The Darling Dahlias and the Texas Star

Charlie and Fannie usually had supper together on Wednesday nights. One week, they would walk over to the Old Alabama; the next week, Fannie would cook for them in her apartment, upstairs over her hat shop and the small rooms that housed the Darling library. That was the plan for this Wednesday night, and Charlie was glad, since it meant that he could say what he had to say in private, which seemed infinitely better to him than saying it in front of the other diners at the Old Alabama—although thinking about feeling glad only made him feel even worse.

The evening was quite warm and humid, and Fannie had put together a sandwich supper of cold meat, cheese, potato salad, and sliced tomatoes. To catch the breeze, she had moved a small table to the window overlooking the courthouse square, where people were still coming and going in the early evening quiet, most of them on their way to the Palace Theater to see the Marx Brothers in Monkey Business. The window was curtained in some sort of translucent white material that seemed to shimmer in the slight breeze, and the table was fresh and pretty, with a white tablecloth and flower-embroidered napkins and a bouquet of summer flowers from Fannie’s garden.

Fannie wore flowers, too, a bouquet of tiny fresh white blossoms tucked into the lace-edged V-neck of her pretty blue dress. Seeing the trouble she had taken to make herself and the table attractive, Charlie felt like an even bigger heel. “Lower than a snake’s belly,” his father would have said, and his father would have been right.

Fannie was not quite as bright and lively as she usually was when they were together, and Charlie thought he detected a darker thread of melancholy beneath her banter. For his part, Charlie did his best to keep up his end of the conversation while they ate. But it was hard, because he kept thinking about the thing he was going to say after they had finished eating and wondering what was the easiest way to open an unpleasant subject.

The bright summer evening waned into a warm, dusky twilight, but Fannie did not turn on the light. Finally, when they had finished their dessert and were lingering over a cup of after-dinner coffee, she opened the subject for him.

“You haven’t mentioned the Kilgores’ party, Charlie. I don’t usually go to country club parties—they’re a little rich for my taste. But I’m planning to be there, since the Dahlias are presenting a potted plant to the guest of honor, Miss Dare—the Texas Star. It’s a hibiscus.” She looked at him with a half-smile that seemed to him hopeful, expectant, vulnerable. It struck at his heart. “You’re going, too, aren’t you? Perhaps we could . . .” The invitation hung in the air between them like an empty comic strip balloon.

“I’ll be there.” Charlie set his coffee cup into its saucer with a definitive click. “In fact, I’m escorting Miss Dare—if she’s able to come, that is. There’s a problem with one of the airplanes.” He paused, steeling himself against hurting her but persuaded that cruelty was the only way. “Lily and I are old . . . friends,” he said, putting a suggestive emphasis on “friends” and trusting that Fannie—who drew her own line with such deftness and grace—would hear it and understand.

She did. She stopped stirring cream into her coffee and sat quite still. A breeze lifted the curtain at her elbow, bringing the scent of fresh-popped popcorn into the room. Down on the street, in front of the Palace, somebody laughed.

“I see,” she said, in a remarkably even voice. “It’s good for old friends to spend some time together. I hope the two of you will enjoy your reunion.” She spoke as if she had somehow prepared herself for his announcement, although he didn’t see how that was possible. She lifted her eyes to his and pinned his gaze, holding it steadily.

There was a little leap in his stomach and a dull kerplunk, like a rock dropping into a deep well. The feeling shook him. He wasn’t a very good liar, but he replied with an attempt at nonchalance.

“Yeah. That’s what it is, all right. A reunion. Lily and I have been talking on the telephone and it seems . . .” He stopped and glanced out the window at the darkening street, letting her imagine the conversation he might have had with Miss Dare. “I thought I’d better tell you before you saw us together at the party,” he added deliberately. “Or at the movie tomorrow night. There’s a special showing of Hell’s Angels. I’m taking her.”

She turned away to look out the window, too, and he slid quickly into the explanation he had rehearsed. “Lily and I, we go back quite a few years. We met when I was working for the Fort Worth Star-Telegram. At the time, she had a big ranch west of town where she liked to give parties. I’d spend weekends out there. We became quite good . . . friends.”

Fannie seemed to draw back into herself, away from him, out of his reach. Still looking out the window, she said, “I suppose you’re telling me that you mean to renew your friendship with Miss Dare in an important or permanent way.” She turned to face him and added, quietly and evenly, “Is that it, Charlie?”