The Darling Dahlias and the Naked Ladies

FOUR

Over the summer, Grady had taught Lizzy to drive his blue Ford coupe and encouraged her to practice whenever they went out. She was saving her money to buy a car, but that would take a while. In the meantime, she could ride her bicycle or walk anywhere she wanted to go in Darling and the surrounding countryside. Her house was only a couple of blocks from the courthouse square, around which most of the town’s businesses were located, including the law office where Lizzy worked, upstairs over the newspaper office.

Directly opposite the Dispatch building, in the middle of the square, stood the Cypress County Courthouse, an imposing two-story red brick building with a bell tower and a white-painted dome with a clock that struck every hour. The courthouse, built in 1905, was surrounded by a ragged brown apron of scuffed grass bordered with bright summer annuals: marigolds, zinnias, nasturtiums, cosmos, and the like. The flowers were planted, watered, and weeded by the Darling Dahlias for everyone in town to see and enjoy. The Dahlias believed that when times were hard, a few flower seeds could go a long way toward making people feel better, and they put that belief into practice wherever they could. Times were definitely hard in Darling these days, although folks who had been up north or back east said it was a lot worse in the big cities, where people were mostly strangers to one another and had to rely on the Salvation Army soup kitchens for food and Red Cross shelters when they didn’t have a place to sleep. “We’d rather be in Darling than anywhere else,” those folks said when they got back home, “especially when things are bad.”

Darlingians generally agreed. Of course, there were the usual complainers, who didn’t like this or that or the other thing. But for the most part, people thought their little town was a fine place to live. It was located in the gently rolling hills seventy miles north of Mobile-a full half-day drive away, more, if the roads were muddy-and a hundred miles south of the state’s capital, Montgomery. As Bessie Bloodworth related the story in her lectures on local history, the town had been established in the early 1800s by Joseph P. Darling, a Virginian who had come into the area with his wife, five children, two slaves, a team of oxen, two milk cows, and a horse. Surveying the rich timber and fertile soils, the nearby river and the fast-flowing creek, Mr. Darling thought that the little valley would be a good place to live-and besides, his wife was sick and tired of life on the road and insisted that they settle down. According to Bessie, she said, with extraordinary firmness, “I am not ridin’ another mile in that blessed wagon, Mr. Darling. If you want your meals and your washin’ done steady, this right here is where you’ll find it.”

So Mr. Darling (who liked to eat every day and wear a clean shirt on Sundays) built two log cabins (a big one for his family, a smaller one for his slaves) and a barn, and then (because he was of an entrepreneurial turn) a general store. The gently rolling hills were covered with loblolly and long-leaf pines, with sweet gum and tulip trees in the creek and river bottoms, and magnolia and sassafras and sycamore and pecan. Mr. Darling’s cousin, who had followed him from Virginia, built a sawmill, so that all those fine trees could be turned into boards for building. A gristmill followed almost immediately, which meant that anybody who could put in an acre or two of corn could get it ground and make corn pone. A couple of churches came next, and a schoolhouse, and not long after, several cotton gins and a cottonseed oil mill, which processed the cotton grown on plantations around the town and along the Alabama River, a few miles to the west. The roads were indescribably bad when it rained (which was often), so the Alabama River carried most of the north-south traffic, with steamboats shuttling back and forth between Montgomery and Mobile, delivering people and supplies at plantation landings and picking up baled cotton and other products.

Darling’s history didn’t include very much in the way of historic events, except when some Union soldiers tore through the town at the end of the War (always spoken of in Darling with a capital W). Or when the railroad spur was finally finished, connecting Darling to the Louisville & Nashville Railroad just outside Monroeville and delivering a final blow to river travel, since trains and railroad tracks were more reliable and cheaper to operate than the old-fashioned paddle wheelers, which had a nasty habit of sinking when the steam engine blew up or the boat rammed a snag. Oh, and there was the 1907 tornado, which had done more damage than the damn Yankees, tearing the bell tower off the recently built courthouse and ripping the roofs off houses and killing a dozen people.

