The Darling Dahlias and the Confederate Rose

“You do?” Bessie asked sympathetically. “Why?”


“As I copied things down, I tried to figure out for myself what they might mean. I confess that I found myself at a total loss. I have enjoyed words and language all my life, and thought I might find some meaning in it—if it was a code, that is. But the more I looked at it, the more it looked like so much gibberish. I thought perhaps I might mail Mr. Dickens a copy, with a letter explaining where I found it. He could telephone me with his opinion, or write it down and mail it back.” She shook her head dispiritedly. “But I don’t want to go to a lot of trouble just to have him tell me that it’s all just nonsense and that I’m an old fool for taking it seriously.”

Bessie understood Miss Rogers’ reluctance, but she hated to see her drop the project so quickly. And besides, now that she’d had time to think about it, she herself was intrigued by the symbols and numbers. Were they just so much gibberish? Or was there a hidden meaning, perhaps a clue to the story behind the pillow? As an historian of sorts, Bessie couldn’t help wanting to know more.

She picked up the laundry basket. “Tell you what, Miss Rogers. I have to go to Hancock’s for groceries after Roseanne and I finish with these sheets. The Dispatch office is right next door. I could take your copy and leave it. If Mr. Dickens is interested, he can reply either by telephone or by mail.” She paused. “Would you like me to do that?”

Miss Rogers looked doubtful. “You’re sure? You aren’t afraid the man will raise that ironical eyebrow at you?” She laughed, but only a little.

Bessie smiled, thinking that Miss Rogers was beginning to seem like a real person, now that she had revealed a few chinks in her armor of prim self-assurance. “He might. But if he does, I’ll simply raise my eyebrow right back.” She leaned forward and lowered her voice. “His younger sister Edna Fay and I were best friends when we were girls. I know a secret about Mr. Dickens.”

This was true, although the secret was only mildly embarrassing or perhaps even endearing, depending on your point of view. It definitely wasn’t scandalous and it had happened a very long while ago. It was a high school romance, documented in a couple of passionate love letters that a young Charlie Dickens, smitten, had written to Angelina Dupree, who was now married to Artis Biggs, the manager of the Old Alabama Hotel. Angelina had returned the letters, and Bessie and Edna Fay had found them when they were snooping in Charlie’s room after he went off to his first year at Alabama Polytechnic. Faces burning, hearts pounding, the girls had read them, giggling hysterically the whole while, of course. To this day, Bessie remembered those letters, in which a passionate young man had poured out the dearest hopes and dreams of his heart, and very poetically, too. She occasionally thought about them when she saw Charlie or Angelina around town, and wondered whether they remembered them as well as she did.

That was the thing about living in a small town, where people sometimes knew too much about one another, or knew secret things or things that had been hidden so long they were almost forgotten. The past was always intruding on the present, even when you least expected it. You never knew when some little something—the smell of a flower or the sound of a voice—was going to pull you back into what once was. Sometimes, it was hard to tell just where the past ended and the present began, and some people seemed mostly to dwell in the past. History was Bessie’s hobby, so she knew this very well.

“Well, then.” Miss Rogers straightened her shoulders. “If you’re willing to brave the lion in his den for me, I’m sure I’d be grateful. Thank you, Miss Bloodworth.” And she actually put out her hand.

Bessie took it and held it for a moment. Miss Rogers’ fingers were sticklike, almost all bone, and rather chilly.

“You’re welcome,” she said, feeling moved by what felt like an offer of friendship. “And I really wish you’d call me Bessie. After all, we’ve been living together for several years, and both of us are Dahlias. Shouldn’t we be on a first-name basis?”

Miss Rogers withdrew her hand.

*