The Darling Dahlias and the Naked Ladies Page 7

  “Afraid of…” Lizzy prompted gently.

  Myra May pressed her lips together. “Afraid she’ll decide to stay in Memphis, I guess,” she said slowly. “There’s a heckuva lot more exciting stuff going on up there than there is in Darling. Dunno why she would come back.”

  Lizzy was surprised. This was more than Myra May had ever said about her relationship to Violet-which was probably a clue to just how troubled she was. “Violet left Memphis because she didn’t like living in the city,” Lizzy reminded her emphatically. “And she stays here because she likes living in Darling. And because of you,” she added. “You know that.”

  “I guess.” Myra May sighed. “I’ll just be glad when she gets home, that’s all. I miss her. And we could use her help. We’ve been pretty busy here at the diner, and Olive has a bad cold and missed her shift at the switchboard last night. She’ll be out tonight, too. I’ve got to get back here right after the movie and fill in.” She glanced at the Snow’s Farm Supply clock on the back wall. “Speaking of which, looks like we’d better get going, don’t you think? We can come back later and have our pie and coffee.”

  “Dessert after the show,” Verna said with a grin. “Sounds swell.”

  As it turned out, the Snows and Mr. Dickens and his sister were going to the movie, too, so they all walked together down Franklin Street in a group, past the Dispatch building and Hancock’s Groceries. The Palace was at the end of the block, its brightly lit marquee jutting out over the sidewalk. The owner, Mr. Don Greer, stood outside, welcoming the patrons.

  As usual, there was a line at the glass-fronted ticket window, where the Greers’ daughter Gladys sold tickets at twenty-five cents apiece, and at the candy counter, where Mrs. Greer did a land-office business selling candy, popcorn and hot roasted peanuts, as well as icy-cold bottles of Coca-Cola out of the cooler. Inside the theater, in the dimly lit haze of cigarette and cigar smoke that hung in the air, Mrs. LeVaughn was playing the piano. The movie was a talkie, so she wouldn’t be playing during the film. But while the younger folks loved the talkies, many oldsters still preferred silent films. They thought it wasn’t a night at the movies unless they could lean back in their seats and watch the flickering screen while they listened to Mrs. LeVaughn, who could play ragtime as well as Chopin. So Mr. Greer traded a movie ticket and a box of hot buttered popcorn for an hour of Mrs. LeVaughn’s piano, before he turned off the house lights and turned on the projector.

  Lizzy, Verna, and Myra May got popcorn and peanuts, then found their seats and settled in expectantly, listening to Mrs. LeVaughn play the “Maple Leaf Rag” and looking around to see which of their friends had come out for an evening’s entertainment. The movie house wasn’t quite full, but there was a respectable crowd and the audience wasn’t disappointed in the film. The Saturday Night Kid was a romantic comedy about two lively young sisters-played by Clara Bow and Jean Arthur-who worked in a department store and were both in love with the same man, another store employee who was a compulsive gambler stealing company funds. After a half-dozen twists and turns, the characters got what was coming to them, and the audience went home smiling.

  Back at the diner, Myra May turned on the gas burner under the coffee percolator. “I always thought that romantic comedies were silly,” Myra May said. “But I’ve changed my mind. The world is pretty grim. People need something to smile about.”

  Lizzy leaned her elbows on the counter. The Closed sign was hung on the diner’s front door and the only light was the one in the back, so the dining area was comfortably dim. They had the place to themselves, and Myra May had turned on the radio. A crooner was singing, “Let a Smile Be Your Umbrella.”

  “Heaven knows, there’s enough heartache going around,” Verna agreed. “People feel better if they can escape for a little while. Going to the movies on Saturday night gives them something to look forward to all week.”

  “Right,” Myra May said, cutting generous slices of pecan pie. “The anticipation by itself is probably worth a quarter.” She cocked her head, listening to the radio. “Let a smile be your umbrella, on a rainy, rainy day,” she sang along with the music. “And if your sweetie cries, just tell her that a smile will always pay.”

  “I wish it were that simple,” Lizzy said softly, taking the pie plates to the table. She was thinking of Violet and the situation in Memphis, and wondering how it was going to come out.