But after that, things quieted down. The bell tower was rebuilt, the town grew a little bigger, and when the Great War came, the price of cotton went through the roof. Still, nothing much of note had happened since the boys of the 167th came home from France in 1919-or didn’t, as in the case of Lizzy’s fiancé, Reggie Morris. The Roaring Twenties had roared through Darling very quietly, since the local ladies weren’t crazy about bobbed hair and skirts so short they couldn’t sit down in them, and most of the people in town belonged to a church that turned thumbs-down on dancing. There wasn’t supposed to be any drinking of alcoholic beverages after the Alabama legislature passed the Bone-Dry Act of 1915, five years before the rest of the country followed suit, but that didn’t mean a whole lot, since Alabamans always talked dry and drank wet. Voters thought that prohibiting alcohol was the Christian thing to do, since it might help people whose spirits were willing but whose flesh was weak. But there were plenty of folks who were Christians on Sunday morning and dancers and drinkers on Saturday night, and if somebody wanted hooch, he (or she) knew right where to go to get it.

They knew where to get a good meal, too, although most people in Darling ate breakfast, dinner (the main meal of the day, at noon), and supper at home with their families. If you had a reason for eating away from home, you had several choices, depending on who you were. If you were a traveling gentleman staying at the Old Alabama Hotel or a husband who wanted to give his wife a treat by taking her out for an expensive meal, you could go to the hotel dining room and sit down at a table with a bowl of flowers in the middle of a white damask tablecloth, and a waiter would pour water into a crystal goblet and offer you a menu that featured (depending on the time of year) tomato frappe, asparagus vinaigrette, green peas and carrots, your choice of a thick filet mignon wrapped in bacon or a cold plate with chicken, and a maple nut sundae for dessert-for which you would pay seventy-five cents. While you dined, you could listen to Mrs. LeVaughn playing soft, elegant dinner music-Chopin and Debussy and Liszt-on the beautiful rosewood square grand piano, which was surrounded by potted palms in the Old Alabama lobby.

If you were a single man and wanted a hearty meal that would stick to your ribs (beef stew and dumplings, say, or baked ham and mashed potatoes), you could walk over to the Meeks’ boardinghouse two blocks west of the rail yard where the railroad workers and some of the men from the sawmill boarded and see if Mrs. Meeks could make room at the table for one more, which she usually could, especially if you didn’t mind waiting until the second shift sat down. For the main dish, plus corn bread and green apple pie and all the coffee you could drink, you would expect to pay thirty-five cents, but you had to eat fast, because there was usually a third shift waiting to sit down. There was no time to talk, or anybody to talk to, either, since all the diners had their heads down, shoveling in their food. Definitely no dinner music.

Or you could go to the Darling Diner. You wouldn’t pay a fortune, you wouldn’t have to rush through your meal, and you could talk all you wanted with your friends, since all your friends were likely to be there, too. As for dinner music, there was the Philco radio on the shelf behind the counter. It played whatever the customers wanted to listen to-mostly farm information, daily crop and livestock and milk prices, weather reports, and stock market information, which often produced hisses and boos from those listeners who felt that Wall Street was another word for the devil.

For thirty years, the diner, located between Musgrove’s Hardware and the Dispatch building, was owned and operated by Mrs. Hepzibah Hooper, who lived in the apartment on the second floor. Mrs. Hooper had a large garden out in the back, where she grew some of the okra, green beans, Southern peas, collard greens, tomatoes, bell peppers, and sweet potatoes that she served to her customers. As time went on and her clientele expanded, she found she had to have help with the cooking and was lucky (or smart) enough to hire Euphoria Hoyt, a colored lady who specialized in fried chicken, meat loaf, and meringue pies. It wasn’t long before Euphoria was acknowledged as the best cook in that part of Alabama, and business got even better.

But Mrs. Hooper was a heavy woman, and when her legs began to swell, she had trouble standing behind the counter for more than a couple of hours, so she decided to sell. By that time, she had bought a half-interest in the Darling Telephone Exchange, and Mr. Whitworth (who owned the other half-interest) installed the switchboard in the storage room at the back of the diner. The Exchange started out with just one operator working part-time, but before long, almost everybody in town was on the telephone, except for a few holdouts like Miss Hamer, who was hard of hearing, and Mr. Norris, who objected because the ringing jangled his nerves. This meant that the Exchange had to have an operator on the switchboard every hour of the day and night, which was more than Mrs. Hooper had bargained for, especially after her legs started to swell. So she began looking around for a buyer-for both the Exchange and the diner.

And that’s where Myra May Mosswell and Violet Sims came into the picture.

