The Darling Dahlias and the Naked Ladies

SEVEN

Bessie Bloodworth was a dedicated student of Darling’s history and knew the family stories of almost all of the local residents. She could tell you anything you wanted to know about who was related to whom and where people’s ancestors had come from. She had even written a little book, which was sold by the local history club. It was called A Few Skeletons in Our Closets: A Peek at Darling History.

Unfortunately, Bessie had recently been reminded that she had a few skeletons in her own family closet. She had climbed up to the attic to get the old green living room drapes that she was planning to donate to the Darling Quilting Club to make comforters for the needy. Under the drapes, shoved far back in a corner, she found a box of her father’s business papers, left after his old office had been cleaned out. Today was both his birthday and the tenth anniversary of his death, so Bessie thought that maybe she should sit down and sort through everything. Or maybe tomorrow, or next week. There was really no hurry, she told herself. Bessie and her father hadn’t been close for years. That was only one of her painful memories. There were others.

Bessie lived at Magnolia Manor, next door to the Dahlias’ clubhouse. She had given this name to her family home after her father had died, when she turned it into a boardinghouse for older unmarried and widowed ladies. (Mrs. Brewster, over on West Plum, operated a boardinghouse for younger unmarried ladies. Her Rules for Proper Behavior were very strict, whereas Bessie had no rules at all, believing that if her boarders didn’t understand proper behavior by now, they probably never would.)

Running a boardinghouse was the last thing Bessie had planned to do with her life. She had hoped to train as a nurse. But her mother had died when she was a girl-one of the painful parts of the Bloodworth family story-and her three older brothers had left Darling just as quickly as they could. They wanted to get away from their father, who had changed after their mother died. But Bessie didn’t have the same freedom. She couldn’t leave, even if she wanted to. As her father’s only daughter, she was expected to live at home until she was married-to a local boy, of course. After that, she was expected to live close enough to be available to manage her father’s household and take care of him whenever he needed her. There was nothing unusual about this. It was a duty that every Darling parent expected and an obligation that all Darling girls understood.

And that was what Bessie had expected, too. She fell in love with Harold, the boy across the street, and when she graduated high school, agreed to marry him. They planned to live with her father until they could afford their own home. Lots of young people in Darling did this, but it wasn’t an ideal situation and they knew it. Mr. Bloodworth was a volatile man who was given to rash, temperamental outbursts, and he hadn’t approved of his daughter’s choice of a husband. As Darling’s only undertaker and a member of the City Council, he thought Bessie could have done much better if she’d taken the time to look around a little, instead of settling for Harold Hamer, whose prospects were not exactly bright. That’s what her father said, anyway, although Bessie suspected that he would have felt the same way about anyone she chose. Nobody would ever be good enough to marry a Bloodworth.

But the young man’s sister, who had raised him and with whom he lived, was equally temperamental and equally unimpressed by her brother’s choice of a bride, and let Harold know about it in no uncertain terms. So to Bessie and Harold, living with Bessie’s father (who was at least gone all day and quite a few evenings, tending to his funeral parlor and gravestone business) seemed the lesser of two evils.

But as it turned out, they didn’t live there at all-and this was the most painful part of Bessie’s story, the part she had tried so hard to forget. About a week before the wedding, her fiancé left Darling, abruptly and without a word of good-bye, and neither Bessie nor Harold’s sister nor anyone else had ever heard another word from him. The wedding was at first postponed and then canceled, and all over town, people were saying that poor Bessie had been jilted. Everybody felt sorry for her. She could see the pity written on the face of every single person she encountered. The loss of Harold and the pity of the townspeople-taken together, it was almost too much to bear, and her heart had broken.

Surprisingly, Mr. Bloodworth had shown his daughter many small kindnesses in this terrible time, taking her wedding dress back to Mann’s and canceling the arrangements she had made at the church. When she had cried out loud, “Why? Why?” he had answered gruffly but kindly, “Some things don’t bear looking into, child.” It was as good an answer as any, and at the time, she had felt her father was right. Harold was gone. That was all she had to know. The why could remain a mystery forever.

