The Darling Dahlias and the Naked Ladies

by Susan Wittig Albert

  “Okey dokey, ladies,” he said, drawling it out. “Look for me along about dark. Where’ll you be?”

  “At the Magnolia Manor, right across the street,” Verna told him.

  “It’s Monday night,” Lizzy added, “and the Dahlias always get together on Mondays to play cards. You just rap on the door.”

  “I’ll do it,” Buddy said. “Three raps, so’s you’ll know it’s me.” He looked down at Lizzy, his eyes light. His voice became shy. “Say, I hope you won’t mind if I happen to mention that you look awful purty in that yellow dress, Miz Lacy.”

  Lizzy could feel herself blushing. When he had gone, Verna chuckled. “Got yourself another admirer, Liz? A mite young for you, maybe.”

  “Maybe,” Lizzy said, and couldn’t help a giggle. “But he’s cute, don’t you think?”

  “Not as good-looking as Grady Alexander,” Verna said firmly. “And not as mature as Mr. Moseley.”

  “I wish you’d stop with that Mr. Moseley business,” Lizzy said sharply. “I have absolutely no interest in that man.”

  “Oh, right.” Verna gave a skeptical chuckle. She glanced up at the clock over the counter. “I’d better get on back to the probate office and see what kind of a mess Coretta’s managed to make of things. Where are you headed?”

  “Back to the office. I’m almost finished with the ‘Garden Gate’ column. I just have to add a couple of items and retype it. Mr. Dickens doesn’t need it until late tomorrow, but Mr. Moseley will be back by then and things are likely to be busy. It’s nice to have the rest of the afternoon to spend on it.”

  “Where did Mr. Moseley go today?” Verna asked, as they carried their plates and cups and Buddy’s empty Nehi bottle back to the counter.

  “Montgomery. He had some sort of hush-hush meeting with the Alabama attorney general. Something about a tax case. He sounded excited about it.”

  “Taxes.” Verna wrinkled her nose. “Lawyers get excited about the durndest things.” She gave Lizzy a conspiratorial grin. “Come, Liz, the game is afoot.”

  “Afoot?” Lizzy asked, puzzled. She looked down at her shoes. “What game? What are you talking about?”

  Verna sighed. “It’s just something a detective said once, in a book. Well, I’ll see you tonight, at Bessie’s. Maybe Buddy will do something brave.”

  “See you tonight,” Lizzy said, and picked up her handbag with a sigh. She would finish her garden column, turn it in, and then go home and tell her mother about the house. She wasn’t looking forward to it.

  SEVENTEEN

  THE GARDEN GATE

  BY MISS ELIZABETH LACY

  On Sunday, the Darling Dahlias held their planning meeting for the annual talent show that’s coming up on October 24 in the gymnasium at the Darling Academy. The program, under the direction of Mrs. Roger Kilgore, includes the Carsons’ Comedy Caravan, the Tumbling Tambourines, the Akins’ Spanish fandango, the Juggling Jinks, and many other unique and exciting acts. We’re still looking for another act or two, so if you sing, dance, play the accordion, or recite poetry, please give Mrs. Kilgore a call. Admission to the program is only twenty cents, children a nickel. We hope you will come and bring the whole family. (Mrs. Kilgore says to tell you that there has been a costume modification in the Spanish fandango.)

  Miss Bessie Bloodworth’s Angel Trumpet (Brugmansia) is blooming now. I saw it this weekend, and it’s beautiful. It smells heavenly, too, especially when the big peach-colored trumpets open in the evening. Miss Bloodworth says to tell you that she’ll be glad to show it to you and give you some cuttings, as well. But you have to remember that this is a poisonous plant, so if you have children, you might want to think twice before you fall in love with it.

  Mrs. Kilgore has some lovely summer phlox in her garden just now, along with zinnias and marigolds, cosmos, asters, and roses. She’ll be glad to share some of those blossoms for a beautiful bouquet on your dining room table, but she hopes you’ll come prepared to help dead-head. (She’s got an extra pair of clippers she’ll let you use.) If you don’t know what deadheading is, Mrs. Kilgore explains it this way: “The plant’s main purpose in life is to flower, set seed, and make baby plants. So if you clip off the flowers, you frustrate the plant, and a frustrated plant just sends out more blooms to try to frustrate you.” Thank you, Mrs. Kilgore, for that explanation.

