The Darling Dahlias and the Naked Ladies

“Well,” Lizzy began politely, “I’m sure that Mrs. Young’s friends—”

“Wait, there’s something else. This goes on Page Two.” He picked up another piece of paper, which Lizzy could see was an ad. “Ironing Board and Electric Iron, $3.95. A convenience no modern housewife can afford to be without.” He snorted. “And a rattan porch rocker for three dollars and fifty cents, so the housewife can take her leisure when she’s finished ironing. Both of these swell bargains are courtesy of Mann’s Mercantile. Ain’t that just the bee’s knees?”

Lizzy might have said that an electric iron was a great improvement over the heavy flatirons that had to be heated on the cook stove, which Charlie would know if he had to iron his own white shirts, especially in the summertime. But of course she didn’t. There wasn’t any point in saying anything at all, really. Charlie Dickens was given to fits of depression, often brought on by what he thought of as the inconsequentiality of the things he had to put into the newspaper. It sounded as if he was at one of his low points today.

He raised one finger. “But don’t give up yet, Liz. Here’s something else for your edification, from one of the feature services.” He read: “Benito Mussolini of Italy professes principles of government which are bitterly hated by the American farmers, stout defenders of democracy—but just the same, he has solved the farm relief problem. While the American Congress has passed laws which are of doubtful help to the troubled tillers of the soil, and while Ramsay MacDonald’s government in Great Britain is still talking about helping the sadly crippled British farmer, Mussolini is doing something. He intends to make Italy almost, or entirely, self-supporting in the matter of food, so the country can spend more money on raw materials, increase the prosperity of its factories, and cut down the adverse balance of trade. Not incidentally, this will also increase the well-being of the Italian farmer.”



He put down the paper and looked up at her. “This opinion piece ran a couple of weeks ago in the Anniston Star, right here in Alabama. And to my knowledge, nobody has burned the newspaper office or lynched the editor.” He squinted at her. “Do you think I ought to run it, Liz?”

“Well, I don’t know,” Lizzy said hesitantly. “Lots of Darling folks might not be too anxious to hear about what Mussolini is doing. Jed Snow says that he’s a Fascist dictator. He’s taken over the government. He’s outlawed political parties. He—”

“Yes to all that, Liz.” Charlie heaved a heavy sigh. “Jed’s right, of course. Mussolini is a dictator. But he gets things done, damn it. He gets things done.” He threw the paper down on the desk, pulled off his eyeshade, and dropped his head in his hands. “Why can’t we have a government that gets things done?”

Lizzy didn’t have an answer to that question. Instead, she said, “If I have a piece of news—important news—that I can’t turn in until Thursday noon, will there still be room for it?”

“Depends on how long it is and how urgent.” Charlie shrugged heavily. “I could cut Mrs. Campbell Young’s bridge party, I guess. Or I could move the Mercantile ad to the back page. Or—”

“Thanks,” Lizzy said, and fled.





When she got to her block on Jeff Davis, Lizzy could see her mother sitting out on the front porch. Not wanting to confront her just yet, she cut through Mrs. Hoffman’s side yard, walked up the alley, and entered her mother’s kitchen, letting the screen door slap shut behind her.

“Don’ slam that screen.” Sally-Lou didn’t look up from the piecrust she was rolling out on the pine-topped table. “How many times I gots to tell you, Miz Lizzy? You know yo’ mama don’ like it.” She was wearing her usual gray uniform dress, neatly pressed, and a white apron. On the table beside her was a metal pie tin, the bottom crust heaped with sliced peaches and topped with dots of butter and a sprinkle of cinnamon.

“Sorry,” Lizzy said automatically, reflecting that one of the pleasures of being grown-up and having her own house was being able to slam the screen whenever she felt like it.

Sally-Lou gave a final push to the rolling pin. “Yo’ mama out on the front porch, where it’s cool. She makin’ a list of all the things that’s gots to be done afore we move ’cross the street to yo’ house.”

Oh, dear, Lizzy thought, and her stomach clenched. There was going to be another big argument, and she hated arguments. But there was something else that had to be taken care of before she could tell her mother that there would be no move.

“Sally-Lou,” she said, “I wonder if you could go over to Miss Hamer’s house this evening and have a little visit with DessaRae.”