The Darling Dahlias and the Cucumber Tree

Ophelia set off gaily, thinking that it was such a pretty morning for a drive into the country, the late-spring flowers blooming along the road, the sun bright with the eager promise of summer to come. When she noticed a particularly lovely patch of flowers not far from a noisy creek rippling through the woods, she pulled off to the side of the road. She got out and picked a large handful of orange butterfly weed, white Queen Ann’s lace, yellow coreopsis, and purple verbena, with some bright green ferns for foliage. Smiling, she pictured Lucy’s delight when she saw the flowers. They would brighten her kitchen windowsill. Hurrying a little now, she got back in the car and drove on.

But the Model T didn’t quite make it all the way. Ophelia came around a corner and over the low-water crossing about a quarter-mile from Ralph’s place. The front left wheel hit a hole and the tire blew out with a sharp bang.

“Oh, drat!” Ophelia said aloud, exasperated, and then realized that she was in trouble. This was the third blown tire on the Ford in the past month, the second in a week. There was a spare wheel on the back of the car, but she knew she’d never be able to put it on all by herself. At breakfast that very morning, Jed had told her that he had ordered a pair of new tires and suggested that she not drive the car until they arrived. But she had been so taken by the idea of treating her new friend Lucy to a pleasant day of sewing that she had forgotten all about it.

Well, now what? Ophelia sat for a moment, trying to decide what to do. The nearest telephone was at the Spencers’ house, a good half-mile behind her and uphill all the way. She could walk back there and call Jed, who would send somebody out to change the tire—although of course he would lecture her sternly about not paying attention when he told her not to drive. Or she could go on to Lucy’s, spend the day, and when the boys got home from school, send them to make the telephone call.

The walk to Lucy’s was shorter—only a quarter-mile-and definitely easier, since it was all downhill, and she wouldn’t have to listen to Jed’s lecture. So she left the Ford where it was, one wheel in the ditch at the side of the dirt road, picked up her basket and flowers and began to walk toward Lucy’s. She stayed in the shade of the pine trees, but by the time she got to the bottom of the hill, she was sweaty and tired and very much wished that she hadn’t worn her pumps. Her everyday flat-heeled oxfords would have been much better suited to walking over this uneven ground.

When she had driven up on Monday, Ophelia had tootled the horn at the gate—always the polite thing to do, so the people in the house would know they had company and could come out on the porch to see who it was. But by the time she had reached the gate at Ralph’s place, her mouth was too dry to even summon up even a weak shout. All she could think about was getting something cold to drink.

Ophelia opened the gate and trudged up the rock-bordered path to the porch. Lucy had washed this morning, and sheets and towels—nicely white, Ophelia noticed with approval—were pinned to the clothesline. Three fat hens were catching bugs in the flower bed under the watchful eye of a rooster, perched on the arm of the wooden porch swing. The white goat had finished nibbling the leaves off Emma’s rosebush and was now working on the large althea beside the fence.

The morning was warm, and the front door stood open. Ophelia went up the steps and rapped with her knuckles on the screen door. “Lucy,” she called. “Yoo-hoo, Lucy. It’s me, Ophelia. Thought I’d come and keep you company.”

Inside, back in the kitchen, Ophelia heard a barely stifled shriek and the scrape of a chair across the bare floor. There was the sound of a muttered curse in another voice. A shriek? A curse? Something was wrong!

Alarmed, Ophelia yanked the screen door open and stepped inside. “Lucy? Lucy, are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” Lucy called breathlessly. “Don’t come in, Ophelia. Please! You just wait right where you are. I’ll be right out. I—”

But it was too late. Ophelia had reached the doorway to the kitchen, where she saw Lucy, backed up against the wall, her eyes wide with fright. And just getting up from eggs and ham and grits and biscuit and coffee on the kitchen table was a strange young man, someone Ophelia had never seen. He was dressed in regular clothes—a blue work shirt and bib overalls—but Ophelia recognized him anyway, for his head was shaved bald.

The escaped convict! He had forced Lucy to cook breakfast for him. He must be holding her hostage!

And then Ophelia—who was not by nature a bold person—did something she had never done before, had never thought of doing, had never even imagined herself doing. She took bold action.

She reached into the basket she was carrying, grabbed the pint jar of red raspberry jam she had brought for the boys’ breakfast, and flung it with all her strength at the escaped convict, exactly as David might have flung the rock at Goliath, except that David used a slingshot and Goliath was larger—except that, at this moment, this fellow seemed as big as a bear and twice as menacing.