  “I think what people need is to see the Nice and Naughty Sisters doing their act in the talent show,” Verna said with a wicked grin. “That would cheer them up pretty fast.”

  Myra May snickered. “You bet it would.” The coffee was perking merrily, and she turned off the gas and picked up the pot. “But I thought you said that Miss LaMotte danced nearly naked, Verna. That kind of thing might be a big hit in New York, but this is Darling, for pity’s sake. I can just imagine what the Baptist preacher would say about a naked woman doing the shimmy in front of God and everybody.” She poured three cups of coffee and pushed them across the counter.

  “Verna’s just teasing.” Lizzy said. “She knows Mildred Kilgore would never even consider inviting Miss LaMotte and her friend to do their act.”

  “Not the real vaudeville act,” Verna protested. She picked up the coffee cups and carried them to the table. “They could do a cleaned-up version. I mean, there’s all kinds of naughty, isn’t there? The Clara Bow kind, for instance, which is funny and cute and clever, like what we saw tonight. I’ll bet Miss LaMotte and Miss Lake could come up with something a lot less risqué than they did for Mr. Ziegfeld. Something that doesn’t have any S-E-X in it.”

  “S-E-X.” Myra May put her finger against her cheek and pretended a puzzled frown. “That spells sex, doesn’t it?” She widened her eyes and lifted the pitch of her voice. “S-E-X. Why, of course it does!” She pulled three forks from a container of silverware and slid them across the counter. “Verna Tidwell, you wicked girl! Whatever can you mean, using that word in front of us ladies?”

  All three of them laughed, but a little ruefully, because Miss Rogers, one of their Darling Dahlias, had said something very similar not very long ago. They all liked Miss Rogers but she was very old-fashioned.

  “Well, it won’t work at all if Nona Jean Jamison isn’t going to own up to being Lorelei LaMotte,” Lizzy said in a matter-of-fact tone. “That’s the first hurdle you’ll have to get over, Verna. Let me know if that happens.” She had her own reasons for wanting Verna to succeed, of course. If Miss Jamison could be persuaded to acknowledge that she was really Miss LaMotte, she might also be persuaded to agree to a newspaper feature story.

  “You’re right,” Verna said thoughtfully. “I guess I’ll have to work on that.”

  There was a loud, buzzy ring from the direction of the back room. “That’s the long-distance line,” Myra May said, wiping her hands on a towel. “You girls go ahead with your pie and coffee. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

  Lizzy and Verna sat down at the table. They were silent for a moment, eating their pie and drinking their coffee and listening to the radio. The band was now playing the first bars of “Life Is Just a Bowl of Cherries.” The announcer said, “Ladies and gentlemen, give a warm welcome to a new singer with a fabulous voice-somebody you’ll want to keep your eye on and tune your ears to. Here he is, Bing Crosby!”

  The crooner came in on the beat. “Don’t take it serious,” he sang. “Life’s too mysterious.”

  In a thoughtful tone, Verna said, “Hey, Liz, how about if you and I have a talk with Bessie after the Dahlias’ meeting tomorrow.” She grinned. “Bessie loves to dig around in people’s family history. She may know bushels about Lorelei LaMotte.”

  “Sounds like a good place to start,” Lizzy agreed. “Sure. Let’s do that.” She hesitated, thinking that she ought to let Verna know what she had in mind. “Actually, I’m thinking of talking to Mr. Dickens about the possibility of writing a-”

  But she didn’t get to finish her sentence. Myra May had just come into the
diner from the Exchange. Her face was somber and there was a dark look in her eyes.

  Lizzy was startled-and concerned. The switchboard operator was always the first to know if there was a fire or an automobile accident or if somebody had died and the relatives were calling Mr. Noonan, who ran Darling’s only funeral parlor. “Has something happened, Myra May? Who was that on the phone?”

  Verna got up and pulled out a chair. “Here. Sit down and have some coffee. You look pale.”

  Myra May sat down with a thump. She took a sip of coffee and put down the cup. “What’s happened,” she said bleakly, “is that Violet’s sister has died.”

  “Oh, dear,” Lizzy exclaimed, horror-stricken. She knew how much Violet had loved her sister, how close they had been. “Oh, Myra May, that’s too bad! I am so sorry!”