  The summer rains came at just the right time and it’s been a bountiful year for Darling’s vegetable gardens, as you can probably see by the stands along the roadsides, where people are making a little extra money by selling part of their bountiful harvest. Between now and frost, you’ll be able to find tomatoes, cucumbers, eggplant, okra, beans, squash (summer and winter), sweet potatoes, pumpkins, southern peas, maybe even some late corn. If you’ve got some extra jars and lids, why not get out that canning kettle and get to work? Come January or February, when you start bringing up those gleaming jars from the fruit cellar, you’ll be glad you did!

  Speaking of pumpkins, looks like there’ll be plenty this year and you’re certain to want one or two for your front porch when Halloween rolls around. But if you’d like to keep some over the winter, you’ll want to know how to keep them from spoiling. Pick only the deep orange, solid pumpkins, and leave a three-inch stem. Try not to scratch or poke a hole in the rind. Dip the pumpkins in a bucket of water and chlorine bleach (4 teaspoons per gallon). Cure them at room temperature for a week to harden the rind, then store in a cool place. Rinse before using. Your pumpkins will keep at least through Christmas, by which time you will have turned them all into holiday pies.

  It’s planting time again! Lots of people think that gardeners do all of their work in the spring. But every gardener knows that fall is another good time for planting. Here are some of the things the Dahlias will be putting into their gardens through the end of October: shrubs; spring-flowering bulbs (hyacinths, daffodils, crocuses); hardy winter vegetables (turnips, mustard, kale, spinach, onion sets); and hardy annuals, such as pansies, poppies, and sweet peas. Oh, and strawberries, of course. You don’t want to miss out on strawberry shortcake next spring!

  Aunt Hetty Little wants to remind you that as you clean up your garden, you should burn or bury any plant debris that has insects in it. These little pests like nothing better than to snuggle up for the winter inside a curled-up leaf or a dead stem and jump out and surprise you in the spring. Right now, she says, you need to be on the lookout for cabbage loopers. If your cabbage leaves have turned to lace, you definitely have a problem. The best cure: hand-picking. (Use gloves if you’re squeamish.) Aunt Hetty says: “To convince these little boogers that they don’t want to mess with your garden, you can mash up a couple of cups of hot peppers and some garlic, stir into a pint of water, and spray. Some people also like to smoosh up a few of the little boogers themselves, and dump them in the mix, on the theory that this will scare all their friends and relations. Next year, be sure to move your brassicas (cabbage, broccoli, cauliflower, Brussels sprouts, and the like) to a different corner of the garden, so the bugs will at least have to go looking. Replanting in the same place makes it just a little too easy for them.”

  Alice Ann Walker reports that she has been remodeling her garden this month, now that it’s a little cooler. Her husband, Arnold, is disabled, but he doesn’t let that stop him. He is a talented whittler and has made several large wooden animals and birds for her, including bunnies, chipmunks, ducks, and pink-painted flamingoes. He has also made a flock of wooden geese with wings that go around and around like a windmill, painted in all different colors. Arnold is willing to sell a few of these for just thirty cents each, so if you’d like to buy one, stop out front and honk and somebody will come out and help you pick the color that’s just right for your garden. (Arnold says the flamingoes are for sale, too.)

  While I’m mentioning colors, I should like to say that I have some beautiful lilies in my garden just now. There are the usual daylilies, but also spider lilies, ox-blood lilies, and some naked ladies (not as pretty
as those in Miss Hamer’s front yard, on Camellia Street). I also have some truly gorgeous torch lilies. (Miss Rogers will remind me that I should use a proper name: Kniphofia Pfitzeri.) A reader from Florida sent me a delightful ginger lily (Hedychium coronarium, Miss Rogers), which has two other pretty names: butterfly lily and garland flower. The ginger lily is four feet tall, a strong, robust plant, with leaves like cannas, sprays of fragrant white flowers, and showy pods full of bright red seeds. It likes partial shade to full sun; a hard frost will kill it to the ground, but it’ll come back again. It’s easy to propagate: just dig it up, slice the root into six-or eight-inch pieces, and replant. If you want some, let me know. I’ll be digging next week and will be glad to save some for you.

