The Darling Dahlias and the Confederate Rose

by Susan Wittig Albert

  “Stop it, Angelina,” he commanded hoarsely. “You gone crazy or something? Just quit! You hear me? Quit!” He grabbed her arms and pushed them down to her sides, freeing himself from her grip.

  “Of course I’m crazy, Charlie,” Angelina had cried ecstatically, throwing her head back and looking up at him with half-closed eyes like someone drugged. The heavy fragrance of her perfume enveloped him in a cloud and he almost gagged. “I am crazy for you, just like I’ve always been. And I’ve seen the hunger in your eyes. I know you’re crazy for me, too!”

  “Hunger?” Charlie was nonplussed. “Angelina, if I have ever once given you even the smallest reason to think I was hungry for you, I honestly and sincerely apologize. I never intended any such thing. Quite the contrary, I—” He stopped. If he said what he was thinking—that she was nothing like the slim perfection he had once known, that he did not find her appetizing in any sense of the word—she would be devastated.

  “Don’t try to deny it, my darling,” she begged, reaching for him again. She was panting heavily, her red lips parted. “I know I hurt you when I married Artis. I was such a fool. My mistake has cost us so many years. But we’re grown-ups now. We can be honest with each other about the way we feel. We have to be honest! We have to own up to our love! We’re hungry for each other!” And she pulled down his head to hers and kissed him, full and hard on the lips.

  That did it. That was the last straw. Charlie wrenched himself out of her passionate grip, turned her around, and marched her to the other side of the counter.

  “Go home, Angelina,” he said firmly, pushing her in the direction of the door. “Go back to the hotel. Go back to Artis. He’s your husband, for God’s sake. And you have children. Think of your children!”

  “My husband!” she cried feverishly, stamping her foot. “That lecherous old goat? That . . . that philanderer? Artis is having an affair. He and his mistress meet every day on the second floor of the hotel.”

  Charlie pulled himself up straight. So that was what this was all about. Angelina must have figured she’d get even by having a tit-for-tat affair with an old high school flame. But Charlie wasn’t stupid enough to let himself get snared in that kind of trap. And in Angelina’s current frame of mind, he knew there wasn’t any point in trying to reason with her. He had to be cruel to be kind.

  “I don’t care if Artis is having himself two affairs,” he said coldly. “I don’t care if he’s having a dozen. That’s got nothing to do with me. Now, you just scoot yourself out of here, Angelina, and go on back to Artis. We’ll forget that this ever happened.” He grasped her arm and gave her a little shove.

  Her pudgy face crumpled. “Oh!” she wailed. “Oh, oh, Charlie Dickens, shame on you! I never thought I’d see the day when you—you of all people!—would reject me. You loved me once.” She held out her hands beseechingly. “I know you still love me!”

  It was clear that he would have to take drastic action. “Out!” he roared. “You git yourself out of here before I lose my temper!” Hastily, he retreated behind the counter, feeling that he had to put a solid barrier between himself and this crazy woman.

  Angelina stared at him for a moment, her eyes brimming with tears, then turned and flung open the door. And that was the end of it—or rather, it should have been, if Charlie could have pushed it out of his mind as easily as he had pushed Angelina out of the office.

  And it wasn’t as if he didn’t have other things to think about—to worry about, actually.

  The evening before, Zipper Haydon, who had operated the aged Linotype for the past two decades, had told Charlie he was quitting. He’d be glad to hang around and teach his replacement to operate the machine, but he’d come to the end of the line. It wasn’t unexpected, of course. Zipper was seventy-five and had a hard time getting around, with one crippled foot and an arthritic right elbow that gave him a lot of pain when he went to pull the casting lever on the old machine.

  But predictable or not, losing Zipper was still a blow. Zipper had come to work at the Dispatch when Charlie’s father was the owner and editor, and he was a mainstay of the business. He might be worn out and subject to breakdowns, like the old Prouty job press, but he always kept on plugging. Even with so many people looking for work, Charlie knew he’d never be able to find a skilled Linotype operator for the fifteen dollars a week he paid Zipper.

