The Darling Dahlias and the Eleven O'Clock Lady

by Susan Wittig Albert

  Mrs. Lacy smiled smugly. “Mr. Dunlap has asked me to marry him. And I’ve said yes.”

  Lizzy gasped, feeling as if she’d been socked in the stomach and the air had just been knocked out of her. “Marry Mr. Dunlap?” she repeated stupidly. “Mr. Dunlap at the Five and Dime?”

  “Well, yes.” Mrs. Lacy narrowed her eyes. “Is there anything wrong with that?”

  Lizzy wanted to leap up and cry, No, nothing wrong! The Almighty has just answered my prayers, that’s all. Now you’ll be Mr. Dunlap’s problem!

  But she couldn’t, so she said, as calmly as she could, “Of course not, Mama, if that’s what you want to do. It’s just . . . it’s just a little sudden, that’s all. I need a minute to catch my breath.”

  “Not sudden at all,” Mrs. Lacy said smartly. “Of course, we were church friends before I went to work for him at the Five and Dime. I’ve always enjoyed hearing him sing in the choir—he has such a lovely tenor voice. After I began working at the store, we got friendlier and friendlier and . . . well, things just developed, that’s all.”

  “And you kept it a secret,” Lizzy marveled. That by itself was a huge surprise, since her mother had never before demonstrated any ability to keep a secret. The minute she heard anything interesting, she ran right over to tell Ouida Bennett. And this was certainly interesting.

  “Mr. Dunlap thought it would be better to wait until we were sure,” Mrs. Lacy said shyly. “He’s telling his children this weekend.” She smiled, and Lizzy thought it was one of the first genuine smiles she had seen on her mother’s face in a very long time. “He really is a very dear man, Elizabeth, once you get to know him.”

  “I’m sure he is,” Lizzy said. “I’m looking forward to getting better acquainted.” This was the honest truth, for the Mr. Dunlap she knew was a meek, mousy little man—a widower with two grown children—who would scarcely say boo to a goose. She couldn’t imagine how he had gotten up the nerve to kiss her mother, much less propose to her. But maybe things had happened the other way around: the proposal first, the kiss second. Or maybe her mother had cornered him, kissed him, and proposed. Lizzy had no difficulty imagining that.

  “To tell the truth,” her mother said, “Mr. Dunlap is a tiger.” She smiled. “If you know what I mean.”

  Lizzy blinked. “Not exactly.” She added hurriedly (to forestall an explanation), “Have you set a date for the wedding? And have you decided where you will live?” Mr. Dunlap, she knew, lived in a house behind the Five and Dime—a small house, no bigger than her own. She didn’t think there was room for her mother there.

  “We’re having a church wedding next month. You’ll be my bridesmaid, won’t you?” Without waiting for an answer, Mrs. Lacy went on, “And we’ve decided to live in my house.” She made a face. “His house is a shoebox. Mine is larger, and so much nicer.”

  Actually, it was Lizzy’s house now, but she was so happy about this new development that she didn’t remind her mother of their arrangement. “I would love to be your bridesmaid,” she said, with a heartfelt enthusiasm. “We’ll have to put our heads together about dresses. And flowers. And the reception. It’ll be fun, Mama!”

  Mrs. Lacy’s eyes were misty. “Do you think it would be too gauche of me to wear white, with a veil? Your father and I eloped, and I so wanted a white wedding. But at my age, and having been married before and with a full-grown daughter . . .”

  Lizzy got up, went around the table, and hugged her mother. “You can absolutely wear white if you want to, Mama. If anybody complains, I’ll—” She stopped, trying to think of something appropriate. “I’ll have Mr. Moseley send them an official cease-and-desist letter,” she finished triumphantly, and they both laughed.

  “Well,” her mother said, and pushed her chair back, “enough of that. Mr. Dunlap is coming over for supper this evening—why don’t you join us?”

  Lizzy frowned. She really wanted to meet Mr. Dunlap informally and let him know how glad she was that he was marrying her mother, but it wasn’t going to be this evening.

  “I’d love to,” she lied, “but I promised Verna I’d have supper with her. Thanks, anyway.” After what her mother had said about the CCC camp, she wasn’t going to tell her that Captain Campbell was expected for supper, too. And that she was supposed to be sweet to him so he would do more good things for Darling.

