The Darling Dahlias and the Confederate Rose

A little while later, Beulah was sweeping Alice Ann’s hair off the floor. Bettina, a tall, gangly young woman in a red print dress, had come in with three yards of pretty rose pink print cotton from the Mercantile and was happily chattering about the smocks she was going to make. But Beulah was only half listening. She was thinking about what Alice Ann had told them and wondering what Myra May knew about the situation. She obviously knew something. What was it?

Bettina looked up at the clock. “Eleven,” she said, folding the cotton and putting it back into the bag. “I wonder where Miz Biggs is. She’s almost never late.” Angelina Biggs had a standing appointment for a shampoo and set on Mondays at eleven.

As if on cue, the bell tinkled, the door opened, and Mrs. Biggs burst in. Her hat was askew, there was a fresh coffee stain on the skirt of her green rayon dress, and her face was red and blotchy, as if she’d been hurrying—not a good idea in this heat, especially when you were as oversized as Mrs. Biggs, who found it hard to fit comfortably into the chair at the shampoo sink without parts of her hanging out.

Beulah was almost never judgmental when it came to beauty or the lack of it. She was confident that every woman had in her what it took to be truly beautiful. All a woman had to do was get shined up—with a little expert help, of course. But Beulah had seen photographs of Mrs. Biggs when she was young and gorgeous, with a full head of luxuriant blond hair and a curvaceous shape. She couldn’t help thinking that under all that regrettable stoutness was a perfect figure, just dying to come out and be admired by all. In fact, she had heard that Mrs. Biggs was trying to reduce by taking some of Dr. W. W. Baxter’s famous patent-medicine diet pills—the extra-strong ones. Beulah sincerely hoped that the pills would turn the trick. But from what she had seen on Mrs. Biggs’ plate at the last church social (the Biggses were members of Hank’s father’s congregation), it wasn’t likely. The lady had tucked into several helpings of Granny Mitchell’s potato salad, four pieces of Jed Snow’s mother’s fried chicken, three big spoonfuls of Mrs. Vaughn’s green beans and fatback, and two generous slices of Doris Wedford’s pecan pie, topped with Aunt Hetty Little’s pecan praline ice cream. Beulah had the feeling that even Dr. Baxter’s diet pills—extra-strong or not—were no match for Mrs. Biggs’ very healthy appetite.

But she betrayed none of this when she said cheerfully, “Good mornin’, Miz Biggs. And how are you on this beautiful Monday mornin’?”

“Oh, Beulah,” Mrs. Biggs said, and gulped back a sob. “I tell you, I am so discombobulated, I just about don’t know whether I’m up or down or inside out!”

“Bettina,” Beulah said, divining that Mrs. Biggs had something on her mind, “why don’t you go in the back room and fold the towels while I do Miz Biggs?” Bettina, understanding the situation, picked up a basket of towels and vanished.

Beulah went to the shampoo sink. “Miz Biggs, you just come over here and sit yourself down in this chair and put your feet up on this stool. A nice shampoo with plenty of hot water is always balm to the soul.”

A few minutes later, Mrs. Biggs, draped in a pink cover-up cape, was lying in the chair, face up. Her eyes were closed, her toes were turned up, and her head was in the shampoo sink. Beulah was beginning the second lather, humming happily to herself. Next to cutting hair, she loved to wash it, pushing her fingertips firmly into the scalp, scrubbing and massaging and rinsing and scrubbing and rinsing again. For her, it was joy, pure joy, and she prided herself that her clients loved it, too. They always smiled blissfully and, when she was finished, told her that she was the best shampoo artist they had ever met, which for Beulah was every bit as good as the money she got paid for a job well done.

Mrs. Biggs, however, wasn’t smiling, blissfully or otherwise, and the frown furrows between her eyes were deep as ruts on a muddy road. Beulah didn’t like the look of that. Frown furrows on a lady’s face were a sign that something unhappy was going on inside the lady’s head and heart—something that might keep her from becoming as beautiful as possible.

As the shampoo bubbles frothed like meringue through her fingers, Beulah used her standard question to get Mrs. Biggs’ mind off whatever was making her unhappy. “How’s every little thing over at your place? Mr. Biggs doin’ okay, is he?”

Mrs. Biggs opened her eyes, then closed them again. “Everything is just hateful, Beulah.” Her voice became bitter. “Mr. Biggs is havin’ himself an affair. He won’t sleep with me, but he’ll sleep with her.”