Bessie wept until she couldn’t weep anymore, and then she pulled herself together and went on doing the things she was expected to do. To help her get through, she played a game with herself, pretending that Harold had just gone off on a trip to New Orleans or Memphis and would one day walk through the door and everything would be exactly the way they had always planned it. It wasn’t pretending, she told herself: she believed to her soul that it was true.

But time passed, as time has a way of doing, and one morning Bessie woke up and discovered that Harold was only a dim memory, a distant melody, like a song sung so far away that it could scarcely be heard. She no longer wanted to pretend that he was coming home, and she found to her surprise that this was all right. “Time heals all wounds,” she reminded herself, and felt that the hoary old proverb was true. She still loved Harold, she supposed, and she still longed to know what had happened to him and whether he was well and happy. But she was ready to stop living on the hope that he would come back.

There were other changes in Bessie’s life, not all of them as healing as this one. Her father had become increasingly temperamental and hard to live with. He sold his funeral parlor to Mr. Noonan and the gravestone business to a man from Mobile and retired. Within a month, Doc Roberts diagnosed him as having cancer of the lungs. Bessie took care of him until at last he died and was buried next to her mother in the Bloodworth family plot in the Darling Cemetery on Schoolhouse Road-the cemetery that Mr. Darling had owned and where so many of his professional duties as Darling’s only undertaker had been carried out. And there she was, all by herself in the big house, faced with the challenge of supporting herself and unexpectedly, surprisingly lonely.

But not for long. As soon as word of her father’s death got around, two suitors-Mr. Hopper and Mr. Churchill, both recently widowed-appeared at her door with bouquets in their hands and hopeful grins on their faces. At first Bessie was flattered, even though she didn’t care for either of them as much as she had cared for Harold. But it wasn’t long before she began to suspect that Mr. Hopper was only looking for a place to live and Mr. Churchill chiefly wanted someone to cook and do his laundry, and if her domestic services were what they were after, she might as well open a boardinghouse and be done with it. And anyway, she needed the money, since Mr. Noonan’s payments on the funeral home note were her only income, and they didn’t amount to very much.

So she said shoo to both of her suitors, put a notice in the Darling Dispatch (“Room and board for older ladies of refinement”), and within a few weeks all of her bedrooms were full. Magnolia Manor was not a hugely profitable business-she cleared only five or six dollars a month on each of her boarders. But that was enough to pay the taxes and buy coal and electricity and food and household supplies, and her own living expenses were negligible. Lots of people, she told herself, were in much worse straits, and they had jobs.

At the present time, there were four boarders-the Magnolia Ladies, they called themselves, all of straitened means. Dorothy Rogers, the town’s part-time librarian, had lost all her money on one awful day in the stock market. Leticia Wiggens was a retired teacher who lived on a very small pension. Mrs. Sedalius had a son who was a doctor in Mobile and sent her a check once a month, although he almost never came to see her. Maxine Bechdel was slightly better off than the others. She owned two rental houses whose tenants were able to pay their rent about half the time.

Bessie managed the place with the help of Roseanne, a live-in colored lady who cooked and did the laundry. But the Magnolia Ladies did their part, too. Leticia and Maxine washed the dishes and cleaned the kitchen and dining room. Mrs. Sedalius swept and dusted upstairs, and Miss Rogers swept and dusted downstairs, and of course each boarder kept her room neat. In addition, they all worked in the Manor’s flower beds and the impressive vegetable garden and tended the half-dozen hens that lived in the coop against the back fence and delivered three or four fresh-laid eggs every morning, just in time for breakfast.