  The machine wasn’t difficult to learn and Zipper had offered to teach him, but Charlie knew that wasn’t the answer. He was in way over his head already, what with the job printing business he was still learning and that old Babcock flatbed cylinder press that broke down every few weeks. He’d been trained as a reporter, for Pete’s sake, not as a publisher, pressman, press repairman, job printer, advertising salesman, and subscription manager. There was no way he was going to add Linotype operator to his already long list of responsibilities. But finding somebody in Darling who could type and correct copy when necessary, who could learn the Linotype and come to work on time and do it all for less than fifteen dollars a week—that wasn’t going to be easy.

  Charlie was fretting about this and worrying about what he was going to do when Zipper’s two-week notice period was over and he was without a Linotype operator, when the bell over the door tinkled and Ophelia Snow walked in. She was wearing a practical-looking white V-necked blouse and dark skirt, and her brown hair was drawn back away from her face.

  “Good mornin’, Miz Snow,” Charlie said, switching off the job press and going to the counter. “What can I do for you today? Want some printin’ for the feed store, maybe?” In addition to being the mayor of Darling, Ophelia’s husband Jed owned Snow’s Farm Supply a block west on Franklin. Jed sometimes sent his wife with orders for printed signs, posters, and the like. Charlie was always glad to get the work. The job printing didn’t bring in much and he hated to run the noisy old Prouty, but it was extra income and he needed it.

  “Well, no,” Mrs. Snow said hesitantly. Her forehead was furrowed and her brown eyes were troubled. “Not today, anyway. I’d like to place an ad. A classified ad.”

  “Good enough.” Charlie took out the ad form he had printed up. “Classified is two cents a word if you want to run it just once. You get a discount for multiples. What category? Help Wanted? Is it for the feed store?”

  “No, not for the feed store,” Mrs. Snow said quickly. She thought a moment. “Work Wanted, I guess. Or Job Wanted.”

  “That would be Situation Wanted,” Charlie said, and picked up his pencil. “Okay. You give it to me and I’ll write it down.”

  Mrs. Snow bit her lip. “Well, I guess maybe, Fast typist, takes shorthand, seeks full-time work. Phone 1422.”

  Charlie wrote this down, then frowned. “We don’t usually put a telephone number in for something like this. Crank calls, you know.”

  “Well, then, how—”

  “I’ll put in a box number and Care of Dispatch. The replies will come here. And you don’t get charged for those words.” He looked back at the ad. “Most people would also put in something like experienced, will provide references,” he said. “Want to include that?”

  “I’m . . . not experienced,” Mrs. Snow confessed, “except as a housewife and mother.” She brushed a strand of flyaway brown hair out of her face. “And I don’t have references—at least, from an employer. But I’m very anxious to work,” she added quickly. “Maybe we could say that? Something like eager and willing? No,” she corrected herself. “Don’t put in the and. It’s another two cents.”

  Charlie looked at her, surprised. “This is for you? You’re looking for work?”

  Mrs. Snow pulled herself up. “Yes. Yes, it’s for me. But I wish . . .” She bit her lip again. “I haven’t told my husband yet. So I would appreciate it if you didn’t mention it until I’ve had a chance to talk to him.” She took a breath. “Tonight. I’ll tell him tonight.” She said it as if she we
re steeling herself to something very difficult.

  Charlie put his pencil down, an idea beginning to form. “You say you’re a fast typist,” he said, peering at her. She had always struck him as a competent woman, although there was an air of uncertainty about her. Lack of confidence, he thought. “How fast?”

  “Sixty words a minute, when I was in high school,” Mrs. Snow replied proudly. “And no errors. Of course, that was a while ago and I’m a little out of practice. But I’m sure I’ll pick it up again.” She smiled engagingly. “Typing is like riding a bicycle. Once you’ve learned, you don’t forget.”

  No errors. Accuracy was more important than speed, for what he had in mind. In fact, speed was out of the question on that machine. It was one letter at a time. “And you’ve never worked before?”

  She frowned. “I work all the time. I’ve worked for years. But not for money.” She sighed. “I’m sure that’s a strike against me.”

  “Tell you what, Miz Snow,” he said, coming to a sudden decision. “I’ve got a position here at the Dispatch that you might be able to fill. You’d have to show you could do it, though.”

  “A job . . . here?” she gasped incredulously. “As . . . as a reporter?”

  Well, now that you mention it, Charlie thought. But he said, “No, as a Linotype operator. Mr. Haydon—you probably know him—has to quit, for health reasons. He’ll be here in the morning. Maybe you could come in and take a little aptitude test on the machine.”

