy had tried to do a hundred times and failed every time. “Why fo’ would I be visitin’ with Aunt Dessy?”

Lizzy had learned a long time ago that there was no point in trying to fool Sally-Lou, but the situation was complicated, and she didn’t want to go into it now. “Just something I need you to do.” She hesitated. “It’s important, or I wouldn’t ask.”

“Like maybe spyin’ on those two ladies livin’ there, huh?” Sally-Lou asked. She pulled the pie tin toward her, picked up a knife, and slashed a vent across the top so juices and steam could escape.

“Sort of,” Lizzy said, and felt compelled to add, “It might be a little dangerous.” She didn’t really think so, but felt she should warn Sally-Lou anyway. They needed an insider in the house. An insider who had instructions on what to do, in case something should happen. Sally-Lou was smart, resourceful, and dependable. They could count on her.

“Dang’rous?” Sally-Lou chuckled. She began to crimp the pastry between her fingers, sealing the top and bottom crusts together. “Well, reckon I could,” she said judiciously. “Seein’s how it’s you that’s askin’, Miss Lizzy. And seein’s how I jes’ loves to do dang’rous things. Does ’em ever chance I gets.”

“Oh, good.” Sally-Lou loved drama, so Lizzy had been pretty sure she’d do it. But she had a mind of her own, and she was stubborn as all get-out, so you could never tell. “I have to go to the Magnolia Manor, so I’ll walk over with you and tell you all about it on the way.” Lizzy squeezed Sally-Lou’s arm. “Thanks. I’ll let Mama know, so she won’t fuss.”

Sally-Lou rolled her eyes. “Yo’ mama gone fuss anyhow. But I be used to it. Don’ you worry none.”

Mrs. Lacy was sitting in her white wicker rocking chair on the front porch, a tablet on her lap and a pencil in her hand. She looked up. “Oh, there you are, Elizabeth,” she said cheerfully. “I will be wantin’ that key again tomorrow. I’d like to take another look at the dining room. I think we can fit—”

“There will be no key, Mama.” Lizzy pulled a porch chair around so that she could face her mother, and sat down. It was time to lay down the law, in the only terms her mother would understand. “And no dining room, and no electric refrigerator. I had a frank discussion with Mr. Johnson this afternoon. About this house, and his efforts to come to some kind of accommodation with you, and your refusal. He told me—”

“You . . . you had no right to talk to that man, Elizabeth!” Mrs. Lacy cried. “This house is my business! You—”

“I had every right, Mama,” Lizzy broke in, feeling the hot anger boiling up inside her like a teakettle steaming on a hot stove. “You
lied
to me. You said that Mr. Johnson refused to negotiate on the mortgage. You let me think that Daddy’s annuity was ended and that you were destitute.” She pulled herself up. “Anyway, this house is
my
business now, not yours. I have bought it.”

Her mother stared at her. The loose skin under her neck was quivering. “You have . . .
bought
it?”

“Yes. I am assuming your mortgage.” The heat of her boiling anger suddenly evaporated, and in its place Lizzy discovered a cool, crisp determination. “You are not moving after all, Mama. You and Sally-Lou are staying here. I will be making the monthly mortgage payments. To support yourself, you will continue to have the annuity Daddy left you, and there may be some income from your millinery work.”

“My . . . millinery work?” her mother asked blankly.

“Yes. Mr. Johnson told me how much his wife admires your hats, and I went next door and spoke to Fannie Champaign. She is willing to take your work on consignment—not just here, but in Miami and Birmingham, where her work is shown at other shops.”

Mrs. Lacy’s hand had gone to her heart. Her eyes were huge and horrified. “Elizabeth, you know I could not possibly consider going to
work
. Your father would turn over in his grave if he—”

“I don’t know anything of the sort, Mama.” Surprisingly, Lizzy found herself feeling sorry for her mother, and she spoke gently. “The times are different now than when Daddy was alive. Lots of people are doing things they might not otherwise do. I can’t force you to earn money. But I can tell you that you and I are
not
going to live together. I am all grown-up now, and I won’t go back to being your little girl, fighting with you over every square inch of space.” She cleared her throat. “I will be glad to accept whatever rent for this house that you think is fair. I will leave the amount to your conscience.”

Her mother shook her head violently. “Elizabeth, this is utter nonsense. I am not going to listen to another word of such wild talk.”

“You don’t have to.” Lizzy took a deep breath and stood up. “It’s all been said. There’s nothing more to say.” She dropped a quick kiss on her mother’s head and went to the porch steps. “Oh, by the way, I’m taking Sally-Lou out with me after supper.”

“Elizabeth!” Mrs. Lacy shrilled angrily. “You come back here this instant! I won’t have you talkin’ to me in that tone of—”

“Thank you, Mother. Have a good evening.” And with that, Lizzy went down the steps and across the street, and home, to her own dear little house, where Daffy was waiting on the porch railing, his ears glinting golden in the afternoon sunlight.

She picked him up and buried her face in his soft fur, feeling the low rumble of his purr vibrating against her cheek.

All grown-up. Was she?

She hoped so.

Bessie left Miss Jamison on the front porch and went across the street to Magnolia Manor. She had several things to do to get ready for tonight’s card party. But she was still shaken by what Miss Hamer had told her, and she couldn’t get it out of her mind. Her own father had paid Harold to go away? He had told Harold’s sister what he was going to do, had even bragged about it?

At first she refused to believe it. It was just another of the old woman’s crazy stories, an explanation that satisfied her because it absolved her of responsibility. But after a little while—after Bessie had mixed up a batch of her mother’s favorite lemon chess squares for tonight’s card party and put the crust in the oven, then poured herself some cold tea and taken it outside to the shade of the willow tree—she began to think that it was possible. And after a little while longer, that it was probable. And then that it was likely.

The part that she didn’t understand, though, was the business about her father actually
paying
Harold. For as long as Bessie had known him, her father had been a miserly skinflint who paid his employees not one penny more than he had to and doled out the housekeeping allowance as if it were the crown jewels. She just couldn’t imagine that he would offer a large amount of money to anybody, for any purpose, under any conditions. And how much would it have taken to tempt Harold to leave Darling and go into what amounted to a lifelong exile? Fifty dollars? A hundred? Five hundred? A thousand?