The Darling Dahlias and the Naked Ladies

“Hello, DessaRae,” Bessie said. “Is Miss Hamer in?” It was a silly question. Miss Hamer was always in. She hadn’t been out of the house for ten years, so far as Bessie knew.

“Who is it, DessaRae?” called an anxious voice. It was Miss Jamison, standing at the top of the stairs. She sounded afraid, and Bessie thought she knew why. She also thought she would like to tell her that Frankie Diamond was safely on the train and headed back up north, but she wasn’t sure she should. She found herself wondering, as well, whether she should tell Miss Hamer that Miss Jamison, aka Lorelei LaMotte, was wanted for shooting the man who had slashed Miss Lake’s face. But she wasn’t going to do that, either. That wasn’t what she was here for.

“It’s Miz Bloodworth, from across the street,” DessaRae called over her shoulder. “She here to see Miz Hamer.”

“That’s fine, then,” Miss Jamison said, sounding relieved, and disappeared.

DessaRae turned back. “Miz Hamer a bit wandery today, Miz Bloodworth. More’n usual, maybe. You sure you want to see her?”

“Thanks for the warning,” Bessie said. “Yes, I’d like to see her.”

DessaRae nodded and stepped back. “Well, then, come on in.”

Bessie followed DessaRae into the parlor on the right-hand side of the hall, where Miss Hamer spent her days. Endless days, Bessie thought, at least, they must seem endless. The old lady—she must be nearly eighty—was slumped in a wooden, cane-back wheelchair with pillows at her back and sides, a book on her lap. But she wasn’t reading, Bessie saw. Her spectacles hung around her neck on a black ribbon, and the watery blue eyes in her lined face, as leathery and wrinkled as a dried fig, held a vacant look. Her cheeks were hollowed and empty. Her arms were so thin Bessie could see her bones, fragile, like the bones of a bird. Her white hair, under an old-fashioned ruffled cap, was dry and wispy.

DessaRae bent over her chair. “Miz Bloodworth’s here to see you, Miz Hamer,” she said loudly.

“Tell her I’m busy,” Miss Hamer said, as petulant as a small child. She picked up her book and held it in shaking hands. “I’m reading. I don’t have time for visitors.”

“How nice to see you, Miss Hamer,” Bessie said, unperturbed. It had always been this way. Harold’s sister always said she never had time for visitors. Bessie usually took no for an answer and left, since there was nothing to be gained from trying to talk to somebody who wouldn’t talk to you. But today she was determined. She pulled up a chair and sat down.

“I get you some iced tea and cookies,” DessaRae said.

“Don’t bother,” Miss Hamer said sharply. “She’s not stayin’. She’ll be gone before you get back in here with the tray.”

“Yes’m.” DessaRae disappeared, closing the door behind her.

Bessie folded her hands in her lap. “I hope your niece and her friend are settling in,” she said loudly.

Miss Hamer made a scornful noise.

“I hope Miss Jamison is some help to you,” Bessie persisted.

“Help to DessaRae, not to me,” Miss Hamer said. Her voice was cracked and brittle. “Her old back won’t let her lift me and I can’t lift myself. Doc Roberts said I had to get somebody in to help or he’d take DessaRae away from me. Said he wasn’t going to let one old invalid wait on another.” She gave a self-pitying sigh. “Even made me find another home for Robert E. Lee.”

Robert E. Lee was Mrs. Hamer’s dog. Bessie was a little surprised to hear all this, since Mrs. Hamer usually didn’t talk. “Well, it’s nice,” she said in a comforting tone. “That your niece is a help, I mean. Must be good to have family with you.”

Miss Hamer looked at her sideways and said nothing.

“Speaking of family,” Bessie said, “I was thinking of Harold the other day.”

“Who?” Miss Hamer leaned forward and put her hand behind her ear. “Who?”

“Harold.” Bessie raised her voice. “Your brother.”

Miss Hamer gave a dismissive gesture. “Why are you thinkin’ of him? Don’t be a fool, Bessie. You’re too old for romantic thoughts. Anyway, it’s all in the past. It’s done.”

Bessie leaned forward, speaking distinctly. “Not romantic thoughts. I got over that a good many years ago. More like wanting to get unfinished business out of the way.” She paused. “You never heard from him, over the years?”

“Wouldn’t I have told you if I did?”

Bessie chuckled. “I doubt it.”

There was a silence. “Why are you bringin’ him up now?” the old lady asked.

Why? Bessie asked herself, and answered her own question. “Because I found a box of my father’s papers in the attic, and it was his birthday, and I got to thinking about him. And thinking about my father got me thinking of Harold. And then a couple of ladies from the garden club came over and I started telling them that we’d been engaged once. And wondering—”