The Darling Dahlias and the Confederate Rose

Bessie would have liked to raise the cost of board and room, but if she did, some of the ladies might have to leave—and where would they go? “You can’t get blood out of a turnip,” she often reminded herself with a sigh. “You just have to be satisfied with the turnip.” And cabbage, if that’s all you had. She had read in the Dispatch that Senator Huey P. Long of Louisiana—a.k.a. The Kingfish—was proposing that everybody over sixty should get a government pension, the way they did in England. Bessie thought this was the best idea she had heard in a long time and had written to Senator Bankhead, one of their Alabama senators, telling him so. But she wasn’t surprised when the senator didn’t write back. Lots of people were afraid of The Kingfish. They said he was a dangerous demagogue who would drive the country to the brink of ruin if he got his way, and maybe they were right, Bessie didn’t know. But he seemed to get a lot of things done for the little people of Louisiana. Bessie just wished he could get a few things done for the little people of Alabama, too.

But while the Magnolia Ladies didn’t pay much rent, their money paid the property taxes and bought coal and electricity and food, which meant that Bessie didn’t need much money. And since they couldn’t pay much, the Magnolia Ladies were glad to share the work. Maxine and Leticia washed the dishes and neatened the kitchen and dining room after every meal. The sweeping and dusting was divided between Miss Rogers (downstairs) and Mrs. Sedalius (upstairs). All four helped to plant and weed and harvest the vegetable garden and tend the half-dozen Rhode Island Reds who lived in a coop beside the back fence and gave them each a fresh-laid egg for breakfast every morning. There was still a lot of cleaning and housework and maintenance left for Bessie and Roseanne. But what of it? she asked herself. These days, plenty of people were much worse off, and they had real jobs.

And there was the added bonus of friendship, for this bunch of Magnolia Ladies was an exceptionally congenial one. In the evenings, Maxine and Leticia played canasta or Old Maid while Mrs. Sedalius knitted or crocheted and Miss Rogers read aloud to them. She stopped reading when it was time for their favorite programs on the radio, a fancy Crosley five-tube table model that Mrs. Sedalius’ son had sent her for Christmas three years before. (He didn’t bother to bring it himself, just ordered it from a catalog and had it delivered.) The ladies loved The A&P Gypsies, The Firestone Hour, and Lum and Abner, which starred two Arkansas hillbillies who were always being fleeced by Squire Skimp. They especially liked that one because the fictional folks who lived in Pine Ridge, Arkansas, weren’t all that different from the real folks who lived in Darling, Alabama. The ladies listened and laughed and reminded themselves that people had pretty much the same problems, wherever they lived.

The Magnolia Ladies looked out for each other, too, because they were all fragile in one way or another. Leticia had fallen twice, breaking first the right wrist, then the left, and now walked with a cane. Maxine wouldn’t admit it, but she was having trouble remembering names and dates. Mrs. Sedalius’ eyes were going bad, which made needlework difficult, and Miss Rogers constantly fretted about her lack of money.

But they took comfort in the fact that they had one another, and they understood each other’s frailties and sympathized. Sisters would not have been too strong a word to describe their relationship.

Unfortunately, however, their nerves had worn a little thin over the past few weeks, and the ladies were feeling tetchy. It began when a large gray tabby cat showed up on the front porch, skinny, starved, and crawling with fleas. Mrs. Sedalius happened to be sitting in the porch swing that evening, crocheting a doily. Before you could say Bless Pat, the enterprising cat had jumped into her lap, presenting himself for adoption. Mrs. Sedalius fell for him like a ton of bricks, according to Maxine, who had been there when it happened.

“Oh, poor, sweet kitty!” Mrs. Sedalius cried. She carried him to the kitchen, where she fed him a mashed boiled egg and bread crumbs in warm milk, then out to the woodshed, where he endured a bath. The next morning at breakfast, she announced his new name: Lucky Lindy, after her favorite flying hero.

“Lucky is right,” Maxine muttered, stirring cream into her coffee. “That tomcat knew a good thing when he landed in it.” She scowled at Mrs. Sedalius. “I hate cats. I’ve always hated cats. Why couldn’t you get a canary?”

“I wouldn’t have minded if he’d been a kitten,” Leticia groused. “But this one is on his ninth life. And he’s ugly.” She nudged Maxine. “Pass the butter, Maxine.”

“You’ll have to keep the creature away from me,” Miss Rogers said darkly. She dipped her spoon into her soft-boiled egg. “I am allergic to cat fur.”

Bessie knew she should have put her foot down right then and there and told Mrs. Sedalius that Lucky Lindy had to go. But she hesitated. Mrs. Sedalius’ son almost never came to visit, and the old lady had spent her days hoping for a telephone call or waiting for the mailman to bring her a letter from her “dear boy.” Now, she spent her days combing and stroking Lucky Lindy and cooing over him as if he were a cute little kitten.

So Bessie waffled, thinking that the cat might be good company for the lonely old lady and help to get her mind off her neglectful son. But it wasn’t long before she was sorry that she hadn’t said no right off, before Mrs. Sedalius got so attached. Bessie herself wasn’t particularly fond of cats, and this one—once he got his footing—was a holy terror. He—