The Darling Dahlias and the Texas Star

“The Hibiscus coccineus, you mean,” Verna and Mildred said, almost in unison.

“The Texas Star,” said Aunt Hetty firmly. She refused to use Latin names. “Puttin’ on the dog,” she called it—acting as if you were special because you knew a few words that nobody else knew (or could spell), in a language that had been dead since Hector was a pup. “Yes, you asked me, child. And yes, I potted it up, so it’s all ready for you to hand it over to the guest of honor. I promised Mildred I’d bring it over to her house before the party.” She gave Lizzy a kind look. “Now, you stop worryin’ so, Liz. You’re nervous as a long-tailed cat in a room full of rockin’ chairs.”

“I can’t help it.” Lizzy sighed. “I’m a natural worrier. And there’s so much to keep track of!” She felt that formless apprehension again, the uneasy conviction that with so much going on, something very serious was sure to go wrong—and this time, the finger of scorn would be pointed at the Dahlias. She looked down at her list again. “Mildred, do you need any volunteers to help you with the party?”

Mildred considered. “Myra May and Euphoria, from the diner, are catering the food. I’ve lined up two colored girls from Darling Academy to serve at the buffet, and a couple of boys to set up dining tables and chairs in the garden. Thanks for asking, Liz, but I think it’s all pretty well organized.” With a delicate laugh, she added, “We’ll be serving sparkling punch, of course—and a little something extra for those who like to imbibe. Roger has charge of that, naturally.” She leaned forward and spoke in a conspiratorial whisper. “He usually tells our guests to bring their own corkscrew.”

Verna snorted into her lemonade. Aunt Hetty chuckled. She might be a little old-fashioned, but she had never believed, as she put it, in “prohibitin’ what comes natural. And there’s nothin’ more natural on God’s green earth than good corn whiskey.”

“Mmmm,” Lizzy murmured. Alabama had been officially dry since 1915, and the Volstead Act had taken effect, nationally, in 1919. But Lizzy had noticed that in Darling, there seemed to be even more booze after Prohibition than there had been when Alabama was wet. Judging from what she read in the newspapers, this seemed to be true across the country, too. At a time when ordinary folks were out of work and desperate, moonshiners and bootleggers were big business everywhere. They made sure that anyone who wanted to have a drink could get a bottle or two—even in the South, which, as Will Rogers joked, would keep on voting dry as long as there was anybody sober enough to stagger to the polls.

“Well, then.” Mildred sat back in her chair. “The party is all taken care of, the Odd Fellows are in charge of the carnival, and the air show promises to be a thrilling event. Lizzy has everything under control. And I, for one, intend to sit back, relax, and just have a good time.”

“Oh, yeah?” Verna raised a cynical eyebrow. “It’s been my experience, Mildred, that when everything seems to be under control, that’s just the time when it isn’t. When everything just plain goes to hell in a handbasket.”

Lizzy shuddered. “Don’t say that, Verna.” She looked back down at her list, which seemed to have grown longer and more complicated in just the past few minutes. “I can’t bear to think of it.” Or of that shapeless apprehension that was lurking at the back of her mind.

“Oh, but it’s true,” Aunt Hetty said wisely. She patted Lizzy’s hand again. “You have got to stop trying to make everything turn out exactly the way you think it ought to, child. If you don’t, you’ll be crazy as a bedbug.”

Afterward, Lizzy wished that she had paid more attention to Aunt Hetty. But if she had known everything that was going to go wrong before the Watermelon Festival even opened, she might have thrown in the towel at that moment and canceled the whole entire weekend.





TWO




Myra May Is in Trouble