The Darling Dahlias and the Cucumber Tree

But that was in the old days, before the War Between the States, before Emancipation, before the Depression of the 1890s, before the Great War. Everything was different now. The Louisville and Nashville railroad had taken over the river traffic. The boll weevils that munched through the cotton fields in the early 1900s had finished off what was left of the cotton fortunes. The aristocratic families had sent their young men off to fight, first Mr. Lincoln and then the Kaiser, and those who had managed to come back more or less unscathed had gone elsewhere to seek their fortunes: to Mobile, Atlanta, Richmond, Chicago, even New York. There were no more Cartwrights now: Mrs. Blackstone was the last of that clan, just as Mrs. Johnson was the last of the Butlers. And now, the Darling Savings and Trust owned many of the old plantations and George E. Pickett Johnson (named for a Confederate general famous for his disastrous charge at Gettysburg) was the richest man in town. Voleen and George Johnson had friends among the professional people—the town’s three lawyers, the circuit court judge, the probate court judge, the doctor, the president of the Darling Academy. But times had changed and there wasn’t much in the way of a local aristocracy.

Verna put the broom back in the corner and replied to Lizzy’s remark with an ironic chuckle. “Nobody can afford to do anything right now. Working in the probate office, I get to see how far behind on their taxes people are.” She gave the others a sideways look. “Even some of the ones who act like they own the top of the ladder. And there are rules, you know.” She picked the tablecloth up and took it to the back door to shake it. “Everybody has to play by them, like it or not. Eventually, they’ll have to pay up.” She folded the tablecloth and put it into the drawer.

Lizzy hung the dishpan on its hook under the sink, think ing that it sounded like Verna was talking about the Johnsons. But surely not. Mr. Johnson had the reputation of being a careful businessman and a person of solid strength in the community. He’d be the very last person to get behind on his taxes, if only because he didn’t want his neighbors to think he was in trouble. And these days, people in the banking business couldn’t afford to look like they were in trouble, or there would be a run on the bank.

Ophelia shut the silverware drawer and gave the others a quick smile. As the mayor’s wife, she was right in the middle of all of Darling’s current woes, but she tried as hard as she could to keep a steady outlook. And of course, she was an optimist.

“Folks do get behind, poor souls,” she said sympathetically, “but I’m sure everybody will catch up. Times are hard now, but things’ll get better soon. And in the meantime, we’ve got each other, and that’s what counts. Friendship goes a long way.”

“It does,” Verna agreed in her usual blunt, practical way. “But friends don’t pay your back taxes, Ophelia. At least, not that I’ve ever noticed. And they may line up to buy your house for pennies on the dollar at the tax sale, but I doubt they’ll hand back the property deed just because they’re your friends. Everybody’s got a bottom line. Some are closer to it than others.”

Ophelia shook her head, frowning, but Lizzy had to agree with Verna. She saw that kind of thing in the lawyer’s office all the time: people trying to get as much as they could, even at the expense of someone else. Ophelia always liked to say that bad times brought out the good in folks. In Lizzy’s experience, it was just as likely to go the other way.

When her friends had left, Lizzy took one last tour of the house, making sure that everything was in order. She locked the front door from the inside and let herself out the back, locking it behind her.

Until recently, most people in Darling hadn’t bothered to lock their doors. But in the past few months, that had changed. Hobos, down on their luck and hungry, had begun jumping off the freight trains and going door to door, asking if there was any work they could do in exchange for food. Two or three had come to Lizzy’s house, and she’d done what she could—asked them to chop kindling or clean up a tree that had come down in a storm, in return for a good meal and a couple of extra sandwiches. They were polite and nice enough and she hadn’t been afraid. But if they found a house unoccupied and unlocked, it might be a different story. There wouldn’t likely be any vandalism—they were just ordinary men and boys (and some of the boys no more than children), down on their luck and looking for a dry place to sleep. But she didn’t want to take a chance. She wasn’t as optimistic as Ophelia about people’s good intentions.

Lizzy was going down the walk, thinking about this, when a low, cracked voice said, at her elbow. “Afternoon, Miz Lacy.”

Lizzy jumped and put her hand to her throat. “Oh, Zeke!” she exclaimed. “You startled me!”

“Sorry,” Zeke muttered. The old colored man was grizzled and thin, with a leathery face and a nose that was smashed to one side—he’d been a boxer in the old days, Lizzy had heard. He wore a shapeless felt hat mashed down on his head and bib overalls over a white shirt, clean, because this was Sunday. “Wonderin’ if there was somethin’ I could do to he’p out here.” He gestured toward the garden. “Reckon the grass might oughta be mowed purty soon. An’ there’s plenty of snippin’ an’ clippin’ and cleanin’ in them flower beds.” He shook his head. “Sho’ looks a mess. Po’ Miz Dahlia must be turnin’ over in her grave.”