  Mrs. Lacy frowned and shook her head. “It’s all very well to have girlfriends, Elizabeth, but I do wish you would make an effort to find a nice young man.” She went to the door and stood with her hand on the knob, looking down her nose. “Ever since Grady Alexander had to get married . . .”

  Mrs. Lacy let her voice trail away sadly. Lizzy knew that she had never been quite forgiven for allowing Grady Alexander to marry Sandra Mann—not that she could have done anything about it, of course. Well, that wasn’t exactly true, Lizzy reminded herself ruefully. If she had let Grady do what he wanted to do, he might not have done what he wanted to do with Sandra Mann—and gotten her pregnant. On balance, Lizzy was glad that she had held the line where sex was concerned, but she often wondered how Sandra felt. If she had it to do over, would she? Of course, Sandra had a baby and a husband, so she might think she’d gotten the best part of the bargain.

  “And now they live just down the block,” Mrs. Lacy said in an accusing tone, reinforcing her implication that Grady’s defection was entirely Lizzy’s fault. “I suppose you know that they’re expecting again?”

  Lizzy pulled in her breath. “Actually, I didn’t,” she said evenly, “but I’m glad to hear it.” The first baby had been a little boy, Grady Junior. “I hope the next one will be a girl. That would be nice for Sandra.”

  “She’s not well, you know,” Mrs. Lacy said with a meaningful glance. “Her aunt Twyla says she’s very sick.”

  “That’s too bad. I hope her health improves.”

  “Oh, of course. For the sake of her two little children.” Mrs. Lacy heaved a dramatic sigh. “And to think that you could have—”

  “No, Mama,” Lizzy said firmly. “I couldn’t. And I didn’t. And I’m glad.” She pushed the door open for her mother. “Oh, and congratulations again. I just can’t tell you how delighted I am for you and Mr. Dunlap. I know you’ll be very happy together.”

  She shut the door firmly and stood with her back to it for a moment, thinking back over their conversation, past the fascinating news that Mr. Dunlap was about to take her mother off her hands—forever, she hoped—and back to what her mother had said about Adele Hart. Then she went into the entry hallway and picked up the candlestick phone that sat on the little table under the mirror. She rang the operator and heard a young woman saying, “Number, please.”

  “Lenore, is that you? Will you ring the sheriff’s office for me, please?”

  “It’s me, Henrietta,” the operator said. “I can ring the office, but the sheriff isn’t there. He’s upstairs here at the diner, talking to Violet and Myra May.”

  “Well, ring the office anyway,” Lizzy said. “Maybe the deputy is there.”

  A moment later, Lizzy was talking to Wayne Springer, telling him that she had seen Rona Jean Hancock at the Monroeville movie theater with a man who might have been a CCC officer. “They were a little . . . well, passionate,” she said in an explanatory tone. She added that her mother had told her that Adele Hart had seen somebody—a man in a CCC uniform—waiting for Rona Jean outside the diner. “I thought this was something the sheriff should maybe look into. Will you tell him, please?”

  “Thank you, ma’am,” the deputy said. “I’ll do that.” He paused. “That’s H-a-r-t?”

  “Yes. Adele Hart. Artis Hart is her husband. They live next door to the laundry, but if the sheriff stops in during the day, she’ll probably be at work. He should go there first.”

  There. She had done her good deed for the day. Lizzy put the phone down and stood for a moment, thinking. She had p
romised Verna she would bring a salad for supper tonight, so she ought to go out to the garden and see what she had in the way of salad fixings—the last of the lettuce, if the heat hadn’t done it in. But she knew there were some tomatoes, a cucumber or two, and a few green onions. She looked out of the window, noticing that the sky had grown darker and that there were thunderclouds piling up to the southwest. She probably ought to get the salad makings now, before it rained. And since she had the rest of the afternoon free, she should finish up the “Garden Gate” column she’d been working on, in case Charlie had room for it in the special edition of the Dispatch.

  But first, there was Nadine Fleming’s letter.

  Back in the kitchen, Lizzy slid into the dining nook, lifted the oilcloth, and took out the letter. She sat down holding it for a moment, thinking about prayers and wondering whether—and how—her life might be changed by what the letter held or whether she would go on doing just what she was doing now, for the rest of her days. Then she unfolded it and read the first few lines.

  And burst into tears.