Myra May had learned her kitchen savvy when she managed the kitchen and the dining room at the Old Alabama Hotel. Her daddy, a much-loved Darling physician, had died and left her a house, some cash money, and a 1920 Chevy touring car named Big Bertha. Myra May was still considering what to do with her inheritance when a young woman named Violet Sims got off the Greyhound and applied for a job at the hotel. Violet was brown-haired and petite and very pretty, in a feminine sort of way, although this didn’t mean that she was any pushover, because she definitely had her own ideas about the way things ought to be done. And the fact that she liked to wear pretty cuffs and collars and jabots made of lace and silk georgette and smiled a lot and laughed in a soft, sweet voice didn’t mean that she was soft on the inside, too. Inside and out and through and through, Violet was definitely her own woman.

Myra May, on the other hand, wasn’t anybody’s idea of feminine-or pretty, either, for that matter. She was the only woman in town who wore belted trousers every day of the week (including Sundays) and was trim enough to look good in them. She had a square jaw, a strong mouth, a long, horsey nose, and an intense, questioning look that made people wonder if their ties were crooked or they had spinach between their teeth. She was a serious, practical person with a reputation for saying exactly what she thought, regardless of how she thought you were going to feel about it, and for making up her mind without shilly-shallying around. She had a tendency to answer in short, brusque sentences, and any man who got up enough nerve to ask her out once usually didn’t repeat the request.

After Myra May graduated from the University of Alabama with a major in Domestic Science and a minor in Education, she decided that she really didn’t have the patience to be a teacher. She also decided that she probably didn’t have the patience to be somebody’s wife, either, and by the time she was thirty and had gone out with all the available men in Darling, she was sure of it. One of the charter members of the Darling Dahlias, she certainly had her share of friends and loyal supporters, but people who did not like strong, direct, no-nonsense women had a tendency to keep their distance.

So it came as something of a surprise to folks when Myra May and Violet became fast friends. Whether it was because Violet was looking for somebody who would steady her down, or Myra May was looking for somebody who would lighten her up, nobody could be sure. But it wasn’t long before they moved in together and began to talk about starting a business of their own. When they heard that Mrs. Hooper was thinking of selling out, they got excited about the possibilities and began investigating right away.

The diner’s location between the Dispatch building and Musgrove’s Hardware, right across from the courthouse, made it especially handy for people who had courthouse business around the noon hour and wanted to catch a quick bite. The building needed some painting and fix-up, but the kitchen appliances and equipment were in good shape and the counters, stools, and tables were all fair-to-middling. But best of all was the diner’s outstanding reputation for good food at reasonable prices.

The two women inspected the property and discussed the matter upside down and backward. In the end, they decided to buy both the diner and Mrs. Hooper’s half-interest in the Exchange, which meant that they now owned half of the town’s telephone system. They imposed only one condition: that Euphoria Hoyt (who was still known as the best chicken fryer in southern Alabama) would continue to cook and manage the kitchen. Myra May traded her house for her share of the business, and Violet put up all the cash she had and some she borrowed from her sister in Memphis, and the deal was done and everybody was happy-including Euphoria, who took a shine to both of her new bosses. And before long, the customers at the diner (who had been a little skeptical about the new management) were very happy, too, because Myra May kept the food moving efficiently from Euphoria’s skillet to the customers’ plates and Violet kept on smiling in her sweet and friendly way.

It was a good situation all the way around.

Before Lizzy went into the diner that evening, she paused to read the headline of the Mobile Register on the wire newspaper rack beside the gray-and-red-painted pay telephone booth that had recently been installed outside the diner.

HOOVER SET TO CREATE COMMITTEE FOR UNEMPLOYMENT RELIEF, the newspaper headline announced. Lizzy shook her head doubtfully. She was no fan of the president, who had come into office before the Crash and seemed to be stuck on the idea that any “relief” for the unemployed ought to come through volunteers and private charities. Would this committee be any different from the others that had tried to mobilize volunteer efforts? Lizzy had no problem where charity was concerned-everybody ought to pitch in and help out where they could. But it was high time that government stepped up and did its part, too. Happily, there was another headline, much more appealing, and she bent over to read it: SIXTH GAME SERIES WIN FOR PHILLY ATHLETICS OVER ST. LOUIS CARDINALS. That would make Grady smile. He was an Athletics’ fan.