And Bessie discovered, to her surprise, that managing the Magnolia Manor was decidedly preferable to managing her father’s household, and that her new life was a great deal more interesting and livelier than the old-and a great deal livelier and less stressful than life with either Mr. Hopper or Mr. Churchill would have been. Her beloved fiancé was a long-ago dream, the Magnolia Ladies were the sisters she had never had, and her family history was by now just that: history.

When Bessie got home from the Dahlias’ meeting, she went upstairs and changed into the gray cotton work dress and old shoes that she wore in the garden, then took a pair of clippers and went out to deadhead the roses. The peaches from the trees near the back fence were already in their jars in the cellar, pickled and spiced and canned, and the apples would soon be ripe. They had picked the last crop of green beans and would be digging the sweet potatoes in another few weeks, to wrap in newspaper and store in bushel baskets in the cellar. The Magnolia Ladies had a lot to show for their gardening efforts this year.

“Yoo hoo, Bessie!”

She looked up from her work to see Liz and Verna ducking through the hedge between the Manor and the Dahlias’ clubhouse. She dropped the clippers into her basket and wiped her forehead with her sleeve, pushing her hair out of her eyes. It was a muggy afternoon. The way her shoulder was hurting, there’d be rain by supper time.

“Whew,” she said. “Enough of that. Come and see my Angel Trumpet.” She left her basket where it was and led them to a corner of the garden where a tall, sturdy-looking shrub was growing against the fence. It had large, coarse green leaves and was covered with huge, pendulous blossoms, a beautiful shade of creamy peach. They were tightly furled now, ready to open at twilight. “You can’t believe the perfume,” she said. “It’s heavenly. We leave all the upstairs windows open when we go to bed, just so we can smell it.”

“Gorgeous,” Verna said, touching one of the blossoms with her finger. “Will you save us some seed?”

“Or a few cuttings,” Liz said enviously. “I have the perfect site for it.”

“Of course,” Bessie said. “Oh, and you can mention it in your ‘Garden Gate’ column, Liz. Tell folks that they can come and get some cuttings. But you might also tell them it’s poisonous. They need to be careful with it, especially if there are children around.”

“Hard to believe that something so beautiful could be harmful,” Liz said.

Bessie nodded. “My grandmother claimed she smoked it for her asthma, but it’s a pretty powerful narcotic. Now, shall we sit down?” She led them toward a trio of white-painted chairs and a little table in the shade of a weeping willow, pausing at the kitchen door to ask Roseanne to bring out a pitcher of lemonade and some glasses.

“Where is everybody?” Verna asked as they sat down. “It’s such a lovely afternoon, I figured they’d all be out here in the garden.”

“Leticia and Maxine are playing canasta on the front porch,” Bessie said. “Can’t you hear them bickering? Dorothy went to her room to read, but five will get you ten that she’s really having a nap. And Mrs. Sedalius’ son is here for a visit. He’s taken his mother for a ride in his car. First time in a year he’s been to see her.” She cocked her head at her guests. “So. What’s this family history you wanted to talk about?”

“Liz and I were curious about Miss Hamer’s niece,” Verna said. “Nona Jean Jamison. We understand that she’s moved in with her aunt, and we were… well, just wondering.” She glanced at Liz. “We know that you’re interested in family history, and that you’ve been friends with Miss Hamer for a long time.”

“So we thought you might be able to tell us something about the Hamer family history,” Liz added.

Bessie drew in a deep breath and leaned back in her chair. She knew Verna, and from the tone of her voice, thought that there was more here than simple curiosity. Verna was a suspicious person by nature, and in this case-

“The Hamer family history?” she asked. She rubbed a knuckle in her eye, trying not to show that the Hamer family was as disturbing a subject as the Bloodworths. At that moment, Roseanne appeared with the pitcher of lemonade-the pitcher was decorated with painted oranges and lemons-and matching glasses on a tray. “Thanks, Roseanne,” she said, grateful for the interruption, and began to pour lemonade.

