The Darling Dahlias and the Confederate Rose

*

It was a half hour later. Angelina had gone, still bleating her apologies for the large, dark stain she had left on Ophelia’s beautiful new sofa. Ophelia had scurried to fetch towels to sop up the coffee, but she might as well have saved her efforts, for the thirsty velour soaked up the hot liquid like a sponge and the stain spread and spread and kept on spreading, until the entire taupe-colored cushion was the color of coffee. All she could do was stare at it in horror, fighting the hot, despairing tears. Sears wouldn’t take the furniture back, because it wasn’t in good condition. It was as plain as the nose on your face—even plainer—that the davenport was ruined. And the coffee table, too, for while they were trying to clean up the coffee, Angelina’s cigarette had fallen out of the ashtray and burned an ugly scar into the beautiful walnut top.

Ophelia spent the next little while alternately scrubbing the cushion and the burn stain (which certainly didn’t serve any good purpose and probably only made things worse) and sobbing (which didn’t help anything, either). But her tears did bring her to a couple of important conclusions. She was going to have to tell Jed the truth. And she was going to have to get a job. Of course, everybody said how hard it was to find work these days, but she could type sixty words a minute without any mistakes and spell very well, and while her high-school shorthand was pretty rusty, she was sure with a little practice she could take dictation. Surely there was someplace in town, the bank maybe, or one of the offices in the courthouse, that could use a good typist. Unfortunately, she’d never had a job because she and Jed got married right out of high school. Did you really have to have references? How did you go about finding a job if you’d never had one before?

She was still kneeling on the floor with a rag in her hand, puzzling over these questions, when the telephone on the hallway table rang—a long, imperative ring, just one, and then one again, because the Snows had a private telephone line. In her budgetary desperation, Ophelia had proposed that they go back to the party line (which would save a whole dollar every month), but Jed refused. As the mayor, he often talked about town business on the phone and didn’t want anybody listening in.

Swiping her nose with the back of her hand, Ophelia picked up the receiver. Liz Lacy was on the other end, and she had a very odd request.

“I’ve just talked to Lucy Murphy,” she said. “She’s agreed to put Verna up in her spare room for a few days. I wonder if you’d be willing to drive Verna and her dog out there. This morning, if you can manage it.”

“Verna?” Ophelia asked, frowning. “Why in the world would she want to stay out at Lucy’s?”

Lucy (who was also a Dahlia) lived four miles outside of town. She had finally prevailed on her husband Ralph (Jed’s cousin) to get electricity and the telephone installed in their house out there. She was still working on Ralph to put in an electric water pump and a toilet.

“And what about Verna’s job?” she went on. “How will she get to work every day? It’s pretty far to walk, and Lucy doesn’t have a car. Why—”

“I’m sorry, Ophelia,” Liz cut in firmly, “but I can’t answer your questions—at least, not now. All I can tell you is that it is really, really important for Verna to go out of town for a few days. Not too far out of town, though. Lucy’s place is just right, especially with Ralph gone this week.” Lucy’s husband worked on the railroad and was away a lot of the time. His absence was one of the things that had given rise to the gossip about Jed and Lucy. “It’s also important that nobody know about this,” Liz added, “so I have to ask you to keep it under your hat. Will you drive her out there?”

Ophelia was taken aback by the request, but both Liz and Verna were very good friends—and Dahlias, to boot. “Yes, of course I will,” she replied.

“Oh, thank you! Verna’s going home right now to pack a few things. If you can pick her and Clyde up at her house in fifteen minutes, that would be swell.” Liz’s voice became urgent. “And please, Ophelia. Don’t tell a soul about this, even Jed.” She paused, as if she were thinking. “Especially not Jed.”

“I won’t.” But as she hung up, Ophelia was frowning. Especially not Jed? What was going on? What was it all about?

She turned just then, catching sight of the coffee-colored cushion, and her stomach turned over. Whatever Verna’s trouble was, it paled in comparison to her own. Somehow or another, she was going to have to find a job so she could pay for the furniture. And she was going to have to do it right away. Today, if possible. Tomorrow at the latest.

But where? And how?





NINE

Beulah