The Darling Dahlias and the Naked Ladies (31 page)

“Hello, DessaRae,” Bessie said. “Is Miss Hamer in?” It was a silly question. Miss Hamer was always in. She hadn’t been out of the house for ten years, so far as Bessie knew.

“Who is it, DessaRae?” called an anxious voice. It was Miss Jamison, standing at the top of the stairs. She sounded afraid, and Bessie thought she knew why. She also thought she would like to tell her that Frankie Diamond was safely on the train and headed back up north, but she wasn’t sure she should. She found herself wondering, as well, whether she should tell Miss Hamer that Miss Jamison, aka Lorelei LaMotte, was wanted for shooting the man who had slashed Miss Lake’s face. But she wasn’t going to do that, either. That wasn’t what she was here for.

“It’s Miz Bloodworth, from across the street,” DessaRae called over her shoulder. “She here to see Miz Hamer.”

“That’s fine, then,” Miss Jamison said, sounding relieved, and disappeared.

DessaRae turned back. “Miz Hamer a bit wandery today, Miz Bloodworth. More’n usual, maybe. You sure you want to see her?”

“Thanks for the warning,” Bessie said. “Yes, I’d like to see her.”

DessaRae nodded and stepped back. “Well, then, come on in.”

Bessie followed DessaRae into the parlor on the right-hand side of the hall, where Miss Hamer spent her days. Endless days, Bessie thought, at least, they must seem endless. The old lady—she must be nearly eighty—was slumped in a wooden, cane-back wheelchair with pillows at her back and sides, a book on her lap. But she wasn’t reading, Bessie saw. Her spectacles hung around her neck on a black ribbon, and the watery blue eyes in her lined face, as leathery and wrinkled as a dried fig, held a vacant look. Her cheeks were hollowed and empty. Her arms were so thin Bessie could see her bones, fragile, like the bones of a bird. Her white hair, under an old-fashioned ruffled cap, was dry and wispy.

DessaRae bent over her chair. “Miz Bloodworth’s here to see you, Miz Hamer,” she said loudly.

“Tell her I’m busy,” Miss Hamer said, as petulant as a small child. She picked up her book and held it in shaking hands. “I’m reading. I don’t have time for visitors.”

“How nice to see you, Miss Hamer,” Bessie said, unperturbed. It had always been this way. Harold’s sister always said she never had time for visitors. Bessie usually took no for an answer and left, since there was nothing to be gained from trying to talk to somebody who wouldn’t talk to you. But today she was determined. She pulled up a chair and sat down.

“I get you some iced tea and cookies,” DessaRae said.

“Don’t bother,” Miss Hamer said sharply. “She’s not stayin’. She’ll be gone before you get back in here with the tray.”

“Yes’m.” DessaRae disappeared, closing the door behind her.

Bessie folded her hands in her lap. “I hope your niece and her friend are settling in,” she said loudly.

Miss Hamer made a scornful noise.

“I hope Miss Jamison is some help to you,” Bessie persisted.

“Help to DessaRae, not to me,” Miss Hamer said. Her voice was cracked and brittle. “Her old back won’t let her lift me and I can’t lift myself. Doc Roberts said I had to get somebody in to help or he’d take DessaRae away from me. Said he wasn’t going to let one old invalid wait on another.” She gave a self-pitying sigh. “Even made me find another home for Robert E. Lee.”

Robert E. Lee was Mrs. Hamer’s dog. Bessie was a little surprised to hear all this, since Mrs. Hamer usually didn’t talk. “Well, it’s nice,” she said in a comforting tone. “That your niece is a help, I mean. Must be good to have family with you.”

Miss Hamer looked at her sideways and said nothing.

“Speaking of family,” Bessie said, “I was thinking of Harold the other day.”

“Who?” Miss Hamer leaned forward and put her hand behind her ear. “Who?”

“Harold.” Bessie raised her voice. “Your brother.”

Miss Hamer gave a dismissive gesture. “Why are you thinkin’ of him? Don’t be a fool, Bessie. You’re too old for romantic thoughts. Anyway, it’s all in the past. It’s done.”

Bessie leaned forward, speaking distinctly. “Not romantic thoughts. I got over that a good many years ago. More like wanting to get unfinished business out of the way.” She paused. “You never heard from him, over the years?”