“I met Miss Jamison when she came to do some business with Mr. Moseley,” Liz went on in an explanatory tone. “And Verna-” She took the glass Bessie handed her. “Verna had a little conversation with her at the drugstore. But maybe she’d better tell you about that part.”

Verna leaned forward with an intent look. “The thing is, Bessie, I’ve met her before. Miss Jamison, I mean. About ten years ago.”

“In Monroeville, maybe?” Bessie guessed, handing Verna a glass and setting the pitcher on the low table in front of them. “That’s where Nona Jean grew up. Her mother-she’s dead now-was Miss Hamer’s younger sister. At least, that’s what I understand. I met her for the first time last week, when she got into town.” She settled back in her chair. This was all true, and easy. It was the part of the story that didn’t harbor any ghosts.

“Not in Monroeville,” Verna replied sharply. “And she wasn’t Nona Jean, either. When I met her, she was in New York City, going by the name of Lorelei LaMotte.”

“Lorelei-” Bessie blinked. “Who did you say?”

Bessie listened as Verna told her story. By the time it was finished, she was shaking her head in disbelief.

“A vaudeville act?” she exclaimed incredulously. “You’re sure?” She paused, pursing her lips and thinking about her own first reaction to Miss Hamer’s niece. “Although Nona Jean does rather look like…” She laughed a little. “I don’t know why I should be surprised. She certainly has the figure for it. Still-”

“Go on, Verna,” Liz urged. “Show her what you showed me earlier this afternoon, before the meeting.”

Verna’s black leather handbag was on the ground at her feet, and she picked it up and pulled out a creased piece of paper. “Lorelei LaMotte signed this playbill for me, Bessie, backstage at the New Amsterdam Theater after her act. That’s her signature.”

“My gracious.” Bessie took the playbill and studied the picture for a moment, feeling her mouth drop open. Miss Hamer’s niece, revealing all that bare skin? What would the old lady do if she saw this? She took a breath. “Well, I must say it does look like her, platinum hair and all-although she’s certainly not showing so much of herself these days.”

“It’s her,” Verna said flatly, “although for some reason or another, she doesn’t want to admit it.”

Bessie took one last look-really, those breasts! And all that bare skin!-and handed the playbill back. “Well, Darling is a quiet little place. I don’t suppose she wants people here in town-most especially her aunt-to know what she’s been up to since she left Monroeville.” She looked from Verna to Liz, trying to calculate just how much she should say. “And I don’t doubt that she is Miss Hamer’s niece, if that’s what you’re wondering. Miss Hamer really did ask her to come, although not very willingly, I have to say. In fact, I’m sure she wouldn’t have done it if DessaRae’s back hadn’t gone bad. And if Doc Roberts hadn’t insisted.”

“That’s actually what we wanted to ask you about,” Liz said. “Since you know Miss Hamer so well, we thought you might be able to fill in the details. Forgive us for being nosy,” she added. “Miss Jamison is… well, an unusual person. Here in Darling, anyway.”

Bessie couldn’t help herself. She gave a sarcastic chuckle. “What makes you think I know Miss Hamer? To tell God’s honest truth, often as I’ve talked to that old lady, I don’t really know her. Nobody does. She’s a mystery,” she added darkly. “And not a very pleasant one, in my considered opinion.”

“But we thought you were helping her,” Liz said, raising her eyebrows in surprise. “That you were a friend.”

“Of course I’m helping her!” Bessie said indignantly. “That’s what neighbors do, when a person lets them. But Miss Hamer has alienated everyone else on Camellia Street over the years. I’m not a friend, I’m just the only one left-aside from DessaRae, of course-who will have anything to do with her. And that’s only because she and I go back a long, long way.” She pressed her lips together and looked away. And then, quite unexpectedly and entirely without intending to, she added, “And because of her brother.”

“Her brother?” Verna asked, looking puzzled.