  ELEVEN

  THE GARDEN GATE

  BY ELIZABETH LACY

  At a recent meeting of the Darling Dahlias, Miss Rogers (Darling’s devoted librarian and noted plant historian) gave a talk on old-fashioned flowering bulbs that thrive in Southern gardens. Among the plants she recommended were eleven o’clock ladies, naked ladies, chives and garlic chives, gladiolas, starflowers, and snowflakes, as well as caladium and elephant ear, which are grown for their decorative leaves. Of course, Miss Rogers gave us the correct Latin names, which she recommends that we use to avoid confusing one plant with another. We have a list of those, if you want them. Just ask.

  It’s been a busy summer for the Dahlias Canning Kettle Ladies (Bessie Bloodworth, team captain, with Earlynne Biddle, Aunt Hetty Little, and Beulah Trivette). They have been putting up extra produce donated by gardeners all over town, to share with our Darling needy folk in the winter. The team is using the two new big pressure cookers the Dahlias bought with the money they earned from the quilt raffle. (Big thanks to Mildred Kilgore and Alice Ann Walker for organizing the raffle!) The Canning Kettle Ladies put up dozens of jars of green beans, corn, tomatoes and tomato sauce, peaches, and pickles. The residents of the Magnolia Manor will be helping to distribute the canned goods, so if you want to put your name on the list (or the name of a needy neighbor), let Bessie Bloodworth know, or call the Magnolia Manor at 477 and leave a message. Come November and December, you’ll be glad you did. It’ll be like eating summer out of a jar.

  Mildred Kilgore gave a demonstration on how to make an old-fashioned rose jar to the Methodist Ladies last week. Several ladies from other churches have expressed their regret that her demonstration was limited to their Methodist friends and have requested her how-to instructions. She says to take a pint of dried rose petals (red are prettiest) and pack them in a jar, sprinkling each layer with coarse salt. Put a lid on it and put it on a closet shelf for a month. Then find a big bowl and mix in 1/4 ounce of orris root, 2 teaspoons each of powdered ginger, nutmeg, and allspice, and 4 tablespoons each of dried lavender and lemon verbena. Dump in the rose petals and mix it all together very well with a big spoon. Put everything back in the jar and put the jar back in the closet for another month. To use, put in a pretty bowl, stir every so often, and take a deep sniff when you walk past.

  The Dahlias, under the direction of Verna Tidwell, have compiled a companion booklet to their very popular “Makin’ Do” booklet. This one is called “The Dahlias’ Household Magic: A Baker’s Dozen Ways to Do It Easier, Faster, Better.” You may pick up a copy free at the Dispatch office. (Mrs. Albert says she’s going to include it in her latest book, which Miss Rogers has promised to get for the Darling Library. She says that you should put your name on the waiting list now if you want to read it. It’ll probably be a very long list.)

  Aunt Hetty Little is inviting everyone to her garden to see the very strange Voodoo Lily (Dracunculus vulgaris, according to Miss Rogers), which is blooming now. It has impressively large (12”) deep purple flowers that last about a week. But you might want to bring a perfumed hanky to cover your nose. The Voodoo Lily (a.k.a. Stink Lily) smells like something crawled under the porch and died. Mildred, who collects exotic plants, reports that the plant produces this smell on purpose, to attract the flies that pollinate the huge blossoms. “Some plants are very clever that way,” she says.

  We were cleaning up Mrs. Dahlia Blackstone’s papers recently (Mrs. Blackstone was the founder of our garden club, as you probably know), and found this lovely clipping that we want to share with you. It’s been around for so long that nobody knows who wrote it. We hope it will be around for a long time to come.

  Recipe for Preserving Children

  Take one grassy field, 1/2 dozen children, 3 small dogs, a pinch of a brook, and some pebbles. Mix the children and dogs well together and put them in the field, stirring constantly. Pour the brook over the pebbles. Sprinkle the field with flowers, spread over all a deep blue sky, and bake in a hot sun. When brown, remove the children and set away to cool in a bathtub.

  TWELVE

  Ophelia Goes Undercover

  Ophelia took one look at her daughter’s choice of a birthday present and knew that Jed would not approve. Sarah, a long-legged, gray-eyed blonde with developing curves and a liberal peppering of freckles, had found the swimsuit she wanted on the second floor of Katz Department Store on the south side of the square in Monroeville. The suit was a bright red clingy wool knit, cut high in the legs and low in the bust. When he saw it, Jed would have a conniption fit.