“Wouldn’t I have told you if I did?”

Bessie chuckled. “I doubt it.”

There was a silence. “Why are you bringin’ him up now?” the old lady asked.

Why? Bessie asked herself, and answered her own question. “Because I found a box of my father’s papers in the attic, and it was his birthday, and I got to thinking about him. And thinking about my father got me thinking of Harold. And then a couple of ladies from the garden club came over and I started telling them that we’d been engaged once. And wondering—”

Miss Hamer turned to look her full in the face. Her eyes were no longer vacant, but sharp, piercing. “Wonderin’ what?”

Bessie lifted her shoulders and let them fall. “Just . . . wondering, is all. Where he went and why. But mostly wondering why he never got in touch.” She met Miss Hamer’s eyes. “That wasn’t like Harold.”

Miss Hamer turned away. There was a long silence. Finally, she said, “No. It wasn’t like Harold.” She looked Bessie in the face again. “Why don’t you ask your daddy why he left?”

“Ask my daddy?” Bessie said, in some surprise. “Why, Miss Hamer, my father has been dead for over ten years. And anyway, why would he know about Harold?”

“Dead? Ten years?” Miss Hamer shut her eyes, then opened them. “Why didn’t I know he died?” she asked pitiably. “How come DessaRae never told me?” Her voice became thinner, wilder. “How come
you
didn’t tell me, Bessie Bloodworth?”

“I’m sure I did,” Bessie said, trying to soothe her. “Or maybe I just thought you knew.” Or maybe you forgot, you silly old thing, she thought to herself. “He died over at Monroeville, in the hospital. He had lung cancer. We buried him in his very own cemetery, beside Mama.” Putting him there had been like taking him home.

“Ten years,” Miss Hamer muttered, shaking her head in disbelief. “Your daddy’s been gone from this green earth for ten whole years. And all this time, I’ve been sitting here in this chair, hating him, wanting him dead.” She broke off with a crackling laugh, like dry paper ripping. “Ten years!”

“You’ve been hating him?” Bessie frowned. “Why? And why are we talking about my father, anyway? Why did you tell me to ask him about Harold? He had no idea why you sent your brother away. He didn’t want us to get married any more than you did, but—”

“
I
sent Harold away?” Miss Hamer’s laugh had a ragged edge. “
I
did?”

“Yes, you.” Bessie paused and softened her tone, wanting to keep the bitterness out of her voice. After all these years, being bitter didn’t help anybody. “You aimed to keep your little brother all to yourself. You were bound and determined to make life miserable for any girl he cared about. He knew that. So he left. Maybe you didn’t actually send him away, but it amounts to the same thing.”

“Huh!” Miss Hamer said sarcastically. “I reckon that means you don’t know.”

“Don’t know what?”

“It was your daddy who sent Harold off. Offered him money to just up and leave town. Just disappear.”

Bessie felt suddenly cold. “Offered him . . . money?” she whispered. “How do you know?”

“Because he told me, your daddy did,” the old lady said triumphantly. “Told me his very own self, right here in this room. Bragged that he was goin’ to offer money to Harold to jilt you, and that he knew Harold would take it.”

“But Harold would never—”

“That’s what I said. I told him that Harold was a prideful, stubborn boy, and he had his whole heart set on you. And your daddy laughed and said, well, we’ll just see who is prideful and stubborn—when it comes to money.”

Bessie sucked in her breath. “I don’t believe—”

Miss Hamer pounded her fist on the arm of her wheelchair. “So I told Harold what your daddy had said and he swore up and down to me—yes, right in this room, sittin’ right in that chair you’re sittin’ in now—that he wasn’t going to take the money. He was going to meet your daddy that night and tell him to go to hell. Told me to go to hell, too, when I said to him that he ought to take whatever was offered and leave.” She laughed again, then fell into a coughing spell that went on for a very long time. When she had recovered her breath, she produced a white lawn hankie and wiped her mouth. She said, in a weak, thin voice, “That was wrong of me. I admit it. And I’ve suffered for it all these years. It’s been like a worm gnawin’ at my innards evermore.”

