The Darling Dahlias and the Confederate Rose

“Of course I’m crazy, Charlie,” Angelina had cried ecstatically, throwing her head back and looking up at him with half-closed eyes like someone drugged. The heavy fragrance of her perfume enveloped him in a cloud and he almost gagged. “I am crazy for you, just like I’ve always been. And I’ve seen the hunger in your eyes. I know you’re crazy for me, too!”


“Hunger?” Charlie was nonplussed. “Angelina, if I have ever once given you even the smallest reason to think I was hungry for you, I honestly and sincerely apologize. I never intended any such thing. Quite the contrary, I—” He stopped. If he said what he was thinking—that she was nothing like the slim perfection he had once known, that he did not find her appetizing in any sense of the word—she would be devastated.

“Don’t try to deny it, my darling,” she begged, reaching for him again. She was panting heavily, her red lips parted. “I know I hurt you when I married Artis. I was such a fool. My mistake has cost us so many years. But we’re grown-ups now. We can be honest with each other about the way we feel. We have to be honest! We have to own up to our love! We’re hungry for each other!” And she pulled down his head to hers and kissed him, full and hard on the lips.

That did it. That was the last straw. Charlie wrenched himself out of her passionate grip, turned her around, and marched her to the other side of the counter.

“Go home, Angelina,” he said firmly, pushing her in the direction of the door. “Go back to the hotel. Go back to Artis. He’s your husband, for God’s sake. And you have children. Think of your children!”

“My husband!” she cried feverishly, stamping her foot. “That lecherous old goat? That . . . that philanderer? Artis is having an affair. He and his mistress meet every day on the second floor of the hotel.”

Charlie pulled himself up straight. So that was what this was all about. Angelina must have figured she’d get even by having a tit-for-tat affair with an old high school flame. But Charlie wasn’t stupid enough to let himself get snared in that kind of trap. And in Angelina’s current frame of mind, he knew there wasn’t any point in trying to reason with her. He had to be cruel to be kind.

“I don’t care if Artis is having himself two affairs,” he said coldly. “I don’t care if he’s having a dozen. That’s got nothing to do with me. Now, you just scoot yourself out of here, Angelina, and go on back to Artis. We’ll forget that this ever happened.” He grasped her arm and gave her a little shove.

Her pudgy face crumpled. “Oh!” she wailed. “Oh, oh, Charlie Dickens, shame on you! I never thought I’d see the day when you—you of all people!—would reject me. You loved me once.” She held out her hands beseechingly. “I know you still love me!”

It was clear that he would have to take drastic action. “Out!” he roared. “You git yourself out of here before I lose my temper!” Hastily, he retreated behind the counter, feeling that he had to put a solid barrier between himself and this crazy woman.

Angelina stared at him for a moment, her eyes brimming with tears, then turned and flung open the door. And that was the end of it—or rather, it should have been, if Charlie could have pushed it out of his mind as easily as he had pushed Angelina out of the office.

And it wasn’t as if he didn’t have other things to think about—to worry about, actually.

The evening before, Zipper Haydon, who had operated the aged Linotype for the past two decades, had told Charlie he was quitting. He’d be glad to hang around and teach his replacement to operate the machine, but he’d come to the end of the line. It wasn’t unexpected, of course. Zipper was seventy-five and had a hard time getting around, with one crippled foot and an arthritic right elbow that gave him a lot of pain when he went to pull the casting lever on the old machine.

But predictable or not, losing Zipper was still a blow. Zipper had come to work at the Dispatch when Charlie’s father was the owner and editor, and he was a mainstay of the business. He might be worn out and subject to breakdowns, like the old Prouty job press, but he always kept on plugging. Even with so many people looking for work, Charlie knew he’d never be able to find a skilled Linotype operator for the fifteen dollars a week he paid Zipper.