  But even though she felt a little disloyal to her husband, Ophelia went ahead and bought the swimsuit anyway. Times had changed—jeepers, had they ever!—and the swimsuits she had worn when she was a teenager (and which Jed would certainly approve) would be laughed at today. She remembered one fetching number her mother had bought her when she was twelve, before the Great War. It had a blousy, button-to-the-chin black top with elbow-length sleeves and a calf-length black-and-white striped skirt, and she wore it with black stockings, lace-up rubber shoes, and a frilly turban. Sarah was a sensitive young girl, and she ought to have what her friends had. In Ophelia’s opinion, the worst thing that could happen to a young girl was to feel different from all the other girls.

  With the idea of somehow making it up to Jed, Ophelia went down to the men’s department and picked out a shirt for him—another boring blue plaid cotton, but it was the kind he liked and it was on sale for ninety-nine cents. She also bought a tee shirt for Sam (thirty-nine cents) and splurged on a white blouse for herself, tailored, with pearl buttons and short sleeves. It was $1.09, but well made and worth the money, she thought, and anyway she needed it, now that she was working five days a week, three of them out at Camp Briarwood, where she met a great many strangers and liked to look nice.

  Then, with Sam’s baseball team picnic in mind, she shopped for hamburger (fifteen cents a pound) and hot dogs (eight cents a pound) at Haynes’ Meat Market, and got a frying chicken for twenty cents a pound for Sunday dinner. Kitty-corner across the street at the Value Rite grocery, she bought cabbage for slaw (ten cents a pound), yellow cheese to top the hamburgers (nineteen cents a pound), buns for the hamburgers and hot dogs (eight cents a package), and a dozen and a half lemons (fifteen cents a dozen) for lemonade. She had already made two apple pies for dessert, with apples that the Dahlias had canned last fall. And she had saved back a dozen eggs for an angel food cake—Sarah’s favorite—for her birthday dinner tomorrow. She didn’t have any cake flour, but she had a box of cornstarch and a bag of all-purpose flour and she knew how to make a very decent substitute for the more expensive cake flour.

  As she and Sarah got in the family Ford and drove back toward Darling, Ophelia was still worrying about what Jed was going to say when he saw Sarah’s bathing suit. Maybe she would just casually mention it to him at the same time
she gave him his new plaid shirt, and bank on his usual lack of curiosity about things she bought for the kids. At least she hadn’t had to ask him for the money to buy it. She had her own money to spend, which she counted as a hundred blessings, one for every penny in the dollar.

  Ophelia was able to buy clothes and groceries—as well as put tires on the family’s old blue Ford and finish paying for the living room suite she had foolishly bought on time out of the Sears and Roebuck catalog—because she had gotten a really lucky break. During the months that her friend Liz was working in Montgomery, Mr. Moseley had hired her to take Liz’s place three days a week in his office. She’d still been able to work for Charlie at the Dispatch on the other two days, so between them she was working five days a week. Then, when Liz came back and reclaimed her desk in Mr. Moseley’s office, Ophelia had gotten a three-day-a-week job at Camp Briarwood: another lucky break. A very lucky break, especially given how slow the feed business was.

  Unfortunately, Jed didn’t quite see it that way. His masculine pride had been stung by Ophelia’s success, and he kept muttering that it was his responsibility to support the family and his wife should stay home where God had put her. Ophelia didn’t know about God, but she understood Jed’s feelings about her working. He came from a conservative family, and none of his womenfolk—his mother and aunts and cousins—had ever held a paying job outside the home. Women just didn’t; that was all. It was no wonder he hated to see her go out the door every morning, all dressed up and with lipstick on and heels, like she was going to the picture show.

  But while Jed would never admit it, Ophelia knew that the money she brought home every week had been a lifesaver. Snow’s Farm Supply, the family business Jed had inherited from his father, had been in deep trouble for the last few years. Farmers were scrambling to find the money for seed and equipment, and Jed (who had a hard head but a soft heart) had extended too much credit to his customers. The Snows had been scraping the bottom of the barrel, and Ophelia—who never felt very secure, even in the best of times—lived in constant dread that he would come home one day and tell her that the business was finished and that they were going to lose their house. And their car. And everything they had worked for since they got married.