Myra May was behind the counter when Lizzy opened the door and went in. Since it was Saturday night, Euphoria was frying catfish instead of chicken, and the plates were heaped with mashed potatoes, cream gravy, and a choice of beans, cabbage slaw, or fried okra, along with hush puppies and sweet tea or coffee-all for thirty cents. A slice of pecan pie (the usual Saturday special) was another dime, but Euphoria cut her pie into sixths, rather than the usual eighths, so it was worth the extra money.

And since it was Saturday, you had dinner music at no extra charge, for the radio was tuned to the National Barn Dance, on WLS in Chicago (the initials stood for “World’s Largest Store,” because it was originally owned by Sears and Roebuck). Gene Autry-new to the Barn Dance-was singing a cowboy ballad, but the four men at the counter weren’t listening. They were talking about the poor cotton yield due to the drought, the rising unemployment rates, and the latest exploits of Chicago’s notorious gangster and mob boss, Al Capone, who ran the city’s speakeasies, bookie joints, gambling houses, brothels, racetracks, and distilleries.

“Hey, Liz,” Myra May called out from behind the counter. “We’ve got the table in the corner. I’ll be with you and Verna in a minute. Fredda’s taking over for me this evening.” Fredda was the youngest Musgrove girl, capable but not always dependable-which probably accounted, Liz thought, for Myra May’s frazzled look.

Lizzy waved to Myra May, then turned and threaded her way between the tables, stopping to say hello to Ophelia Snow, vice president of the Dahlias, and Ophelia’s husband Jed, the conservative mayor of Darling. They were eating supper with Charlie Dickens, the editor of the progressive Darling Dispatch, and his sister Edna Fay. Seeing Mr. Dickens, Lizzy was tempted to stop and mention her idea for a human interest feature about Miss Jamison’s Broadway career, but she thought it would be better to approach him in the office, where they could sit down and discuss the details.

Anyway, Jed and Mr. Dickens were having their regular Saturday night argument about politics and the economy, with Jed making his usual passionate defense of President Hoover’s conservative “leave-it-alone” approach: the notion that the federal government should stand back and let individual communities deal with their own individual problems. It was Jed’s belief that the Darling volunteers-its fine churches, the Ladies’ Club, the Benevolent and Protective Order of Elks, and the Merchants’ Association-could handle anything that came up, and it was ridiculous to think that the bureaucrats in Washington would have any better idea of what needed to be done than the folks right here at home. He wasn’t in favor of the new committee for unemployment relief and thought that Mr. Hoover had gotten pushed into creating it because some in the Republican party were afraid that they would lose more Congressional seats in the upcoming midterm elections if the president wasn’t seen as doing something.

Mr. Dickens, on the other hand, took a more liberal (but equally passionate) approach, arguing that Washington needed to do more to help out. The British government, for instance, had for some time funded an old-age pension, so its elderly citizens didn’t have to go to the poorhouse when they could no longer work. And with unemployment growing every day, he argued, the federal government ought to provide some kind of relief. There were lots of jobs that needed doing. Government ought to be organizing the effort to pair jobless men to work. Between the drought of the last few years and the old sharecropping system that turned so many-black and white-into de facto slaves, Southern farmers were in dire need of help. Huey P. Long, governor of Louisiana, could clearly see the scope of the problem and was offering a whole bushel of solutions. Why couldn’t President Hoover?

Lizzy generally agreed with Mr. Dickens, although she wasn’t so sure about Governor Long, who had just been charged with kidnapping a pair of witnesses in a fraud investigation. People called him “the Dictator of Louisiana,” and with good reason. But as she passed the table, she caught Ophelia’s eye and gave her a sympathetic smile. Ophelia and Edna Fay were trying to have their own conversation, on the subject of Edna Fay’s efforts to organize the Darling Quilting Club, of which she was the president, to produce quilts for needy families. But they had to do it under the menfolks’ loud discussion, which had already gotten to the table-pounding stage.

So Lizzy just said hello and headed for the table in the corner, which was covered with a red-checked cotton cloth. Verna Tidwell was already seated there, wearing a pretty brown and gold two-piece silk shantung dress and a brown felt hat. Lizzy’s hat was blue (the one her mother had refurbished) and her blue crepe dress had a separate sleeveless jacket, a jabot tie and a belt, and a pleated and flared skirt. Women in Darling liked to dress up when they went out to supper and the movies, even if they weren’t going on a “date.”

