The Darling Dahlias and the Silver Dollar Bush

But Myra May preferred WODX, and now, she found herself humming Rudy’s refrain as she wiped the counter and the tables, stacked dishes, and made a fresh pot of coffee for the lunch crowd. Except that it was past twelve thirty and the lunch crowd had failed to show up. There were only two customers in the whole place right now. One of them was bad-tempered old J.D., Mr. Musgrove’s helper at the hardware store. The other was a man Myra May had seen once or twice before, a tall, lanky fellow with dark hair, a pockmarked face, and a steely gaze—Chester Kinnard, the district revenue agent, sitting in the corner with his back to the wall. Only two, when both the counter stools and the chairs at the tables were usually filled. Myra May had the feeling that there weren’t going to be many more until the bank reopened—if it reopened.

She shuddered. It had been bad enough when the bank closed during the Roosevelt bank holiday last month. But then, they’d had some warning, and everybody had thought it was only a formality, just something they had to get through, because their bank was strong. That’s what Mr. Johnson had told them, standing like the Rock of Gibraltar on the steps in front of the bank while the townspeople gathered beneath him on the sidewalk, nodding as they listened to his reassurances and cheering when he said, “We’ll get through this together, boys. And we’ll be even stronger when we come out on the other end.” When he had finished, there were cheers and whistles and applause.

But now Mr. Johnson was under arrest. Well, under suspicion, but arrest was sure to follow. The Darling Savings and Trust was closed and everybody’s money—if they had any—was locked up. A “holiday” was one thing. But what would she and her partner, Violet, do if the bank stayed closed and their money disappeared? What would anybody do?

Myra May heard the clatter of footsteps on the narrow wooden stairs that led down from the second-floor apartment where she and Violet lived, and Violet appeared, holding Cupcake by the hand. The daughter of Violet’s deceased sister, Cupcake was just three and as bright as a new-minted copper penny. People in Darling said that she was every bit as cute as that little Shirley Temple, whom Myra May had seen a few weeks ago in “Glad Rags to Riches.” The one-reeler “baby burlesk” featured a half-dozen three-and four-year-olds dressed up in Gay Nineties costumes. Little Shirley, who was obviously destined for stardom, tap-danced and sang, “I’m only a bird in a gilded cage.”

“Hewwo, Myra May,” Cupcake warbled, clutching her favorite picture book, The Little Engine That Could. She wore bib overalls made out of brown corduroy by her Grammy Ray and a yellow shirt Violet had embroidered with bunnies. Cupcake did not willingly submit herself to hair brushing, but Violet had managed to subdue her strawberry curls long enough to pin them back with two yellow poodle barrettes. Privately, Myra May approved of Cupcake’s little rebellions, seeing them as hopeful signs that she might grow up to be something other than a decorative addition to some man’s household—a bird in a gilded cage.

Violet glanced around the empty diner, up at the clock, and then at the customer at the counter. “Hello, J.D.,” she called cheerfully. “Nice day, isn’t it?”

J.D. raised his head from his meat loaf and mashed potatoes and fixed her with a hollow-eyed look. “Think so, missy?” he asked sardonically. “Then how come they ain’t six or seven people sittin’ here, elbows on the counter, way they usually is?” He went back to his plate.

Violet squared her shoulders against J.D.’s surly intransigence. “Well, it’s just past twelve thirty,” she said brightly. “The Saturday crowd is always just a little bit later.”

Myra May inserted a fold of paper napkins into the chrome napkin dispenser on the counter. “Don’t kid yourself, sweetie. With the bank closed, people are going to hold on to every last dime they’ve got in their pockets.” Glumly, she added, “Especially since they don’t know where the next dime is coming from.”

“Oh, I don’t think so,” Violet said, tossing her head. “People still have to eat.”