  The Linotype machine was thought to be too hard for women to operate, but Charlie had known a couple of female Linotype operators in other small newspapers. If Ophelia Snow could type and had enough strength to operate the levers, she’d do okay. She’d need help in handling the type cases—lead was heavy. But he had to give Zipper a hand, so there’d be no difference there. If she could do the work . . .

  “What time tomorrow?” she asked eagerly.

  “Eight in the morning,” he replied.

  “I’ll be here.” She smiled, her eyes lightening. “I can’t thank you enough for giving me the opportunity—”

  “Wait,” he said. “Don’t you want to know how much it pays? It’s not very much. Only ten dollars a week to start. You’d have to come in on Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday, all day. If it works out, we can discuss a raise.”

  “Ten dollars!” she said excitedly. “Ten dollars! Oh, my goodness! Oh, my gracious sakes alive, that would be wonderful, Mr. Dickens. Just wonderful!” She straightened her shoulders and tried to put on a businesslike expression, obviously making a special effort to contain her delight. “I’ll see you first thing tomorrow.”

  Charlie shook his head as she almost danced out the door.

  TWELVE

  Lizzy and Coretta Cole

  Lizzy hadn’t been back from the post office for very long when she heard footsteps—heavy, lumbering footsteps, this time—coming up the stairs. The office door flew open and Mrs. Angelina Biggs burst through. Although the sun was shining brightly, her hair was dripping wet and her eyes were wild and crazy.

  “I want to see Mr. Moseley!” she cried, arms flailing. “I’m going to hire him to sue Beulah Trivette and Charlie Dickens and Artis Biggs! I’m suing all three of them for every penny they’ve got!” She whirled around like a dervish. “Where is Mr. Moseley? When can I see him? Where? When? Where?”

  “I’m sorry, but he’s not here,” Lizzy said, blinking at this unusual behavior. People sometimes were a little frantic when they came to consult Mr. Moseley, but she had never seen anything like this. “Please sit down, Mrs. Biggs, so I can take your information. When Mr. Moseley gets back, he’ll call you to schedule a consultation and—”

  “I am not sitting down!” Angelina Biggs cried, whirling faster, her arms out, her green dress ballooning out around her pudgy knees. Her ample chins rippled and the flesh under her arms swung like loose sleeves. “No, no, no! If I sit down, the rest of my hair will fall out.”

  “I beg your pardon?” Lizzy stared at the whirling woman.

  “My hair,” Mrs. Biggs cried. “I have to keep moving or my hair will fall out.” She made a three-hundred-sixty-degree turn. “That’s why I am going to sue Beulah Trivette. It’s all on account of her. She’s ruined my beautiful hair.”

  Lizzy didn’t scare easily, but the skin on the back of her neck was prickling. Something was very wrong here, and a lawsuit wasn’t going to solve the problem. But what should she do? What would Mr. Moseley do if he were here?

  While Mrs. Biggs lumbered around the reception area like a half-crazed circus elephant, knocking over chairs and small tables, Lizzy picked up the phone. Violet Sims, who was working the switchboard, came on the line and she said, very low, “Violet, this is Lizzy Lacy. Listen, I need you to call Artis Biggs at the hotel and tell him to get over to Mr. Moseley’s office as fast as he can. His wife is here, and she’s—well, I can’t tell whether she’s drunk or having some sort of . . . um, seizure, I guess you’d say.”

  Her eyes widened as Mrs. Biggs blundered into an end table and toppled a lamp, smashing the paper shade. “Tell him to hurry,” she added urgently. “And maybe he could ask Mr. Dickens downstairs in the Dispatch office to give him a hand. I think it’s going to take two strong men to handle her.”

  Lizzy put down the phone. “May I fix you a cup of coffee?” she asked pleasantly, as Mrs. Biggs whirled against the magazine rack, splintering it.

  “No, no, no!” Mrs. Biggs cried. “Mr. Moseley! I want Mr. Moseley!”

  It seemed like an eternity, but it was only a few moments later when Artis Biggs raced up the stairs, with Charlie Dickens on his heels. At the sight of her husband, Mrs. Biggs began to shriek like a banshee.

  “I’m suing you,” she shrilled, waving her arms wildly. “You better not lay your filthy hands on me! You lecherous old coot! You reprobate! I’ll see you in court!” She whirled on Charlie. “You, too, Charlie Dickens! I’m suing you, too, for assault with attempt to molest.”

