The Darling Dahlias and the Naked Ladies (8 page)

Or you could go to the Darling Diner. You wouldn’t pay a fortune, you wouldn’t have to rush through your meal, and you could talk all you wanted with your friends, since all your friends were likely to be there, too. As for dinner music, there was the Philco radio on the shelf behind the counter. It played whatever the customers wanted to listen to—mostly farm information, daily crop and livestock and milk prices, weather reports, and stock market information, which often produced hisses and boos from those listeners who felt that Wall Street was another word for the devil.

For thirty years, the diner, located between Musgrove’s Hardware and the
Dispatch
building, was owned and operated by Mrs. Hepzibah Hooper, who lived in the apartment on the second floor. Mrs. Hooper had a large garden out in the back, where she grew some of the okra, green beans, Southern peas, collard greens, tomatoes, bell peppers, and sweet potatoes that she served to her customers. As time went on and her clientele expanded, she found she had to have help with the cooking and was lucky (or smart) enough to hire Euphoria Hoyt, a colored lady who specialized in fried chicken, meat loaf, and meringue pies. It wasn’t long before Euphoria was acknowledged as the best cook in that part of Alabama, and business got even better.

But Mrs. Hooper was a heavy woman, and when her legs began to swell, she had trouble standing behind the counter for more than a couple of hours, so she decided to sell. By that time, she had bought a half-interest in the Darling Telephone Exchange, and Mr. Whitworth (who owned the other half-interest) installed the switchboard in the storage room at the back of the diner. The Exchange started out with just one operator working part-time, but before long, almost everybody in town was on the telephone, except for a few holdouts like Miss Hamer, who was hard of hearing, and Mr. Norris, who objected because the ringing jangled his nerves. This meant that the Exchange had to have an operator on the switchboard every hour of the day and night, which was more than Mrs. Hooper had bargained for, especially after her legs started to swell. So she began looking around for a buyer—for both the Exchange and the diner.

And that’s where Myra May Mosswell and Violet Sims came into the picture.

Myra May had learned her kitchen savvy when she managed the kitchen and the dining room at the Old Alabama Hotel. Her daddy, a much-loved Darling physician, had died and left her a house, some cash money, and a 1920 Chevy touring car named Big Bertha. Myra May was still considering what to do with her inheritance when a young woman named Violet Sims got off the Greyhound and applied for a job at the hotel. Violet was brown-haired and petite and very pretty, in a feminine sort of way, although this didn’t mean that she was any pushover, because she definitely had her own ideas about the way things ought to be done. And the fact that she liked to wear pretty cuffs and collars and jabots made of lace and silk georgette and smiled a lot and laughed in a soft, sweet voice didn’t mean that she was soft on the inside, too. Inside and out and through and through, Violet was definitely her own woman.

Myra May, on the other hand, wasn’t anybody’s idea of feminine—or pretty, either, for that matter. She was the only woman in town who wore belted trousers every day of the week (including Sundays) and was trim enough to look good in them. She had a square jaw, a strong mouth, a long, horsey nose, and an intense, questioning look that made people wonder if their ties were crooked or they had spinach between their teeth. She was a serious, practical person with a reputation for saying exactly what she thought, regardless of how she thought you were going to feel about it, and for making up her mind without shilly-shallying around. She had a tendency to answer in short, brusque sentences, and any man who got up enough nerve to ask her out once usually didn’t repeat the request.

After Myra May graduated from the University of Alabama with a major in Domestic Science and a minor in Education, she decided that she really didn’t have the patience to be a teacher. She also decided that she probably didn’t have the patience to be somebody’s wife, either, and by the time she was thirty and had gone out with all the available men in Darling, she was sure of it. One of the charter members of the Darling Dahlias, she certainly had her share of friends and loyal supporters, but people who did not like strong, direct, no-nonsense women had a tendency to keep their distance.

So it came as something of a surprise to folks when Myra May and Violet became fast friends. Whether it was because Violet was looking for somebody who would steady her down, or Myra May was looking for somebody who would lighten her up, nobody could be sure. But it wasn’t long before they moved in together and began to talk about starting a business of their own. When they heard that Mrs. Hooper was thinking of selling out, they got excited about the possibilities and began investigating right away.

