The Darling Dahlias and the Confederate Rose

“Oh, there you are, Miss Bloodworth,” Miss Rogers said, coming into the kitchen just as Bessie was reaching into the icebox for a cool drink. Her tone was heavy with reproof and her brows were knitted in a scowl. “I have been looking all over for you.”


Miss Rogers was the only one of the Magnolia Ladies who addressed Bessie formally. Bessie had tried to coax her onto a first-name footing but had finally given up, feeling that Miss Rogers must have some sort of secret need to keep people at arms’ length.

“Sorry,” Bessie replied. “I was working in the Dahlias’ vegetable garden.” She had intended to ask Miss Rogers (also a Dahlia) if she would like to lend a hand, but the lady had been taking a nap. “Would you like some tea?” she added, taking out the frosty pitcher.

“Thank you, no.” Miss Rogers said stiffly. She was clearly upset about something. “We need to have a talk. Right now. It cannot be delayed.”

It was a hot Saturday afternoon and Bessie was dressed in her gardening clothes. But Miss Rogers, who was so thin she was almost gaunt, wore a dark print rayon crepe dress (nearly to her ankles) with a belt and a prissy lace-trimmed collar that buttoned up to her throat. With her round steel-rimmed glasses and her stiffly waved gray hair, and armored by her self-assured sense of the proprieties, she looked—and spoke—exactly like the prim and proper librarian she was.

And she was very prim and proper. The other Magnolia Ladies enjoyed sharing the tales of their lives and times and husbands, children, aunts, cousins, nieces, and nephews. Miss Rogers, on the other hand, kept her silence while the others chattered. Bessie knew only the dim outline of her story, but what little she knew was terribly sad. Miss Rogers had been an orphan who had never had a home of her own. She dreamed of having a small house and garden all to herself, and with this goal in mind, she had saved every penny she could lay her hands on. But then, like so many people around the country, she had yielded to the seductions of the rising stock market and had foolishly put all her savings into stocks. She had lost every cent when the market crashed on a black October Tuesday in 1929 and was left with only the pittance she earned as the town’s part-time librarian. And last month, the Darling town council had begun discussing whether it could afford to keep the library open. If it closed, she would be out of a job—and completely out of money.

“A talk,” Miss Rogers repeated. “Now, please.”

“What about?” Bessie asked apprehensively, wondering if Miss Rogers had gotten bad news from the council. But Ophelia’s husband Jed was the mayor. Surely, if the council was planning to close the library, Ophelia would have mentioned it when they were sitting around the Dahlias’ kitchen table a little while ago. On the other hand, Ophelia had seemed uncharacteristically depressed today. Did she know that the library was on the chopping block, and that poor Miss Rogers was to be let go?

Miss Rogers clasped her hands together at her waist, frowned, and cleared her throat. “I wish to register a complaint, Miss Bloodworth. A very strong complaint.” She paused for emphasis. “It’s that cat, of course.”

“Lucky Lindy?” Bessie put the pitcher of tea on the table, feeling a great relief. Better the cat than the closing of the library. “What’s he done now?” she asked, taking four glasses out of the cupboard.

When Lucky Lindy had first arrived at Magnolia Manor, he had been crafty enough to mind his p’s and q’s. He had kept to Miss Sedalius’ room, sleeping on her bed and eating like a horse (he had graduated from boiled eggs to leftovers from the dining table). Then, having fully recovered his strength, Lindy showed his true colors. He perfected the trick of curling himself affectionately around a person’s ankles, then stretching a sneaky paw up his victim’s calf and opening his claws. In the space of a few days, Lucky Lindy had shredded the stockings and bloodied the legs of all of the Magnolia Ladies, including Bessie’s. (Roseanne was the only one who escaped unscathed, because she had given him a swift kick the first time he cozied up to her. “I knowed Mistah Cat gon’ try somethin’ mean,” she declared triumphantly. “But I done got the drop on him. He ain’t gonna bodder me no mo’.”)