As Lizzy pulled out a chair to sit down, Verna leaned forward, her brow furrowed. “I talked to Miss LaMotte after you went home,” she said, without preamble. “I swear, Liz. Something about this situation is really fishy. She denies being who she is.”

Lizzy blinked. “You mean, she isn’t Nona Jean-”

“No, no, no, the other way around. She denies being Lorelei LaMotte. She swore up and down that she’d never been on Broadway, doesn’t know Mr. Ziegfeld, and has never been a dancer.”

“When did you talk to her?” Lizzy pulled off her blue gloves and folded them into her lap. “Where?”

“This afternoon, just outside the drugstore. She was trying to get a prescription for Veronal filled but Mr. Lima wouldn’t do it because the prescription was out of date. She was really upset-said it was a matter of life and death. He sold her some Dr. Miles instead.”

“That old snake oil medicine.” Lizzy rolled her eyes. “My mother takes it. But how did you happen to be at the drugstore, Verna? The last time I saw you, you were headed for home.”

“Well, I-That is, I-” Verna stopped, embarrassed. “To tell the truth, I followed her.”

“Followed who?” Myra May asked, appearing at the table with a loaded tray. She had taken off her white bibbed apron and was wearing her usual beige linen trousers and a red button-front rayon short-sleeved blouse, with a loose paisley scarf. She began setting plates on the table. “No, no, hold on a minute. Whatever you’re telling, wait until I get back with the iced tea. I don’t want to miss any of it.”

Which meant that Verna had to start all over again when Myra May came back with the pitcher, and Lizzy had to explain who Nona Jean Jamison was before she became Lorelei LaMotte. The story was a little confusing, but finally Myra May had it clear.

“So this woman is incognito,” she said, buttering a piece of hot corn bread. “I guess that means she doesn’t want anybody in town to know that she was in vaudeville.”

“But why?” Verna asked, waving her fork. “I mean, for heaven’s sake, Myra May. She’s famous! Why wouldn’t she want anybody to know?”

“Maybe she’s trying to get away from the newspaper reporters and all that attention,” Myra May replied. “Maybe she just wants some peace and quiet. People do, you know. And it probably isn’t all that easy to earn a living as a performer these days. Since Prohibition, I mean. And since the Crash. People don’t have as much money as they used to.”

“Peace and quiet?” Verna laughed shortly. “If that’s what she wants, she’s going to have to hang that red dress in her closet and wash that makeup off her face. Putting a bag over her head wouldn’t hurt, either. Bailey Beauchamp was about to jump right out of that fancy Cadillac of his and gobble her up right there in the middle of the street, like she was a piece of candy.”

Myra May chuckled. “Don’t let Mrs. Hobart hear about that. She’s the jealous type, you know. If Bailey Beauchamp hasn’t put his misbehavin’ behind him, she’ll show him how.”

Lizzy sighed. If it was true that all Miss Jamison wanted was peace and quiet, her newspaper article idea probably wasn’t going to work. If Miss Hamer’s niece wouldn’t admit to Verna that she was a Broadway star, it wasn’t likely that she would submit to an interview for a feature story in the Dispatch. But maybe Verna hadn’t approached her right. Or maybe she had simply caught Miss Jamison at an awkward moment, when she was upset about not getting her prescription refilled. Lizzy frowned, wondering what that was all about. Veronal was a very strong sleeping medicine, from what she had read. It must be for Miss Hamer. Was the old lady having trouble sleeping? Was she very ill?

“Actually,” Verna said, pursing her lips, “now that I think about it, I wonder why Miss Hamer’s niece is here. Doesn’t it seem odd to you? I mean, has she ever in her whole adult life visited her aunt? If she had, surely somebody would have noticed, wouldn’t they?”

“That’s true,” Lizzy replied. Strangers in Darling were an irresistible source of gossip. And Miss Jamison was the sort of person that people would talk about. “Maybe she’s here because she’s down on her luck. Myra May is right. Money is tight everywhere-it can’t be the best time in the world to be in show business.” That would be another angle for her story, she mused. Small-town girl dances into the Big Apple limelight, then slips and falls back into shadowy obscurity. A spectacular rise; a tragic fall.

