The Darling Dahlias and the Silver Dollar Bush

“So that’s why the bank is closed?” Myra May asked, taking an empty Campbell’s soup can off the shelf over the workbench. “Because some other bank bought it? Is Alvin Duffy fixin’ to take all our money back to New Orleans, or wherever the hell he came from?” She began dropping spark plugs, one at a time, into the can.

“I don’t know,” Verna said. “But I intend to find out. Would it be okay with you if I spent some time on the switchboard? I have to do some research, and it’s quicker to do it by telephone than by letter. I’ll be glad to pay for the call, but it’ll be quicker if I make it myself, rather than go through your operator.”

Verna had learned to use the switchboard back when Mrs. Hooper had operated it, before Myra May and Violet had acquired the Exchange. And it wasn’t just because the call was quicker that Verna wanted to make it herself, at the switchboard. At home, she was on a party line, and it was always likely that four or five people could hear every word of every call she made. In this case, she would be asking for some very private information, and she didn’t want either her questions or their answers shared all over Darling. Of course, she could send a wire, but it would have to go through Mrs. Curtis, who ran the Western Union office at the railroad depot. She was as notorious a gossip as Leona Ruth Adcock. Put them in a gossip contest together and they’d end up in a dead heat.

“Damn sight quicker,” Myra May agreed equably. “Sure. Use the switchboard. Call whoever you like, wherever in the world you want to call. It won’t cost you a cent.” She picked up the fourth spark plug. “In fact, if you can find out that Duffy is playing a dirty trick on Darling, I will give you free telephone service for a month.”

“You’re joking,” Verna scoffed. She opened her pocketbook and took out her cigarettes and lighter.

“Maybe.” Myra May squinted at the spark plug. “Bring me your dirt and we’ll dicker. In my opinion, that city slicker is up to no good.” She blew some grit off the spark plug and dropped it into the soup can with the others, then picked up a galvanized spigot can and poured gasoline into the can.

“It’s a deal.” Verna thought better of smoking and put her cigarettes and lighter back in her pocketbook. “What are you doing with that gasoline?”

“Don’t have the money to buy a new set of spark plugs,” Myra May replied pragmatically. “Gotta clean these and put them back in.” She sloshed the gasoline around in the can and set it down, her expression darkening. “Listen, Verna, I need to change the subject. I’m afraid Liz is having a very bad time of it. Have you heard about—”

She was interrupted by a rapping at the door. “It’s open,” she called.

A young man, six feet tall and heavily built, with broad shoulders and a cherubic, apple-cheeked face, stepped into the garage. He was wearing oil-stained bib overalls, a dirty sleeveless undershirt, heavy leather boots, and a shapeless felt hat pulled down over his ears. Verna recognized him as Baby Mann, Archie Mann’s son.

“Miz Vi’let says you got a spade in here,” he said. “She says if I dig up the flower bed, Miz Raylene’ll give me a buttermilk pie.” He grinned broadly. “You know what I’m gonna do with it? I’m gonna give it to Miz Jenkins, for her kids. They don’t have much to eat but greens and fatback. And the Good Book says we oughta share what we got with those that ain’t got as much. Ain’t that right?”

“That is definitely right, Purley,” Myra May said. “In fact, if you do a good job with that spade”—she pointed to the garden spade hanging on the wall beside the door—“if you do a good job, we might just make that two pies.”

“Praise the Lord an’ thank you, ma’am!” Baby said. He took the spade down from its hook. “I’ll put this back when I’m done.” He touched the brim of his hat and left.