  “The baby’s going to be all right?” Verna asked.

  “The baby’s fine. It’s the mother who’s dead.”

  “So keep repeating ‘It’s the berries,’ ” Bing Crosby sang. “And live and laugh at it all.”

  “Applesauce.” Verna got up and switched off the radio.

  Lizzy put her hand on Myra May’s arm, glad that the song, with its forced, phony cheerfulness, was gone. Into the silence, she said softly, “What’s Violet going to do?”

  Myra May gave a heavy sigh. She looked down at her hands and Lizzy could see the worry gnawing away at her. “Bury her sister, I guess. Stay in Memphis and take care of the baby while the daddy is at work. There isn’t much else she can do.” Another sigh. “Trouble is, he’s a drinker, and he didn’t really want the kid in the first place. Plus, the apartment is a really small place. She’s sleeping on the couch, with Dorothy in a dresser drawer.” She dropped her head into her hands.

  Lizzy shivered. A drinker. Prohibition-the Volstead Act had gone into effect nationally in 1920-was supposed to take care of that, wasn’t it? But of course it hadn’t. There seemed to be a lot more booze than there ever was before. In small towns everywhere, local moonshiners and bootleggers made sure that anybody who wanted a bottle could get one-even in the South, which, as Will Rogers joked, was dry and would continue to vote dry as long as people were sober enough to stagger to the polls. In big cities like Chicago, gangsters such as Al Capone and Bugs Moran were making millions out of the sale of bootleg alcohol, and black markets were flourishing everywhere.

  “How about Violet’s mother?” Verna asked. “Can’t she help?”

  “She died a couple of years ago,” Myra May replied, her voice muffled. “There aren’t any other relatives, on either side of the family.” She raised her head and pushed her pie plate away. “Sorry, girls. I don’t much feel like eating dessert. I’d just rather… rather be alone, I guess.”

  “We understand, Myra May.” Verna stood and picked up the empty plates and cups. She glanced at the clock on the wall. “Come on, Liz. It’s past ten. Time we were heading home.”

  Lizzy got up, too, then bent and dropped a quick kiss onto her friend’s dark curls. Myra May always appeared tough and in control, and she never liked to show her feelings. It was as if she were a turtle, retreating inside its shell when something threatened. But she was far more vulnerable than she looked, and Lizzy knew she was hurting.

  “We’re here if you need us,” she said quietly. “All you have to do is call.”

  As if that were a signal, the switchboard buzzed. Myra May stood and picked up her coffee cup. “Well, that’s it,” she said wearily. “Feelin’ sorry time is over. Gotta go to work.” She gave her friends a crooked grin. “Just a bowl of cherries, huh? Wonder whose life that idiot is singing about. Nobody I know.”

  As Myra May went in the direction of the switchboard, Lizzy and Verna let themselves out the diner’s front door, locking it behind them.

  The streetlights around Darling’s courthouse square, installed a couple of years before, were always turned off at nine thirty to save on electricity. Even on dark nights, this didn’t much matter, since the movie was usually over by nine and everybody was home by the time the lights went out. But tonight there was a moon, nearly full, hanging like a huge silver coin in the eastern sky, turning the silent street into a moving tapestry of lights and shadows. There wasn’t a sound except for the distant sputtering of an automobile and the sharp yap-yap-yapping of a small dog, somewhere a little closer.

  Lizzy looked up at the moon swimming in a sky full of stars, and was glad that the streetlights were off. She took a deep breath, loving the warm dark and the fragrance of honeysuckle. She felt terribly sorry for Violet and for the new little baby, who would never know her mother. But she felt even sorrier for all the people, everywhere, who had to live and work in big cities like Memphis and Chicago, where there was crime and lawlessness and ugliness everywhere they looked. They would never know how it felt to live in a safe and beautiful place like Darling, where people cared about each other and about their little town.

  Verna gave her a sharp look. “You okay about walking home alone, Lizzy?”

  “Of course,” Lizzy said. Home was just a couple of blocks away. Daffodil would be waiting for her, and her own sweet little house, and the companionable screech owl that lived in the live oak outside her bedroom window. “And this is Darling, you know.”