“And if she’s never been here,” Verna was going on, “why not? I mean, doesn’t it seem a little strange that she’s never once bothered to visit her aunt-and all of a sudden she’s living here?” She frowned, pushing her mashed potatoes around with her fork. “Come to that, how do we know who this woman actually is? She’s already lying about not being Lorelei LaMotte. Maybe she’s lying about being Miss Hamer’s niece, too.”

Lizzy dug into her catfish, which was crispy brown on the outside, flaky and delicious inside. “For heaven’s sake, Verna. Can’t you ever just take people at face value?”

“Nope.” Verna tossed her head. “Doesn’t pay, Liz. Lots of people cheat. Others lie. And some will do anything to gain an advantage. I see it all the time in the probate office, you know.”

Lizzy sighed. Verna was by nature a suspicious person. But she had become even more wary over the years she had managed the records in the Cypress County probate clerk’s office, where she was responsible for recording election results, people’s wills and estates, property transactions, and the like. Verna always said that if she stubbed her toe on a rock, she was compelled to look under it, to see what was hiding there.

“And something usually is,” she would add. “Something we probably wouldn’t go looking for, if we could avoid it.”

Lizzy had to admit that Verna had a point. Some people cheated; others lied. She had recently read a news item about a family in Florida who had welcomed their long-lost son, kidnapped years before. Unfortunately, the man turned out to be an imposter angling for an inheritance. She supposed it wouldn’t hurt to look a little more closely at Miss Lorelei LaMotte.

“Maybe we ought to have a talk with Bessie Bloodworth,” she suggested. “Bessie has known Miss Hamer longer than the rest of us. If anybody knows anything about why Miss Jamison is here in Darling, it would be Bessie.”

“Actually, now that you mention Bessie, I do remember something,” Myra May said. “I’d forgotten about it until right this minute. But somebody-a woman-in Chicago telephoned Bessie a couple of weeks ago, asking about Miss Hamer. Since it was long distance, I stayed on the line long enough to make sure that the call went through okay. The woman said she was calling Bessie because her aunt doesn’t have a telephone, and she needed to find out a few things.”

“Find out what things?” Verna asked curiously. “What else did she want to know?”

“I have no idea. I got off the line.” Myra May pointed at Verna with her fork. “And even if I hadn’t, I couldn’t tell you what I heard. I shouldn’t have told you as much as I did.”

“All you’ve said is that a woman was calling from Chicago, Myra May.” Verna sounded cross. “Anyway, we’re not asking for the combination to the bank vault. We’re just trying to understand why a woman calling herself Miss Hamer’s niece-”

“Forget it, Verna,” Myra May said firmly, and applied her fork to her mashed potatoes. “You’ve worked on the switchboard yourself. You understand that the operators aren’t supposed to listen to people’s conversations. And if they do catch a bit of it, they’re definitely not supposed to talk about what they hear.”

Lizzy knew that this was true. Verna had worked part-time on the switchboard a few years back, when Mrs. Hooper was sick and needed the help.

“Violet can keep her mouth shut,” Myra May was going on. “But Olive and Lenore are still just kids. If I told tales and they found out, they’d think it was all right for them to do it and then I’d have to fire ’em. I love you with all my heart, Verna dear, but don’t ask me to tell you anything I might’ve heard on the switchboard. Okay?”

Verna rolled her eyes. “Myra May, you are a hard woman. I am sure glad I don’t have to work for you.”

Lizzy chuckled. The four switchboard operators had to be among the best-informed and most up-to-date people in Darling. All the news in town went through the Exchange-the price of cotton, how many kids had the measles, whose wife had left him, whose sister had miscarried. But Myra May made sure that her operators played by the rules. What comes into the Exchange, stays in the Exchange.

She changed the subject. “Speaking of Violet, what do you hear from her, Myra May? When is she coming home from Memphis?”

Not looking up, Myra May spread butter on her corn bread. “She called this morning.” She spoke reluctantly, almost as if she didn’t want to talk about it. “Her sister isn’t doing so well, I’m sorry to say.”

“It’s her sister’s first baby, isn’t it?” Verna asked.

Myra May nodded. “A little girl named Dorothy. The baby’s okay, apparently, but Violet is worried about her sister. The doctor is keeping her in the hospital, and of course there isn’t much money. Violet is worried about how they’re going to pay the bill. I’m afraid-” She stopped, as if she didn’t want to say the words.

“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.