The Darling Dahlias and the Naked Ladies

Verna frowned. “He didn’t get in touch with his parents, to tell them where he’d gone?”


“They were dead,” Bessie replied. “They died in a railroad accident when Miss Hamer was in her twenties and Harold was just a tiny child, before he’d had his first birthday. She raised him all by herself—and pretty well smothered him, too.” She sighed, remembering. “That’s the way Harold saw it, anyway, although to be fair, I don’t suppose anybody could blame her. She was doing her best to take care of a young boy who would’ve run wild, left to his druthers. So she kept him on a short rein, like a rebellious young horse. I used to think maybe he wanted to get married just to get out from under his sister’s thumb.”

“I can understand that,” Liz said. “I got engaged to Reggie just to get away from my mother. Not that I didn’t love him,” she added hastily. “I think we would have been happy together, if he’d come home from France.”

“Well, it wouldn’t have worked for us,” Bessie said, and heard herself saying a truth she had known but had never spoken out loud. “Getting married, I mean. I understand that now. There wasn’t any way Harold could be free of his sister as long as he stayed here in Darling. She would have made both of us miserable, meddling in our marriage. He must have known that, too. So he left. He didn’t ask me to go with him because he knew I couldn’t leave my father. In a way, I suppose, it was a kindness. He didn’t force me to make a choice. He did the choosing himself.”

She stopped, startled. A kindness? Did she really think that? But after all these years, the real truth was that she still didn’t know what to think.

“My gracious, Bessie,” Verna said in surprise. “I never heard a word of any of this.”

“No reason you should,” Bessie replied with a short laugh, “either one of you. It’s not something I wanted to talk about. And it happened a long time ago.”

“But didn’t you think it was really strange that he didn’t try to get in touch with you?” Verna persisted. “Especially since you hadn’t quarreled.”

“Of course I thought it was strange, Verna. I was devastated.” And now that she’d said this much, the rest just came tumbling out, as if the words were speaking themselves. “For once in his life, my father was kind to me, even though he could barely hide how glad he was that Harold had left. He’d never made any secret of the fact that he hated the idea of our getting married. But he was kind to me—canceled all the wedding arrangements himself, so I wouldn’t have to do it. For months, I wouldn’t talk to Miss Hamer, because I was convinced that she knew where her brother had gone and was refusing to tell me. And of course I just kept thinking there’d be something—a letter, or a postcard. But there was nothing. It was as if he had fallen right off the face of the earth.”

“And Miss Hamer?” Verna asked, narrowing her eyes. “She didn’t hear from him either?”

Bessie could feel her mouth trembling and she pressed her lips together. “If she did, she didn’t tell me. I’d ask, and she’d just shake her head. But of course she wouldn’t tell, since she was the very reason he left.”

“So sad,” Liz murmured. She looked stricken. “For both you and Miss Hamer. For Harold, too.”

“Yes,” Bessie said stoutly. “I survived, maybe because I knew I hadn’t done anything to drive him away.” She had always felt good about that, in the private corner of her mind where these memories were stored away—that they hadn’t quarreled, that her last words to him had been soft and loving. “But I think she blamed herself, and the thought of what she did has been driving her crazy.”

“You mean, really crazy?” Verna asked.

“Nutty as a fruitcake,” Bessie said. “And she’s gotten crazier and crazier every year. Ask the neighbors—they can hear her screeching like a madwoman, sometimes in the middle of the night. Or ask DessaRae, or Doc Roberts. They know.”

“And Miss Jamison?” Verna asked, tilting her head. “What does she know?”

Bessie frowned. “I haven’t heard Miss Hamer shrieking since the ladies got here, so Miss Jamison probably doesn’t know about that yet. And there’s no reason why she would know anything about Harold—unless Miss Hamer told her, which I’m sure she wouldn’t.” But now that she thought about it, she wondered whether she herself ought to tell Miss Jamison. It might help her to understand the situation she had moved into.