The Darling Dahlias and the Confederate Rose

She put Clyde on the floor and went to the telephone, aware that at the very same moment, Mrs. Wilson next door on the north, Mrs. Newman next door to Mrs. Wilson, the Ferrells next door to the Newmans, and the Snows at the end of the block were all going to their telephones, too. They would cup their hands over the mouthpieces and stealthily pick up the receivers, trying to conceal the fact that they were listening in.

Which was a pretty silly thing to do, Verna thought, because everybody knew that everybody else always listened in, and monitored what they said accordingly. These days, you could get a private line, which allowed you to say anything you wanted to say without fear of people overhearing. But it was expensive. And anyway, if you weren’t on the party line, you’d have to wait for news until the next time you went to the diner for lunch, or the Dispatch came out, or your neighbor came over to borrow an egg or a cup of sugar. Better to be on the party line and get the news straight from the horse’s mouth, as it were.

Verna picked up the receiver and said hello. But it wasn’t one of the Dahlias calling.

“Hello, Verna.” The voice was male, and uncharacteristically hesitant. “It’s Mr. Scroggins.”

Verna’s heart rose up in her throat, then thudded into the pit of her stomach. Mr. Scroggins had never called her at home, not once in all the years she had worked in the probate clerk’s office.

“H-h-how are you, Mr. Scroggins?” she managed.

“Doin’ real well,” Mr. Scroggins said. “But I got some bad news for you, Verna. I’m real sorry, but I got to ask you not to come in to work on Monday morning. You jes’ take the week off and stay home. A little vacation, like.”

Verna gasped. “Not come in to work? But . . . but why?” She was suddenly aware of four listening ears glued to four receivers along Larkspur, between Robert E. Lee and Rosemont Street. She snapped, “All right, you all, I am asking you to get off this party line right now. You hear?”

There was one quick click, then two, then finally three.

“Anybody else?” she asked. There was silence, but of course she had no way to tell whether the fourth person was still on the line or had never been there in the first place. She turned her attention back to her caller. “All right, Mr. Scroggins. Now, why is it I’m not supposed to come to work? And who’s going to manage the office if I’m not there?”

“Miz Cole is coming back full time,” Mr. Scroggins said. “She can manage the place—not as good as you, but she can do it.” His voice took on an edge. “And if you don’t know why this is happenin’, then I’m sorry for you, Verna. I never in God’s green earth would’ve wanted anything like this, but—”

“Anything like what?” Verna demanded. Her knees were shaking and it was hard to get her breath. “Why do I have to stay away from the office? Does it have anything to do with that auditor?”

“I am truly sorry but I can’t tell you a thing, Verna,” Mr. Scroggins said regretfully. “You are now on furlough, you might say, and I need you to give me your key to the office door. You can leave it in an envelope at the Old Alabama desk, and I’ll pick it up. I’ll give it back if this thing is cleared up and you can go back to work. Okay?”

Okay? Of course it wasn’t okay! “If what thing is cleared up?” Verna asked. She could hardly grasp what he was saying. To give up her key to the office would be like giving up her right to her job. Like giving up her identity!

“Never you mind, Verna,” Mr. Scroggins said, now more sternly. “Jes’ you bring me your key.” He paused, waiting for her reply. “Verna, you hear what I said?” Another, longer pause. “Verna? You answer me, now.”

But Verna didn’t answer. She hung up the receiver and collapsed into a chair.





THREE

Bessie and Miss Rogers



Bessie Bloodworth didn’t have far to go after she left the Dahlias’ clubhouse on Saturday afternoon. All she had to do was duck through the hole in the hedge and she was in the neatly kept backyard of Magnolia Manor, where she couldn’t help but notice that the plants in the fourteen clay pots of thriving Confederate roses had been carefully pruned back. Miss Rogers’ work, Bessie knew.

The previous spring, Miss Rogers had obtained a start from every Dahlia who had a Confederate rose in her garden—and it turned out that they all did, since everyone loved the plant, even those who didn’t know that it wasn’t a rose but an hibiscus. She had rooted the pencil-sized cuttings in buckets of damp sand, then moved the new plants into pots and later, moved the pots into the cellar for the winter, so they wouldn’t freeze. Now, just in time for the Confederate Day celebration at the cemetery, each plant had put out an exuberant green growth. Nicely trimmed, they were ready to leave the Magnolia Manor and go to their new home at the Darling Cemetery, where they would create a beautiful blooming hedge along the fence.