The Darling Dahlias and the Silver Dollar Bush

“You’ll be paid for the work,” Mr. Duffy said. “There’s an administrative fee for managing the program.”


“Oh, I see,” Charlie said, with some sarcasm. “This so-called money you’re printing up—it’s not free. It’s going to cost something.”

“Your expenses and your time will come out of the fee,” Mr. Duffy continued, as if Charlie had not spoken. “If you’ll stop by the bank tomorrow, I’ll show you the design we’ll be using and we can discuss quantities and other matters.” He pocketed his empty cigarette holder and looked around the group. “Anybody have any more questions?”

Jed raised his hand as if they were all in school and Mr. Duffy was the teacher. “Yeah. When is all this gonna start happening?”

“Not until I talk to your town council,” Mr. Duffy said. “I want to make sure they hear about this from me.” Verna caught his meaning: he didn’t trust Jed to sell the program—he might sell it downriver. “Better call a meeting right away, don’t you think, Mr. Mayor? Like maybe tomorrow?”

Jed’s glance darkened. “Guess you figure on me holding the hog while you cut the throat.”

Verna heard Mr. Moseley chuckle in wry amusement. Charlie gave a loud, rough laugh. “You put your finger on it, Snow. Right on it.”

Nobody said anything for a moment. Then Mr. Tombull looked at Charlie. “I reckon it won’t take you more’n a few hours to print us up some of this here scrip,” he said with a false heartiness.

“Reckon it won’t.” Charlie came back to the desk, reached for the bottle, and gulped a couple of swallows.

Jed gave a laugh, an echo of Charlie’s. “Reckon you’d better lock it up in a safe place somewhere until it gets where it’s s’posed to go.”

Charlie snorted and put the bottle down. “You think anybody’s going to break in here and steal a whole lot of worthless paper? Hell, it’s not money. Not even close.”

“I fail to understand,” Mr. Duffy said testily, “what your objections are to this project. It seems to me that we all need to—”

“Yeah. Hang together,” Jed said, resigned.

“Our objections,” Charlie replied dourly, “are to this whole damn mess we’re in, that nobody can see their way out of and nobody wants to get sucked down any deeper into. And we don’t think your Darling Dollars are going to pull us out of it. That’s what our objections are.” He looked at Jed. “Did I get that right, Snow?”

“More or less,” Jed said. “We’re used to every man for himself, I guess. That’s the American way. We don’t want charity.”

“This ain’t charity,” Mr. Tombull objected, past his cigar. “Hell’s bells, no! This is every man gettin’ what he’s earned, so he can turn around and spend it right here in our little town.”

“Yeah, but that’s the un-American part,” Jed said energetically. “If I earn a dollar and want to spend it over in Monroeville, by damn it’s my American right to do that. If I want to buy a new pair of boots from Mr. Sears and Mr. Roebuck, I got a right to do that, too. But this scrip you’re handin’ out means that you’re telling me where I gotta spend it and who I gotta buy from. That’s un-American, Mr. Tombull. That’s socialism. Hell, that’s communism. And there’s gonna be a whole lot of folks in this town that’s gonna stand up on their hind legs and say so.”

“I say you’re wrong, Jed,” Mr. Tombull said in his bluff, burly way. “Yes, sir, you are wrong. Folks’ll see the wisdom of gettin’ something instead of getting’ nothin’, and they’ll be glad to trade that something for sugar and flour and shoes for the kids, bought right here in Darlin’.” He chuckled. “Even an old hog’s got ’nuff sense of direction to take the shortest way through the thicket.” He leaned forward, raising one pudgy finger. “Compromise, Mr. Mayor, compromise. It’s the first political lesson every one of us has got to learn.”