  Mr. Biggs sighed heavily. “Thank you for calling me, Miss Lacy,” he said with a grim look. “Mr. Dickens and I will take it from here.” He glanced around the office, seeing the smashed lampshade and the splintered magazine rack. “I’ll be glad to pay for any damage she’s caused. Just send me a bill.”

  “I’ll ask Mr. Moseley, but I don’t think that will be necessary,” Lizzy said. “I just hope Mrs. Biggs will be all right.”

  “So do I,” Mr. Biggs muttered, as he tried to hang on to a flailing arm. “I just wish I knew what ails her. She’s been like this for a couple of days now. It’s like she’s goin’ crazy. She’s drivin’ me crazy, anyway.” He put his arm around his wife’s ample waist. “Come on, now, sweetheart. Settle down. Settle down, and we’ll get you home to bed.”

  “Bed!” Mrs. Biggs shrieked. “Don’t you talk to me about bed, you philanderer! You Don Juan, you!” She turned on Charlie Dickens. “And you, you . . . you Casanova!”

  It required the combined efforts of both men to wrestle Mrs. Biggs down the stairs and get her headed back toward the hotel, lurching along between them like a drunk on the way home after a thirsty night on the town. Lizzy watched from the office window, shaking her head at the sight, which would have been funny if it hadn’t been so sad. Mrs. Biggs had always seemed like a quiet, thoughtful person. What in the world was making her act this way?

  She was about to turn away from the window when she saw Beulah Trivette hurrying across the courthouse square toward the trio. The group paused while Mrs. Biggs struggled against the men’s restraint and Mr. Biggs listened, at first impatiently and then with growing seriousness, to what Beulah had to say. Then Beulah joined them and the quartet hustled toward the hotel as Lizzy puzzled over what it all meant. She’d have to ask Beulah for an explanation, first chance she got.

  The rest of the day went by in the same first-one-thing-th
en-another manner, although without any more exciting whirling dervish episodes. By the time the old-fashioned grandfather clock had struck five, Lizzy was more than ready for the long work day to end. She had hoped to get a free hour to finish her “Garden Gate” column, but that hadn’t happened. So she walked hurriedly past the window of the Dispatch office, not wanting to catch Charlie Dickens’ glance. If she’d looked in, she might have seen Charlie bent over a library book instead of his typewriter, turning the pages with a rapt attention.

  When Lizzy got home, she went straight to her bedroom, where she kicked off her shoes, unfastened her garter belt, and peeled off her stockings. As she did nearly every day after work, she washed them in the bathroom sink with a sprinkle of Ivory soap flakes. These were rayon service-weight stockings, reasonably sheer, and at fifty cents a pair at the Mercantile—forty-eight cents postage paid from the Sears catalog—you learned to take care of them. For another dollar, you could buy chiffon-weight silk stockings with the new slenderizing French heels. But Lizzy had only one pair of those, which she saved for very special occasions, like the monthly dances at the country club. Rayon was plenty good enough for the office—but then, it had to be, didn’t it? And anyway, she was lucky to have what she had. Some women couldn’t even afford rayon.

  Stockings washed and dripping over the towel bar, Lizzy stepped into the blue cotton wrap dress with the white pique V-necked collar that she liked to wear around the house and padded barefoot into the kitchen. There, she poured a glass of lemonade from the pitcher in the refrigerator and took it into the grassy backyard, where Daffy was having his afternoon nap under a rosebush. He opened one eye, saw Lizzy, and closed his eye again.

  When she’d first moved into her house, Grady had built a wooden garden swing, painted it white, and hung it from the limb of the live oak. Lizzy had made a seat cushion and covered it with orange and blue oilcloth. That’s where she sat now. She sipped her cold drink, pushed herself back and forth with one bare foot, and thought over all the things that had happened that day, especially Myra May’s report of Alice Ann Walker’s story about what happened at the bank and the sheriff’s subsequent appearance—with a warrant—at Verna’s house. Obviously, Verna was on Roy Burns’ wanted list. There was apparently enough money in her bank account to make her a suspect in the fifteen-thousand-dollar theft from the county treasury. Lizzy knew that Verna would never have stolen anything from the county treasury—but where had she gotten that money? Could she explain that to Roy Burns’ satisfaction?