Lizzy and Verna sat down at the table. They were silent for a moment, eating their pie and drinking their coffee and listening to the radio. The band was now playing the first bars of “Life Is Just a Bowl of Cherries.” The announcer said, “Ladies and gentlemen, give a warm welcome to a new singer with a fabulous voice-somebody you’ll want to keep your eye on and tune your ears to. Here he is, Bing Crosby!”
The crooner came in on the beat. “Don’t take it serious,” he sang. “Life’s too mysterious.”
In a thoughtful tone, Verna said, “Hey, Liz, how about if you and I have a talk with Bessie after the Dahlias’ meeting tomorrow.” She grinned. “Bessie loves to dig around in people’s family history. She may know bushels about Lorelei LaMotte.”
“Sounds like a good place to start,” Lizzy agreed. “Sure. Let’s do that.” She hesitated, thinking that she ought to let Verna know what she had in mind. “Actually, I’m thinking of talking to Mr. Dickens about the possibility of writing a-”
But she didn’t get to finish her sentence. Myra May had just come into the diner from the Exchange. Her face was somber and there was a dark look in her eyes.
Lizzy was startled-and concerned. The switchboard operator was always the first to know if there was a fire or an automobile accident or if somebody had died and the relatives were calling Mr. Noonan, who ran Darling’s only funeral parlor. “Has something happened, Myra May? Who was that on the phone?”
Verna got up and pulled out a chair. “Here. Sit down and have some coffee. You look pale.”
Myra May sat down with a thump. She took a sip of coffee and put down the cup. “What’s happened,” she said bleakly, “is that Violet’s sister has died.”
“Oh, dear,” Lizzy exclaimed, horror-stricken. She knew how much Violet had loved her sister, how close they had been. “Oh, Myra May, that’s too bad! I am so sorry!”
“The baby’s going to be all right?” Verna asked.
“The baby’s fine. It’s the mother who’s dead.”
“So keep repeating ‘It’s the berries,’ ” Bing Crosby sang. “And live and laugh at it all.”
“Applesauce.” Verna got up and switched off the radio.
Lizzy put her hand on Myra May’s arm, glad that the song, with its forced, phony cheerfulness, was gone. Into the silence, she said softly, “What’s Violet going to do?”
Myra May gave a heavy sigh. She looked down at her hands and Lizzy could see the worry gnawing away at her. “Bury her sister, I guess. Stay in Memphis and take care of the baby while the daddy is at work. There isn’t much else she can do.” Another sigh. “Trouble is, he’s a drinker, and he didn’t really want the kid in the first place. Plus, the apartment is a really small place. She’s sleeping on the couch, with Dorothy in a dresser drawer.” She dropped her head into her hands.
Lizzy shivered. A drinker. Prohibition-the Volstead Act had gone into effect nationally in 1920-was supposed to take care of that, wasn’t it? But of course it hadn’t. There seemed to be a lot more booze than there ever was before. In small towns everywhere, local moonshiners and bootleggers made sure that anybody who wanted a bottle could get one-even in the South, which, as Will Rogers joked, was dry and would continue to vote dry as long as people were sober enough to stagger to the polls. In big cities like Chicago, gangsters such as Al Capone and Bugs Moran were making millions out of the sale of bootleg alcohol, and black markets were flourishing everywhere.
“How about Violet’s mother?” Verna asked. “Can’t she help?”
“She died a couple of years ago,” Myra May replied, her voice muffled. “There aren’t any other relatives, on either side of the family.” She raised her head and pushed her pie plate away. “Sorry, girls. I don’t much feel like eating dessert. I’d just rather… rather be alone, I guess.”
“We understand, Myra May.” Verna stood and picked up the empty plates and cups. She glanced at the clock on the wall. “Come on, Liz. It’s past ten. Time we were heading home.”
Lizzy got up, too, then bent and dropped a quick kiss onto her friend’s dark curls. Myra May always appeared tough and in control, and she never liked to show her feelings. It was as if she were a turtle, retreating inside its shell when something threatened. But she was far more vulnerable than she looked, and Lizzy knew she was hurting.
“We’re here if you need us,” she said quietly. “All you have to do is call.”
As if that were a signal, the switchboard buzzed. Myra May stood and picked up her coffee cup. “Well, that’s it,” she said wearily. “Feelin’ sorry time is over. Gotta go to work.” She gave her friends a crooked grin. “Just a bowl of cherries, huh? Wonder whose life that idiot is singing about. Nobody I know.”
As Myra May went in the direction of the switchboard, Lizzy and Verna let themselves out the diner’s front door, locking it behind them.
The streetlights around Darling’s courthouse square, installed a couple of years before, were always turned off at nine thirty to save on electricity. Even on dark nights, this didn’t much matter, since the movie was usually over by nine and everybody was home by the time the lights went out. But tonight there was a moon, nearly full, hanging like a huge silver coin in the eastern sky, turning the silent street into a moving tapestry of lights and shadows. There wasn’t a sound except for the distant sputtering of an automobile and the sharp yap-yap-yapping of a small dog, somewhere a little closer.
Lizzy looked up at the moon swimming in a sky full of stars, and was glad that the streetlights were off. She took a deep breath, loving the warm dark and the fragrance of honeysuckle. She felt terribly sorry for Violet and for the new little baby, who would never know her mother. But she felt even sorrier for all the people, everywhere, who had to live and work in big cities like Memphis and Chicago, where there was crime and lawlessness and ugliness everywhere they looked. They would never know how it felt to live in a safe and beautiful place like Darling, where people cared about each other and about their little town.
Verna gave her a sharp look. “You okay about walking home alone, Lizzy?”
“Of course,” Lizzy said. Home was just a couple of blocks away. Daffodil would be waiting for her, and her own sweet little house, and the companionable screech owl that lived in the live oak outside her bedroom window. “And this is Darling, you know.”
“Yeah, it’s Darling,” Verna said. “But that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t be careful.” She pushed her hands into the pockets of her skirt. “Wonder what Myra May will do if Violet decides to stay in Memphis to take care of that baby.”
“I don’t know,” Lizzy said, shaking her head. “I’ve been wondering that, too. Times are tough. People have to make hard choices. But we have to look on the bright side. Whatever Violet does, it’ll be the right thing. I hope.”
“Yeah,” Verna said again. “I hope so, too. But the right thing for some folks is sometimes the wrong thing for others.” She let that hang in the air for a moment, then said, “Don’t forget. We’re talking to Bessie Bloodworth right after the meeting tomorrow. About Miss Jamison.” She grinned. “Also known as Lorelei LaMotte.”
“I won’t forget,” Lizzy said. “Good night, Verna.” She turned and began to walk down the street.
Verna turned to go the other way, took a few steps, then stopped and flung out her arms. “Don’t take it serious,” she called. She did a little soft-shoe shuffle. “Life’s too mysterious.”
Lizzy laughed and waved, then headed home, feeling a little lighter. Life might not be a bowl of cherries, but you could always find something that would cheer you up-as long as you lived in Darling, anyway.