The diner’s location between the
Dispatch
building and Musgrove’s Hardware, right across from the courthouse, made it especially handy for people who had courthouse business around the noon hour and wanted to catch a quick bite. The building needed some painting and fix-up, but the kitchen appliances and equipment were in good shape and the counters, stools, and tables were all fair-to-middling. But best of all was the diner’s outstanding reputation for good food at reasonable prices.

The two women inspected the property and discussed the matter upside down and backward. In the end, they decided to buy both the diner and Mrs. Hooper’s half-interest in the Exchange, which meant that they now owned half of the town’s telephone system. They imposed only one condition: that Euphoria Hoyt (who was still known as the best chicken fryer in southern Alabama) would continue to cook and manage the kitchen. Myra May traded her house for her share of the business, and Violet put up all the cash she had and some she borrowed from her sister in Memphis, and the deal was done and everybody was happy—including Euphoria, who took a shine to both of her new bosses. And before long, the customers at the diner (who had been a little skeptical about the new management) were very happy, too, because Myra May kept the food moving efficiently from Euphoria’s skillet to the customers’ plates and Violet kept on smiling in her sweet and friendly way.

It was a good situation all the way around.

 

 

Before Lizzy went into the diner that evening, she paused to read the headline of the Mobile
Register
on the wire newspaper rack beside the gray-and-red-painted pay telephone booth that had recently been installed outside the diner.

HOOVER SET TO CREATE COMMITTEE FOR UNEMPLOYMENT RELIEF, the newspaper headline announced. Lizzy shook her head doubtfully. She was no fan of the president, who had come into office before the Crash and seemed to be stuck on the idea that any “relief” for the unemployed ought to come through volunteers and private charities. Would this committee be any different from the others that had tried to mobilize volunteer efforts? Lizzy had no problem where charity was concerned—everybody ought to pitch in and help out where they could. But it was high time that government stepped up and did its part, too. Happily, there was another headline, much more appealing, and she bent over to read it: SIXTH GAME SERIES WIN FOR PHILLY ATHLETICS OVER ST. LOUIS CARDINALS. That would make Grady smile. He was an Athletics’ fan.

Myra May was behind the counter when Lizzy opened the door and went in. Since it was Saturday night, Euphoria was frying catfish instead of chicken, and the plates were heaped with mashed potatoes, cream gravy, and a choice of beans, cabbage slaw, or fried okra, along with hush puppies and sweet tea or coffee—all for thirty cents. A slice of pecan pie (the usual Saturday special) was another dime, but Euphoria cut her pie into sixths, rather than the usual eighths, so it was worth the extra money.

And since it was Saturday, you had dinner music at no extra charge, for the radio was tuned to the National Barn Dance, on WLS in Chicago (the initials stood for “World’s Largest Store,” because it was originally owned by Sears and Roebuck). Gene Autry—new to the Barn Dance—was singing a cowboy ballad, but the four men at the counter weren’t listening. They were talking about the poor cotton yield due to the drought, the rising unemployment rates, and the latest exploits of Chicago’s notorious gangster and mob boss, Al Capone, who ran the city’s speakeasies, bookie joints, gambling houses, brothels, racetracks, and distilleries.

“Hey, Liz,” Myra May called out from behind the counter. “We’ve got the table in the corner. I’ll be with you and Verna in a minute. Fredda’s taking over for me this evening.” Fredda was the youngest Musgrove girl, capable but not always dependable—which probably accounted, Liz thought, for Myra May’s frazzled look.

Lizzy waved to Myra May, then turned and threaded her way between the tables, stopping to say hello to Ophelia Snow, vice president of the Dahlias, and Ophelia’s husband Jed, the conservative mayor of Darling. They were eating supper with Charlie Dickens, the editor of the progressive Darling
Dispatch
, and his sister Edna Fay. Seeing Mr. Dickens, Lizzy was tempted to stop and mention her idea for a human interest feature about Miss Jamison’s Broadway career, but she thought it would be better to approach him in the office, where they could sit down and discuss the details.