  And don’t forget to turn to the back page and read the Dahlias’ “Dirty Dozen” tips for cleaning house without spending a lot of money. You’re bound to learn something you didn’t already know! If you have tips to share, they’re welcome. Just write them down and leave them for Elizabeth Lacy at the Dispatch office.

  EIGHTEEN

  Bessie Bloodworth Pays a Call

  After Leona Ruth was safely asleep-and snoring-Bessie started for home, only a few blocks away. As she walked, she was thinking about what had happened, and was glad that Frankie Diamond was on his way back to Chicago and that nobody in Darling needed to be afraid of him.

  But she was also troubled, once again, with the questions that had been swirling in her mind and heart since yesterday, when she had told Liz and Verna about Harold. Now, she was sorry she had spoken of him. Those old sad times were behind her, and there was no point in reawakening the memories or in wondering what had happened to him. She should just forget it. But Bessie knew herself well enough to know that she wasn’t going to be satisfied with this easy, just-let-it-alone answer. Now that the questions were all stirred up again, she couldn’t let them go.

  So, in her characteristic way, Bessie took action. Instead of going home to get ready for the Dahlias’ card party that evening, she went to the front door of Miss Hamer’s house and knocked. After a few moments, she knocked again, and at last, DessaRae opened the door. She was a thin-faced, narrowboned woman, slightly stooped and very black, with graying hair clipped close to her head, and dressed in a black maid’s uniform and white apron.

  “Hello, DessaRae,” Bessie said. “Is Miss Hamer in?” It was a silly question. Miss Hamer was always in. She hadn’t been out of the house for ten years, so far as Bessie knew.

  “Who is it, DessaRae?” called an anxious voice. It was Miss Jamison, standing at the top of the stairs. She sounded afraid, and Bessie thought she knew why. She also thought she would like to tell her that Frankie Diamond was safely on the train and headed back up north, but she wasn’t sure she should. She found herself wondering, as well, whether she should tell Miss Hamer that Miss Jamison, aka Lorelei LaMotte, was wanted for shooting the man who had slashed Miss Lake’s face. But she wasn’t going to do that, either. That wasn’t what she was here for.

  “It’s Miz Bloodworth, from across the street,” DessaRae called over her shoulder. “She here to see Miz Hamer.”

  “That’s fine, then,” Miss Jamison said, sounding relieved, and disappeared.

  DessaRae turned back. “Miz Hamer a bit wandery today, Miz Bloodworth. More’n usual, maybe. You sure you want to see her?”

  “Thanks for the warning,” Bessie said. “Yes, I’d like to see her.”

  DessaRae nodded and stepped back. “Well, then, come on in.”

  Bessie followed DessaRae into the parlor on the right-hand side of the hall, where Miss Hamer spent her days. Endless days, Bessie thought, at least, they must seem endless. The old lady-she must be nearly eighty-was slumped in a wooden, cane-back wheelchair with pillows at her back and sides, a book on her lap. But she wasn’t reading, Bessie saw. Her spectacles hung around her neck on a black ribbon, and the watery blue eyes in her lined face, as leathery and wrinkled as a dried fig, held a vacant look. Her cheeks were hollowed and empty. Her arms were so thin Bessie could see her bones, fragile, like the bones of a bird. Her white hair, under an old-fashioned ruffled cap, was dry and wispy.

  DessaRae bent over her chair. “Miz Bloodworth’s here to see you, Miz Hamer,” she said loudly.

  “Tell her I’m busy,” Miss Hamer said, as petulant as a small child. She picked up her book and held it in shaking hands. “I’m reading. I don’t have time for visitors.”

  “How nice to see you, Miss Hamer,” Bessie said, unperturbed. It had always been this way. Harold’s sister always said she never had time for visitors. Bessie usually took no for an answer and left, since there was nothing to be gained from trying to talk to somebody who wouldn’t talk to you. But today she was determined. She pulled up a chair and sat down.

  “I get you some iced tea and cookies,” DessaRae said.

  “Don’t bother,” Miss Hamer said sharply. “She’s not stayin’. She’ll be gone before you get back in here with the tray.”

  “Yes’m.” DessaRae disappeared, closing the door behind her.

  Bessie folded her hands in her lap. “I hope your niece and her friend are settling in,” she said loudly.

  Miss Hamer made a scornful noise.

