The Darling Dahlias and the Naked Ladies

Lizzy swallowed. “I’ve come to ask you for a little more time, Mr. Johnson,” she said. “The holidays will soon be here and—”

Mr. Johnson cast his glance heavenward. “Time?” he asked rhetorically. “Your mother has known of her difficulties for almost a full year, Miss Lacy, ever since the Crash. The foreclosure has been pending since April. And since she herself has told me that she is quite willing to turn her house over to the bank—”

“Quite willing?” Lizzy asked blankly.

“Why, yes, of course. She has explained that she plans to live with you until you and Mr. Alexander are married, at which point you will of course go to live in the house he recently purchased.” Mr. Johnson’s smile did not quite reach his eyes. “Please accept my congratulations, by the way. I am acquainted with Mr. Alexander and find him to be an engaging—”

“But I am not being married!” Lizzy exclaimed fiercely. “I am not leaving my house. And I have no intention of allowing my mother to move in with me.” This last, she knew, was an awful heresy, for every decent daughter ought to be glad to provide her impoverished mother a home.

Mr. Johnson’s black eyebrows went up. “Well, then,” he said after a moment. “Mrs. Lacy will have to find another place to live, I suppose. I am sorry.” It was not clear whether he meant that he was sorry Lizzy was not going to marry, or sorry that she refused to take in her mother.

Lizzy leaned forward. She had been taught that a lady could always catch more flies with sugar than with vinegar, but at this moment, she was in no mood to be sweet, or to be a lady, either. She was angry. She spoke with as much reasonableness as she could summon.

“Mr. Johnson, my mother did a very foolish thing, and she is paying a high price. I cannot excuse what she has done. But there is nothing to be gained by evicting her from that house. If it is occupied and maintained, the property will someday be of value to the bank. It can be sold when the real estate market turns up again, for a much better price than it could command now. If it’s empty, it will be the target of vagrants and vandals. I think you ought to allow my mother to live there and maintain your house—the bank’s house—and pay a rent. A modest rent, I’m afraid, because that’s all she can afford.” Actually, she couldn’t afford any rent, but Lizzy hadn’t thought quite that far.

Impatiently, Mr. Johnson tapped his pencil on his desk. “And why should I do this?” he asked in an arch tone.

“Because it’s the right thing to do!” Lizzy exclaimed heatedly. “And it’s the smart thing. You—the bank, that is— should be doing it with every single house you’ve foreclosed on. Empty, they are a disgrace. You should let people stay in their houses and take care of them, at least until they can be sold.”

“Come, come, Miss Lacy.” Mr. Johnson pulled down the corners of his mouth. “That’s not the way the system works. People need to learn that credit isn’t cheap. They must be obliged to take responsibility for their foolish choices. They must learn that their actions have very real consequences. That is how the system works.”

“But not everyone who has lost a house was foolish,” Lizzy burst out. “Some people have had accidents or gotten sick and some have lost jobs through no fault of their own. Don’t you see? That mean, cold-hearted, calculating attitude is exactly what makes people despise the bank and hate—” She stopped. It was true, but she couldn’t bring herself to say it.

Mr. Johnson said it for her. “Hate me?” He leaned forward on his elbows, his brows pulled together in a deep scowl. Lizzy quailed, thinking that he looked exactly like Satan. “Miss Lacy, I am quite aware of the . . . esteem, shall we say, in which I am held in this town. Given the situation, that is unavoidable. People need a villain. They need someone to blame for their sad plight, and I—and the bank—will do as well as any. Better, in fact, than most. I cannot blame them, either, for they are not privileged to see the many, many instances in which the bank—and I—have given extensions and made accommodations. That is only as it should be, of course, since we must respect our clients’ privacy.”

Lucy was about to speak when Mr. Johnson held up his hand and continued.

“In your mother’s case, she was offered the opportunity to remain in the house and pay a rent—a modest rent. She declined.”

Lizzy felt as if she had been punched in the stomach. “She . . . declined?”

“Yes. She said that she preferred to live in a house where she didn’t have to pay any rent at all.” Mr. Johnson was looking at her with what seemed to be a genuine sympathy. “She also said that your house has recently been modernized and she likes it better.” He sighed. “There was something about an electric refrigerator, if I remember correctly. She prefers it to her icebox. Her musty icebox.”