Miss Rogers, still wearing her Sunday-go-to-meeting navy faille dress and narrow-brimmed baku braid hat, read a paper she had submitted to the Southern Regional Garden Club Newsletter. It was all about late-season flowering shrubs that ought to do well in the Gulf Coast’s hot, humid climate, especially the Holly tea olive (Osmanthus heterophyllus), senna (Cassia corymbosa), and sasanqua camellia (Camellia sasanqua). She spelled out the Latin names not just once but twice, so that people who were taking notes could get them right. The reading went on a little long and when she was finished, her audience rewarded the conclusion by clapping-those who were still awake, that is. The scattered applause woke the others up and they sat up straight in their chairs, pretending that they had just been resting their eyes.
The next item was a little livelier. Bessie Bloodworth reported on the garden jobs they could check off the club’s to-do list and the things that still needed to be done before the first freeze. Bessie took names for the work days. Lizzy was happy to see that everybody volunteered-all but Mrs. Johnson, who regretted that she was expecting company from out of town.
Then Aunt Hetty Little (everybody called her Aunt Hetty because she was near kin to almost everybody in town) gave a report on the repair work on the clubhouse, paid for out of the Treasure Fund.
“Donny Lee Arnett charged us seventeen dollars and fifty-two cents to fix the leaks in the roof,” she said, “and it cost us four dollars and seventy-five cents for Raby Ryan to repair the front and back steps so we don’t all sprain our ankles.”
“Money well spent,” Miss Rogers observed. “Nobody can afford to see the doctor these days.” Earlynne Biddle leaned over and gave Miss Rogers’ hand a comforting pat. It was common knowledge that she had invested every cent of her money on Wall Street and lost it all on Black Tuesday, not quite a year ago. Now, she was living on the few dollars a week she earned as Darling’s part-time librarian. Her salary barely covered her room and board at Bessie Bloodworth’s Magnolia Manor, next door to the Dahlias’ clubhouse. She lived in fear that the town council would decide that Darling couldn’t afford to keep the library open and she’d be out of a job. But it wasn’t just Miss Rogers, of course-almost everybody who had a job shared the very same worry.
Aunt Hetty cleared her throat. “We also need to get Mr. Kendrick to come over and clean the stovepipe before it’s time to start building a fire in the stove here in the clubhouse,” she went on. “And we need to pay Sam Westheimer to haul a load of coal for us. I guess we should have a motion. Liz?”
“Liz,” Verna nudged her. “Liz, wake up.”
Lizzy wasn’t asleep. She had been thinking about her mother’s predicament. She had no idea what the motion should be, but she got up anyway. “Do I hear a motion?”
Everybody turned to look at Mrs. George E. Pickett Johnson, because the Treasure Fund was in Mr. George E. Pickett Johnson’s bank, the Darling Savings and Trust. “I so move,” Mrs. Johnson said. “Both the stovepipe and the coal.”
“I second it,” Beulah Trivette spoke up briskly. “But be sure and tell Mr. Westheimer to bring us some clean coal,” she added. “We don’t want none of that dirty ol’ smoky stuff he’ll deliver if you don’t especially tell him not to.”
“I agree with Beulah,” Alice Ann Walker said firmly. “More than once, I’ve had to sweep Sam Westheimer’s black coal dust up off the floors before the kids and the dogs tracked it all over.” Everybody (except for Mrs. Johnson, who had a gas furnace) agreed with Beulah because at one time or another most of them had been on the receiving end of one of those dirty coal deliveries and knew about the extra work it caused.
Then it was Mildred Kilgore’s turn, so all the Dahlias took deep breaths and sat up straighter in their chairs. Mildred (who had that effect on people) was in charge of this year’s talent show. She and her husband Roger lived near the Cypress Country Club, where Mildred grew Darling’s most gorgeous camellias. Her garden was always scheduled as the last stop on the annual Garden Tour, because no self-respecting Dahlia wanted visitors to see her garden after they had been ooh-ing and ahh-ing at Mildred’s camellias.
“The show is less than four weeks away,” Mildred said, in her brisk, I’ve-got-everything-under-control voice, “so it’s time to roll up our sleeves and get busy. I’ve been working on the program for the past month, and so far, I have nine acts lined up. You’ll probably recognize most of them.”
Mildred took out a typed list and began to read names. “I thought we would start with the Carsons’ Comedy Caravan, then Sammy Durham’s drum solo.” Aunt Hetty groaned and everyone else smiled. Sammy Durham considered himself to be a jazz drummer. Most people thought he was just plain loud. “Then the Tumbling Tambourines-they’re bringing their own mat this time-and after that, Mr. and Mrs. Akins will do their famous Spanish fandango.”
Mrs. Johnson cleared her throat delicately. “I thought there was an objection to that dance at the last show. Something to do with Mrs. Akins’ costume, wasn’t it?”
“Mrs. Akins says she’s adding more frills to lower the hem, and putting a ruffle at the neck,” Mildred replied, and Mrs. Johnson gave a grudging nod. “After the dance, Mr. Trubar and Towser will do their trombone act, and then we have something brand-new. It’s a family of jugglers from over near Monroeville. The Juggling Jinks.”
“Oh, I’ve seen them!” Lucy Murphy exclaimed. “They juggled at the Methodist picnic in July. They’re amazing!” Lucy was the club’s newest member, bringing their number to thirteen. She had been nominated by Ophelia Snow, whose husband was Lucy’s husband’s cousin. Lucy and Ophelia had had an exciting little adventure the previous May, when a convict escaped from the prison farm and ended up in Lucy’s kitchen. Ophelia beaned him with a jar of raspberry jam.
“I understand they’re quite good,” Mildred said, “but unfortunately, they’re the only new act in the program. After them, our very own Miss Rogers will perform Tennyson’s ‘The Charge of the Light Brigade.’ ”
“No matter how many times I’ve heard it, I always love it,” Earlynne Biddle said enthusiastically. “It’s my favorite poem.” Miss Rogers gave her a modest smile.
“The last number will be my own little Melody,” Mildred said, looking up from her list. “She will tap dance to a recording of Nick Lucas singing ‘Tiptoe Through the Tulips.’ ”
There was a scattering of applause, but Aunt Hetty Little piped up. “Mrs. Eiglehorn isn’t going to recite ‘Curfew Must Not Ring Tonight’? Why, she’s practically an institution.”
“She said she thought she wouldn’t perform this year,” Mildred replied diplomatically, and one or two people tittered. At the last talent show, a child in the front row had started to cry at the most theatrical moment in the poem, and poor old Mrs. Eiglehorn-eighty if she was a day and proud of her ability to memorize-had gotten so flustered that she forgot her lines. While the embarrassed mother carried out her screaming child, Mrs. Eiglehorn’s husband (several years older than his wife) had to find the place in the book and prompt her.
“It’s a pity you couldn’t find another new act or two,” Mrs. Johnson said in a negative tone. “The program is fine, but everyone has already seen and heard the whole thing.”
“I could work up another poem, I suppose,” Miss Rogers said doubtfully. “ ‘The Rime of the Ancient Mariner,’ for instance.”
“You did that one at the library benefit last year,” Verna reminded her.
“Well, then, perhaps ‘The Raven.’ ” She deepened her voice. “ ‘Once upon a midnight dreary, while I wandered, weak and weary-’ ”