Anyway, Jed and Mr. Dickens were having their regular Saturday night argument about politics and the economy, with Jed making his usual passionate defense of President Hoover’s conservative “leave-it-alone” approach: the notion that the federal government should stand back and let individual communities deal with their own individual problems. It was Jed’s belief that the Darling volunteers—its fine churches, the Ladies’ Club, the Benevolent and Protective Order of Elks, and the Merchants’ Association—could handle anything that came up, and it was ridiculous to think that the bureaucrats in Washington would have any better idea of what needed to be done than the folks right here at home. He wasn’t in favor of the new committee for unemployment relief and thought that Mr. Hoover had gotten pushed into creating it because some in the Republican party were afraid that they would lose more Congressional seats in the upcoming midterm elections if the president wasn’t seen as doing
something
.

Mr. Dickens, on the other hand, took a more liberal (but equally passionate) approach, arguing that Washington needed to do more to help out. The British government, for instance, had for some time funded an old-age pension, so its elderly citizens didn’t have to go to the poorhouse when they could no longer work. And with unemployment growing every day, he argued, the federal government ought to provide some kind of relief. There were lots of jobs that needed doing. Government ought to be organizing the effort to pair jobless men to work. Between the drought of the last few years and the old sharecropping system that turned so many—black and white—into de facto slaves, Southern farmers were in dire need of help. Huey P. Long, governor of Louisiana, could clearly see the scope of the problem and was offering a whole bushel of solutions. Why couldn’t President Hoover?

Lizzy generally agreed with Mr. Dickens, although she wasn’t so sure about Governor Long, who had just been charged with kidnapping a pair of witnesses in a fraud investigation. People called him “the Dictator of Louisiana,” and with good reason. But as she passed the table, she caught Ophelia’s eye and gave her a sympathetic smile. Ophelia and Edna Fay were trying to have their own conversation, on the subject of Edna Fay’s efforts to organize the Darling Quilting Club, of which she was the president, to produce quilts for needy families. But they had to do it under the menfolks’ loud discussion, which had already gotten to the table-pounding stage.

So Lizzy just said hello and headed for the table in the corner, which was covered with a red-checked cotton cloth. Verna Tidwell was already seated there, wearing a pretty brown and gold two-piece silk shantung dress and a brown felt hat. Lizzy’s hat was blue (the one her mother had refurbished) and her blue crepe dress had a separate sleeveless jacket, a jabot tie and a belt, and a pleated and flared skirt. Women in Darling liked to dress up when they went out to supper and the movies, even if they weren’t going on a “date.”

As Lizzy pulled out a chair to sit down, Verna leaned forward, her brow furrowed. “I talked to Miss LaMotte after you went home,” she said, without preamble. “I swear, Liz. Something about this situation is really fishy. She denies being who she is.”

Lizzy blinked. “You mean, she isn’t Nona Jean—”

“No, no, no, the other way around. She denies being Lorelei LaMotte. She swore up and down that she’d never been on Broadway, doesn’t know Mr. Ziegfeld, and has never been a dancer.”

“When did you talk to her?” Lizzy pulled off her blue gloves and folded them into her lap. “Where?”

“This afternoon, just outside the drugstore. She was trying to get a prescription for Veronal filled but Mr. Lima wouldn’t do it because the prescription was out of date. She was really upset—said it was a matter of life and death. He sold her some Dr. Miles instead.”

“That old snake oil medicine.” Lizzy rolled her eyes. “My mother takes it. But how did you happen to be at the drugstore, Verna? The last time I saw you, you were headed for home.”

“Well, I—That is, I—” Verna stopped, embarrassed. “To tell the truth, I followed her.”

“Followed who?” Myra May asked, appearing at the table with a loaded tray. She had taken off her white bibbed apron and was wearing her usual beige linen trousers and a red button-front rayon short-sleeved blouse, with a loose paisley scarf. She began setting plates on the table. “No, no, hold on a minute. Whatever you’re telling, wait until I get back with the iced tea. I don’t want to miss any of it.”

Which meant that Verna had to start all over again when Myra May came back with the pitcher, and Lizzy had to explain who Nona Jean Jamison was before she became Lorelei LaMotte. The story was a little confusing, but finally Myra May had it clear.