“You told him—” Bessie swallowed and tried again. “You told him to take it?”

“I did. I am not proud of it now, but I did.” Miss Hamer gave a long, trembling sigh and her thin fingers fluttered. “And I reckon he decided to do like I said. He went off to see your daddy that night and never came home, not even to get his clothes. I reckon he was ashamed of lettin’ himself be bought off, which is why he didn’t say good-bye or write to either of us. He was ashamed. Ashamed of takin’ your daddy’s money to jilt your daddy’s daughter.”

“I don’t believe it,” Bessie said fiercely, balling up her fists. “I can believe that my father might’ve offered . . . something. But I can’t believe Harold took it! He couldn’t. He wouldn’t!”

“Dead,” Miss Hamer muttered. “Your daddy dead ten years, and I never knew.” She licked her lips. “All that hatin’, all that time. Wasted.” She dropped her head into her hands and began to weep. After a moment, she lifted her head and began to beat her balled hands against her breasts, and then to shriek. Long, agonized shrieks that made Bessie want to cover her ears.

The old black woman hurried in. “Best you go now, Miz Bloodworth.” She bent over and put her arms around the shaking woman. “There, there, now, honey,” she crooned, rocking her. “I’ll git you some o’ dat ol’ Miles Nervine Miss Nona Jean bought for you. It’ll be all right. It’ll be jes’ fine.”

Bessie was about to step off the front porch when the front door opened behind her.

“Miss Bloodworth, please.”

Bessie turned, startled. At first she didn’t quite believe her eyes, but she knew it had to be true. It was Miss Jamison, a print scarf tied around her brown hair. She was wearing a shapeless gray cotton housedress that must have once belonged to Miss Hamer, felt bedroom slippers, and not a trace of makeup. She looked, Bessie thought, like a sharecropper’s wife.

“What happened at the beauty parlor today—” Miss Jamison raised her voice, to be heard over Miss Hamer’s anguished cries. “I hope it won’t go any further, Miss Bloodworth. I don’t want the whole town gossiping about me. Or about Miss Lake, either. As it is, the poor thing is so distraught that she can’t sleep. I tried to get her some of her Veronal, but the druggist refused to fill her prescription.”

Bessie hadn’t meant to tell this, but maybe it would relieve Miss Jamison’s mind. “If you’re worrying about Frankie Diamond, you can stop right now. Deputy Norris put him on the train back to Chicago earlier this afternoon.”

“He—what?” Miss Jamison’s hand went to her mouth. “Are you
sure
? How do you know?”

“I saw him collared myself,” Bessie replied. “On the square, in front of Mann’s Mercantile. We—” She was about to mention about what Verna had found out in her telephone conversation with the talkative Mrs. O’Malley, but she was interrupted by the sound of an automobile. She turned.

Mr. Bailey Beauchamp’s lemon yellow Cadillac Phaeton was purring along Camellia Street. The canvas top was folded back, Lightning was at the wheel, and Mr. Beauchamp was sitting in the back seat. As they approached Miss Hamer’s house, Mr. Beauchamp leaned forward and tapped Lightning on the shoulder with his cane. The car slowed and Mr. Beauchamp slid over in the seat, peering at the street numbers. He saw the house and the two women on the porch, smiled broadly, and began to raise his hat. Then he got a good look at Miss Jamison. He stared, frowned, jammed his hat back on his head, and spoke curtly to Lightning. The Cadillac sped up.

Miss Jamison’s disguise was a success.

Lizzy took her column—neatly typed, double-spaced, the pages numbered—to the
Dispatch
office downstairs, which smelled of ink and cigarette smoke. Charlie Dickens was sitting at his battered wooden desk, typing fast with two fingers on an old black Royal typewriter, a cigarette stuck crookedly in one corner of his mouth. He wore his usual green celluloid eyeshade, a rumpled white shirt with the sleeves rolled up and tie askew, and a gray vest. Rolls of newsprint were stacked along one wall, and behind him, at the back of the large room, loomed the silent newspaper press. Mr. Dickens and his helper, Boomer Craig, would crank it up and start printing the paper on Thursday evening, after Lizzy and Mr. Moseley had gone home for the day. The press rattled the building and made as much noise as a locomotive.