  “I hope Miss Jamison is some help to you,” Bessie persisted.

  “Help to DessaRae, not to me,” Miss Hamer said. Her voice was cracked and brittle. “Her old back won’t let her lift me and I can’t lift myself. Doc Roberts said I had to get somebody in to help or he’d take DessaRae away from me. Said he wasn’t going to let one old invalid wait on another.” She gave a self-pitying sigh. “Even made me find another home for Robert E. Lee.”

  Robert E. Lee was Mrs. Hamer’s dog. Bessie was a little surprised to hear all this, since Mrs. Hamer usually didn’t talk. “Well, it’s nice,” she said in a comforting tone. “That your niece is a help, I mean. Must be good to have family with you.”

  Miss Hamer looked at her sideways and said nothing.

  “Speaking of family,” Bessie said, “I was thinking of Harold the other day.”

  “Who?” Miss Hamer leaned forward and put her hand behind her ear. “Who?”

  “Harold.” Bessie raised her voice. “Your brother.”

  Miss Hamer gave a dismissive gesture. “Why are you thinkin’ of him? Don’t be a fool, Bessie. You’re too old for romantic thoughts. Anyway, it’s all in the past. It’s done.”

  Bessie leaned forward, speaking distinctly. “Not romantic thoughts. I got over that a good many years ago. More like wanting to get unfinished business out of the way.” She paused. “You never heard from him, over the years?”

  “Wouldn’t I have told you if I did?”

  Bessie chuckled. “I doubt it.”

  There was a silence. “Why are you bringin’ him up now?” the old lady asked.

  Why? Bessie asked herself, and answered her own question. “Because I found a box of my father’s papers in the attic, and it was his birthday, and I got to thinking about him. And thinking about my father got me thinking of Harold. And then a couple of ladies from the garden club came over and I started telling them that we’d been engaged once. And wondering-”

  Miss Hamer turned to look her full in the face. Her eyes were no longer vacant, but sharp, piercing. “Wonderin’ what?”

  Bessie lifted her shoulders and let them fall. “Just… wondering, is all. Where he went and why. But mostly wondering why he never got in touch.” She met Miss Hamer’s eyes. “That wasn’t like Harold.”

  Miss Hamer turned away. There was a long silence. Finally, she said, “No. It wasn’t like Harold.” She looked Bessie in the face again. “Why don’t you ask your daddy why he left?”

  “Ask my daddy?” Bessie said, in some surprise. “Why, Miss Hamer, my father has been dead for over ten years. And anyway, why would he know about Harold?”

  “Dead? Ten years?” Miss Hamer shut her eyes, then opened them. “Why didn’t I know he died?” she asked pitiably. “How come DessaRae nev
er told me?” Her voice became thinner, wilder. “How come you didn’t tell me, Bessie Bloodworth?”

  “I’m sure I did,” Bessie said, trying to soothe her. “Or maybe I just thought you knew.” Or maybe you forgot, you silly old thing, she thought to herself. “He died over at Monroeville, in the hospital. He had lung cancer. We buried him in his very own cemetery, beside Mama.” Putting him there had been like taking him home.

  “Ten years,” Miss Hamer muttered, shaking her head in disbelief. “Your daddy’s been gone from this green earth for ten whole years. And all this time, I’ve been sitting here in this chair, hating him, wanting him dead.” She broke off with a crackling laugh, like dry paper ripping. “Ten years!”

  “You’ve been hating him?” Bessie frowned. “Why? And why are we talking about my father, anyway? Why did you tell me to ask him about Harold? He had no idea why you sent your brother away. He didn’t want us to get married any more than you did, but-”

  “I sent Harold away?” Miss Hamer’s laugh had a ragged edge. “I did?”

  “Yes, you.” Bessie paused and softened her tone, wanting to keep the bitterness out of her voice. After all these years, being bitter didn’t help anybody. “You aimed to keep your little brother all to yourself. You were bound and determined to make life miserable for any girl he cared about. He knew that. So he left. Maybe you didn’t actually send him away, but it amounts to the same thing.”

  “Huh!” Miss Hamer said sarcastically. “I reckon that means you don’t know.”

  “Don’t know what?”

  “It was your daddy who sent Harold off. Offered him money to just up and leave town. Just disappear.”