A bright yellow butterfly lit on the clipped green grass at Bessie’s feet, fluttered its delicate wings for a moment, then flew away, dancing on the light breeze. Wishing she hadn’t spoken, Bessie straightened her shoulders and clasped her fingers in her lap.

“Anyway, the current situation is pretty straightforward,” she said, not answering Verna’s question. “Miss Hamer hasn’t been able to manage without help since the beginning of summer. She’s not bedridden yet, but nearly. DessaRae’s back finally got so bad that she couldn’t lift the old lady the way she used to, or get her into her chair or onto the chamber pot. So Doc Roberts finally put his foot down and said that Dessa Rae could do the cooking and light work, but that somebody else was going to have to do the heavy lifting. He suggested one or two ladies he knew were available, but they didn’t want to live in-and they wanted to be paid.” She chuckled drily. “And since Miss Hamer is so hard to get along with, they wanted to be paid quite a lot. One of them asked for twenty cents an hour.”

“Ah,” Verna said thoughtfully.

“Exactly,” Bessie replied. “Miss Hamer has plenty of money-in fact, she’s got more than all the rest of us put together. Some people say that she keeps it under her mattress, because she doesn’t trust Mr. Johnson at the bank.”

“I can understand that,” Liz muttered.

“But however much she’s got,” Bessie went on, “she doesn’t like to spend it. So that’s why Nona Jean is here. A few weeks ago, out of the blue, she wrote to her aunt from Chicago. Said she was wanting to come back to Alabama and wondered whether Miss Hamer could help her get a job and find a place to live.”

“Out of the blue,” Verna repeated in a meaningful tone. “It sounds as if they hadn’t been in contact over the years. Is that right?”

“I think that’s right,” Bessie replied. “Miss Jamison’s mother-Miss Hamer’s sister-has been dead going on twenty or twenty-five years. I don’t remember Miss Hamer ever mentioning that she had a niece.” Although of course it wasn’t a subject they talked about. Like the other part of the Hamer family history, which neither of them had ever mentioned to the other, at least not in the past twenty years. The Hamer and Bloodworth history, two chapters of a single story.

Verna was frowning intently, as if she were mentally sorting through a series of filing cards. “Did Miss Hamer verify who she was?”

Bessie could see where this was going and wondered why she hadn’t thought of it herself. “You mean, did the old lady get somebody to check her out? No, I don’t reckon she did. Why are you asking?”

Verna cast an I-told-you-so look at Liz, who said, rather hurriedly, “I don’t suppose Miss Jamison mentioned anything to her aunt about dancing. Or vaudeville or Broadway or Mr. Ziegfeld.”

“You’re certainly right about that,” Bessie said caustically. “If she had, she’d still be in Chicago. Dancing is one of the things Miss Hamer can’t abide. One of the many things.”

“I suppose that’s why Miss Jamison refuses to admit that she’s Lorelei LaMotte,” Verna said reflectively. She folded the playbill and put it back in her handbag, then gave Liz another look. “I guess there’s no point in even thinking about the talent show, then.”

“The talent show?” Bessie had to laugh at that. “You were planning to ask Nona Jean Jamison to put on an act for the Dahlias’ talent show?”

Verna shrugged and gave her a half-embarrassed grin. “Well, yes, I was. Not a very good idea, huh?”

“Sure it’s a good idea,” Bessie agreed. “That is, if she really is Lorelei LaMotte. And if she could clean up the act enough to be decent. And if she weren’t nursing her aunt. And if her aunt didn’t hate dancing so much.” She shook her head emphatically. “Miss Hamer finds out about the Naughty and Nice Sisters, and Nona Jean Jamison will be out on the street in the blink of an eye. She and Miss Lake both.”

Verna chuckled. “It’s a little hard to think of Lorelei LaMotte as a nurse.”

