The Darling Dahlias and the Silver Dollar Bush

The words hung in the air like a sword, light glinting along the unimaginable sharpness of its blade. Verna drew in her breath. She had read about the bank failures that had been happening all across the country since the stock market crash in ’29. Most people didn’t understand the role of the bank in their town. They just took it for granted—until it failed, that is. And then they saw, pretty quickly, that a town without a bank was a dead town, a town where people were unable to do business. A ghost town.

“In the meantime,” Mr. Duffy was saying, “I am deeply concerned about the emergency situation that is likely to develop here in Darling, when people realize that not only are their bank accounts frozen, but they’re not going to get their paychecks, because their employers’ accounts are frozen, too. So I have a proposal to make. I’ve discussed it with Mayor Snow, and we think—”

“You can forget that ‘we’ business,” Jed said sourly. “I already told you what I think, Mr. Duffy. The idea of passing that phony stuff off like it was real money is going to stick in folks’ craw. They won’t have it.”

Verna covered her astonishment with a made-up cough. So Myra May had been right after all! The shadows in the corners loomed more ominously and the smoke lowered and swirled around them, eddying in the greenish light. Why didn’t Mr. Moseley say something? Surely he couldn’t approve of anything like this!

“But it is real money,” Mr. Tombull asserted. He picked up the bottle and took a hefty swig. “Leastwise, it’s real, far as this town is concerned. O’course, we don’t aim for folks to take it over to Monroeville or down to Mobile, or anywheres else. They’re gonna keep it right here in this town, where it’ll pay the rent and buy the groceries people need to keep on feedin’ their families. That’s the good thing about this idea, seems to me. People need to be reminded to keep their money right here at home, ’stead of buyin’ from the Monkey Ward catalog and sendin’ their good, hard-earned cash money up to Chicago.” He set the bottle down with an emphatic thump.

“Exactly,” Mr. Duffy said, with evident satisfaction. “And if their currency is spent right here in our community—”

“It’s not your community, Duffy,” Charlie put in heavily. “You’re from New Orleans.” He said the words with distaste.

Mr. Duffy’s face tightened and he spoke tersely. “If this bank survives, I am here to stay, Dickens, whether you like it or not. As of last Friday, I am the president of the Darling Savings and Trust. And I’m willing to lay odds that I have a bigger stake in this town than you do. The bank has hundreds of property loans on its books, more than half of them delinquent. I intend to see them paid off.” His voice took on a new authority. “What’s more, I intend to see this bank succeed. And nothing is going to stop me.” With a severe look at Charlie, he leaned back in his chair. “Nothing.”

The new president! Verna let out a long stream of blue smoke, feeling that the entire picture had just changed right in front of her very eyes. No wonder Voleen Johnson had left town. Now that her husband was no longer a bank president, all her social prestige had melted away, like a crust of morning ice on a March puddle. But you wouldn’t think a newly minted bank president would want to get himself mixed up with a counterfeit scheme. She hazarded a glance at Mr. Moseley. He was smoking his pipe unconcernedly, arms crossed over his chest, eyes half closed.