  “Yeah, it’s Darling,” Verna said. “But that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t be careful.” She pushed her hands into the pockets of her skirt. “Wonder what Myra May will do if Violet decides to stay in Memphis to take care of that baby.”

  “I don’t know,” Lizzy said, shaking her head. “I’ve been wondering that, too. Times are tough. People have to make hard choices. But we have to look on the bright side. Whatever Violet does, it’ll be the right thing. I hope.”

  “Yeah,” Verna said again. “I hope so, too. But the right thing for some folks is sometimes the wrong thing for others.” She let that hang in the air for a moment, then said, “Don’t forget. We’re talking to Bessie Bloodworth right after the meeting tomorrow. About Miss Jamison.” She grinned. “Also known as Lorelei LaMotte.”

  “I won’t forget,” Lizzy said. “Good night, Verna.” She turned and began to walk down the street.

  Verna turned to go the other way, took a few steps, then stopped and flung out her arms. “Don’t take it serious,” she called. She did a little soft-shoe shuffle. “Life’s too mysterious.”

  Lizzy laughed and waved, then headed home, feeling a little lighter. Life might not be a bowl of cherries, but you could always find something that would cheer you up-as long as you lived in Darling, anyway.

  FIVE

  The Roof Falls In

  Lizzy’s ample mother couldn’t fit comfortably into the narrow dining nook and Lizzy’s small house didn’t boast a dining room, so they would be eating at the kitchen table. Lizzy dressed it up for their Sunday dinner, spreading an embroidered tablecloth and setting it with her favorite yellow china plates, rimmed in green and decorated with decals of flowers and fruits. Her napkins were green, and in the middle of the table, she added a vase filled with pretty asters and cosmos and a few sprigs of autumn honeysuckle.

  Lizzy stood back and surveyed her work, feeling satisfied. She and her mother would have a pleasant dinner and talk over whatever it was that her mother wanted to discuss-probably something trivial, like that green straw hat. She just wanted some attention, that was all, and Lizzy thought guiltily that she probably hadn’t visited her mother often enough the last few weeks. She would make it a point to drop in on her every few days. Then, when they had finished dinner, they would take their pie and coffee into the backyard, where they could enjoy the hollyhocks and morning glories still blooming along the fence and the marigolds and four o’clocks bordering the vegetable garden. And at one thirty, Lizzy would tell her mother that she had to leave for the Dahlias’ meeting. She had given quite a lot of thought to the way she would handle that worrisome business about the door key, and had a little speech already planned.

  “Please stay and finish your coffee,�
� she would say, “but be sure and leave your key on the table when you go home. Otherwise, I’ll have to change the locks.” She would say it casually and sweetly but firmly, and then walk out the door and leave her mother to consider her options. Unlike her mother (by nature an argumentative person), Lizzy did not like disagreements. She always tried to think of a way to avoid unpleasant encounters.

  But that wasn’t exactly the way things happened, for Mrs. Lacy delivered her news the moment she set foot in the kitchen, even before she took off the black gloves and wide-brimmed black straw hat with fanciful fuchsia flowers that she had worn to church. When she heard her mother’s announcement, Lizzy felt as if the roof had just fallen in on her, or the earth had opened up and swallowed her. In fact, she could think of nothing worse, unless it was cancer or tuberculosis, and even then there was sometimes a cure, and always hope, until the very end. But there was no cure for this, and no hope, either, as far as she could see.

  Mr. Johnson, at the Darling Savings and Trust, was about to foreclose on her mother’s house.

  Lizzy put her hand to her mouth, scarcely able to get her breath. “Foreclose!” she gasped. “But-”

  “The fifteenth of October!” Mrs. Lacy cried dramatically. She was a large woman with a pillowy softness that was belied by her habit of sharp, petulant speech, which not even her Southern drawl could soften. Between her physical size and the power of her vocal chords, Lizzy always felt small and squeezed, as if her mother took up all the space and sucked up all the air, leaving almost no space and no air at all for her.

  “October! But that’s just a few weeks away!” Lizzy protested, bewildered. “He can’t do that! Why, how long have you known?”

  Her mother looked away. “Only since April.”

  “April!” Lizzy exclaimed in disbelief. “But that’s… that’s over five months! Why didn’t you tell me earlier, Mama? We might have been able to work something out.”