Bessie lifted her shoulders and let them fall. “Well, these days lots of people are doing things they never thought they’d do. And she’s not getting paid. Miss Jamison said on the phone that she’d do it just for the board and room, if her friend could come with her. That’s what got her the job, most likely. Miss Hamer would probably die before she paid out any real money.”

“On the phone?” Liz asked. “Was that when she called from Chicago? Myra May mentioned that there was a call.”

Bessie nodded. “That’s right. She wanted to find out about the living arrangements-simple questions she could’ve asked Miss Hamer, if the old lady had a phone, which she doesn’t. Miss Jamison wanted a bedroom for herself and one for Miss Lake, and asked about DessaRae-whether she lives in. One odd question I remember: she especially wanted to know whether many people came to the house.”

Far away to the south, purple clouds were piling high and thunder rumbled. Her shoulder had made the right call-they would get rain before dark. Which was good, Bessie thought. The shrubs could use a good watering.

Liz chuckled. “I suppose you told her that nobody ever goes to that house-except for you and Doc Roberts.”

“Yes, I did,” Bessie said. “To tell the truth, I thought that might change her mind. But it actually seemed to make her feel better.” Another rumble of thunder, this one closer. “I got the idea that she and Miss Lake don’t much want to see people.”

Verna harrumphed. “Well, if that’s her intention, she’d better change her style, because people will want to see her. In fact, Bailey Beauchamp made an extra trip around the courthouse square, just so he could get a better look at that red dress-and what was inside it.” She paused. “You’ve met them?”

Bessie nodded. “I went over to say hello yesterday morning. I talked to Miss Jamison, but not to Miss Lake.” She paused. “There’s a bit of a mystery there.”

The thunder seemed to have broken the quiet of the neighborhood. A screen door slapped shut somewhere close by, and the sound of a neighbor’s lawnmower being pushed across the grass came through the hedge. Down the street, some boys called to one another, and a dog barked excitedly.

“A mystery?” Liz asked, looking puzzled. “You mean-”

“When they got here,” Bessie said, “Miss Lake was wearing a big floppy hat and an old-fashioned black motoring veil that completely hid her face. She didn’t take it off. She just went straight upstairs to her room and that’s where she has stayed. She never comes out, DessaRae says, not even to eat. Miss Jamison takes her meals to her and brings back the empty plates.”

“Ah,” Liz said, nodding. “Sally-Lou told me about that.”

Verna blinked. “Takes her meals to her? That’s odd, don’t you think?”

“No odder than anything that goes on in that house,” Bessie said with a wry chuckle. “There’s no such thing as ‘normal’ where Miss Hamer is concerned.” She was silent for a long moment, feeling the words rising inside her, an irresistible force, like lava from some long-dormant volcano. She hadn’t talked of this to anyone, not since it happened, all those years ago. And now-

She heard herself saying, as if the words were coming from someone else, “Did you know that I was once engaged to Miss Hamer’s brother?”

“Really?” Liz was surprised. “I didn’t know she had a brother.”

“His name was… Harold,” Bessie said. She said it again, testing it, almost tasting it. “Harold. If we had married, I would be Miss Hamer’s sister-in-law. And Miss Jamison’s aunt-by-marriage.” Put that way, it seemed almost funny, and she smiled.

“But you didn’t marry?” Verna asked gently.

“No.” The sudden, painful sadness washed her smile away, and Bessie felt her mouth trembling. She should stop, she knew. She didn’t want to say the words, or to hear them, either. But she couldn’t. She swallowed and went on.

“It was a long time ago, when I was still in my early twenties. Back then, of course, it seemed like a terrible tragedy, the worst thing that had ever happened to anybody in this world. Which it wasn’t, I know.” She sighed heavily. “But still…” Her voice trailed off.

Verna put her glass down, obviously intrigued. “So what happened, Bessie? Did you quarrel?”

