The Darling Dahlias and the Confederate Rose

Lizzy was sleeping soundly on Monday morning when she was awakened by the enthusiastic crowing of Mrs. Freeman’s rooster. He lived with his harem of hens a few doors down the block and took it as his personal responsibility to wake the whole neighborhood at dawn. Lizzy tried to pull the feather pillow over her head but gave it up when Daffodil, her orange tabby, leapt up on the bed and pushed his face against hers with his rumbling purr.

“I’m up, I’m up,” she grumbled. She threw back the crinkle cotton spread, slid out of bed, and went to stand, stretching and yawning, in front of the second-floor window that looked onto her backyard.

Her backyard. In spite of the early hour, the sight of it gave her pleasure. The weeping willow draped supple green branches over the fence, the early-morning sunlight brightened the dewy pink roses blooming against the shed, and the small kitchen garden looked green and perky after Saturday’s thunder shower. The grass was especially pretty, too, because Grady Alexander had mowed it the evening before. In partial payment, she had cooked a nice Sunday supper: fried chicken (one of Mrs. Freeman’s young cockerels), peas and new potatoes, a salad of fresh lettuce and spinach, and buttermilk pie.

Lizzy wrapped her arms around herself, shivering a little as she thought of Grady. She considered him a dear friend, although her mother liked to call him her “steady beau” and Grady himself seemed to operate on the comfortable assumption that there was a wedding in their near future and a family on the not-so-distant horizon. (In fact, he had told her recently that he wanted to have at least three children, and the sooner the better, because at thirty-four, he wasn’t getting any younger.) Grady had a good job as the county agricultural agent and came from a respectable family. In her mother’s estimation, he was Lizzy’s best chance—maybe her last chance, since she had already celebrated her thirtieth birthday—at a husband and a happy home.

But while Lizzy enjoyed being with Grady and sometimes even thought she might love him enough to marry him, a wedding in the near future was entirely out of the question. Her little house—almost a doll’s house, really—wasn’t big enough for two people, and she was selfish enough (that was her mother’s word) not to want to give it up. What’s more, she had no intention of giving up her job in Mr. Moseley’s law office, or surrendering the personal independence that her weekly paycheck brought her, which was what most Darling men expected their Darling women to do when they got married. Grady wasn’t most Darling men, of course. He said he understood how she felt about working and he’d be willing to let her continue. But she didn’t like the sound of willing to let her continue. It ought to be her choice, not his.

And at the top of her mind was the insistent thought that this was no time to start having babies, which was another thing that Darling men expected to happen after you said I do. Of course, there were the usual methods that Lizzy’s married friends used to avoid getting pregnant. For instance, you could try saying no until your safe period, or use Vaseline or olive oil before and douche with soap suds or vinegar or Lysol after. You could go to Doc Roberts and get a prescription for a diaphragm, which you could buy at Lima’s Drugstore (if you weren’t too embarrassed to purchase it under Mr. Lima’s knowing gaze). Or you could try to get your husband to take precautions. But Lizzy’s friends kept getting pregnant even though they said they didn’t want babies, so she guessed that none of these methods were very effective.

Daffy curled himself around her ankles, purring loudly, and she reached down and picked him up. As she did, she remembered why this Monday was different, and remembering made her smile.

“This isn’t your everyday Monday, Daffy,” she said, rubbing her cheek against his golden fur. After a moment, she put the cat back on the bed and stripped off her filmy nightgown. “I’m in charge of the office today. And not just today, either. All this week and maybe next. It’s going to be swell fun!”

She stepped into her cotton panties and put on a brassiere and slip. She was slim enough not to need a “foundation garment” or even a lighter-weight girdle, an omission that her mother—who wore a boned corset—considered disgraceful. Padding barefoot to her closet, she took out a silky rayon crepe with three-quarter sleeves and a ruffled neckline. In soft browns and orange, it was her favorite dress. She wore it when she felt like celebrating.