Bessie swallowed again. “I never knew what happened,” she said matter-of-factly. “There wasn’t any quarrel. The wedding arrangements were made, the church reserved and everything, and I even had my dress. Harold and I were planning to borrow Daddy’s car and drive over to the jewelry store in Monroeville and pick out our wedding rings.” Her mouth twisted around the bitter words. “But then he was just… gone, that’s all. I never heard a word from him. No letter, no telegram, not one single word, from that day to this.”

“I am so sorry, Bessie,” Liz whispered. She opened her mouth, then closed it again, as if she couldn’t think what else to say.

Bessie looked down at her fingers clasped in her lap. “I always suspected that Miss Hamer drove him away. I reckon he just couldn’t take her bossing him around any longer, telling him what to do. She didn’t like me one bit, of course. But then, she wouldn’t have liked any girl Harold wanted to marry. She wanted to keep him all to herself, and she was determined to make life miserable for anybody he cared about. He knew that, I think. So he left.”

Verna frowned. “He didn’t get in touch with his parents, to tell them where he’d gone?”

“They were dead,” Bessie replied. “They died in a railroad accident when Miss Hamer was in her twenties and Harold was just a tiny child, before he’d had his first birthday. She raised him all by herself-and pretty well smothered him, too.” She sighed, remembering. “That’s the way Harold saw it, anyway, although to be fair, I don’t suppose anybody could blame her. She was doing her best to take care of a young boy who would’ve run wild, left to his druthers. So she kept him on a short rein, like a rebellious young horse. I used to think maybe he wanted to get married just to get out from under his sister’s thumb.”

“I can understand that,” Liz said. “I got engaged to Reggie just to get away from my mother. Not that I didn’t love him,” she added hastily. “I think we would have been happy together, if he’d come home from France.”

“Well, it wouldn’t have worked for us,” Bessie said, and heard herself saying a truth she had known but had never spoken out loud. “Getting married, I mean. I understand that now. There wasn’t any way Harold could be free of his sister as long as he stayed here in Darling. She would have made both of us miserable, meddling in our marriage. He must have known that, too. So he left. He didn’t ask me to go with him because he knew I couldn’t leave my father. In a way, I suppose, it was a kindness. He didn’t force me to make a choice. He did the choosing himself.”

She stopped, startled. A kindness? Did she really think that? But after all these years, the real truth was that she still didn’t know what to think.

“My gracious, Bessie,” Verna said in surprise. “I never heard a word of any of this.”

“No reason you should,” Bessie replied with a short laugh, “either one of you. It’s not something I wanted to talk about. And it happened a long time ago.”

“But didn’t you think it was really strange that he didn’t try to get in touch with you?” Verna persisted. “Especially since you hadn’t quarreled.”

“Of course I thought it was strange, Verna. I was devastated.” And now that she’d said this much, the rest just came tumbling out, as if the words were speaking themselves. “For once in his life, my father was kind to me, even though he could barely hide how glad he was that Harold had left. He’d never made any secret of the fact that he hated the idea of our getting married. But he was kind to me-canceled all the wedding arrangements himself, so I wouldn’t have to do it. For months, I wouldn’t talk to Miss Hamer, because I was convinced that she knew where her brother had gone and was refusing to tell me. And of course I just kept thinking there’d be something-a letter, or a postcard. But there was nothing. It was as if he had fallen right off the face of the earth.”

“And Miss Hamer?” Verna asked, narrowing her eyes. “She didn’t hear from him either?”

Bessie could feel her mouth trembling and she pressed her lips together. “If she did, she didn’t tell me. I’d ask, and she’d just shake her head. But of course she wouldn’t tell, since she was the very reason he left.”

“So sad,” Liz murmured. She looked stricken. “For both you and Miss Hamer. For Harold, too.”

“Yes,” Bessie said stoutly. “I survived, maybe because I knew I hadn’t done anything to drive him away.” She had always felt good about that, in the private corner of her mind where these memories were stored away-that they hadn’t quarreled, that her last words to him had been soft and loving. “But I think she blamed herself, and the thought of what she did has been driving her crazy.”

“You mean, really crazy?” Verna asked.

“Nutty as a fruitcake,” Bessie said. “And she’s gotten crazier and crazier every year. Ask the neighbors-they can hear her screeching like a madwoman, sometimes in the middle of the night. Or ask DessaRae, or Doc Roberts. They know.”

“And Miss Jamison?” Verna asked, tilting her head. “What does she know?”

Bessie frowned. “I haven’t heard Miss Hamer shrieking since the ladies got here, so Miss Jamison probably doesn’t know about that yet. And there’s no reason why she would know anything about Harold-unless Miss Hamer told her, which I’m sure she wouldn’t.” But now that she thought about it, she wondered whether she herself ought to tell Miss Jamison. It might help her to understand the situation she had moved into.

“What an incredible story,” Liz said in a low voice.

“Yes, it is, isn’t it?” Bessie replied. She pulled in a deep breath and let it out. “But as I said, it was a very long time ago.” She closed her eyes, trying to conjure up Harold’s face. “You know, I almost can’t remember what he looked like-not really. I have a photograph of the two of us together, playing in the water at the swimming hole on Pine Mill Creek. When I think of him, that’s how I picture him, smiling and happy, still just a boy. I never think of the way he must look now, gray-haired and wrinkled and maybe even bent and stooped.” She sighed reminiscently. “Sometimes I think how different my life would have been if we’d married. We would’ve had children. And I wouldn’t have-”

“Oh, there you are, Bessie, dear!” came a bright voice at the kitchen door. It was Leticia Wiggins, hobbling down the back steps. She was moving carefully, leaning on her cane with one hand, holding on to the banister with the other. Leticia had fallen the year before and broken her wrist. She didn’t want to do it again. “Maxine and I have finished our canasta game. I won forty-two dollars!”

“Forty-two dollars!” Verna raised her eyebrows. “My goodness!”

“It’s just pretend money,” Bessie said in a low voice. “They started out gambling for pennies but now they’ve made up these colored paper bills. And they can never agree-”

“Forty-two?” Maxine Bechdel snapped, coming down the stairs behind Leticia, her white hair gleaming. “Don’t be ridiculous, Leticia. It was only thirty-two. You added wrong, as usual.” She peered nearsightedly at Bessie’s guests. “Oh, it’s Elizabeth and Verna! Hello, girls. We haven’t seen you for a while. Mind if we join you?”

Liz put her glass down and stood up. “Somebody can have my chair,” she said. “I’m afraid I have to go. It’s thundering, and I need to get home and close my windows.”

“I’d better be on my way, too,” Verna said, standing up. She put her hand on Bessie’s shoulder. “Thanks for sharing all that family history with us, Bessie.”

“You’re welcome,” Bessie said, reaching up to clasp Verna’s hand. She shook her head with a wicked grin. “I’ll bet old Miss Hamer doesn’t have an idea in her head that she’s harboring a couple of vaudeville dancers. But that’s what comes of letting those naked ladies bloom in her front yard.”

“Who’s a vaudeville dancer?” Leticia wanted to know, hobbling across the grass. “You’ll have to speak up, Bessie, if you want people to hear you.” She sat down in the chair that Liz had vacated and glanced at the partly emptied pitcher. “Maxine, darlin’, you’re still up. Bring us two more glasses, will you, and we’ll have us some of this lemonade.” She looked back at Bessie. “Now, do tell, Bessie. Who’s a vaudeville dancer?”

“No, no,” Bessie said hastily, raising her voice. “We were talking about the Dahlias’ talent show. I said that it’s going to be as good as watching a vaudeville review. Don’t you think so, Verna?”

“Oh, definitely,” Verna said, and Liz nodded, too. They said their good-byes, leaving Bessie and her friends to enjoy the fragrance of the Angel Trumpet drifting across the backyard.