“The Hamer family history?” she asked. She rubbed a knuckle in her eye, trying not to show that the Hamer family was as disturbing a subject as the Bloodworths. At that moment, Roseanne appeared with the pitcher of lemonade-the pitcher was decorated with painted oranges and lemons-and matching glasses on a tray. “Thanks, Roseanne,” she said, grateful for the interruption, and began to pour lemonade.
“I met Miss Jamison when she came to do some business with Mr. Moseley,” Liz went on in an explanatory tone. “And Verna-” She took the glass Bessie handed her. “Verna had a little conversation with her at the drugstore. But maybe she’d better tell you about that part.”
Verna leaned forward with an intent look. “The thing is, Bessie, I’ve met her before. Miss Jamison, I mean. About ten years ago.”
“In Monroeville, maybe?” Bessie guessed, handing Verna a glass and setting the pitcher on the low table in front of them. “That’s where Nona Jean grew up. Her mother-she’s dead now-was Miss Hamer’s younger sister. At least, that’s what I understand. I met her for the first time last week, when she got into town.” She settled back in her chair. This was all true, and easy. It was the part of the story that didn’t harbor any ghosts.
“Not in Monroeville,” Verna replied sharply. “And she wasn’t Nona Jean, either. When I met her, she was in New York City, going by the name of Lorelei LaMotte.”
“Lorelei-” Bessie blinked. “Who did you say?”
Bessie listened as Verna told her story. By the time it was finished, she was shaking her head in disbelief.
“A vaudeville act?” she exclaimed incredulously. “You’re sure?” She paused, pursing her lips and thinking about her own first reaction to Miss Hamer’s niece. “Although Nona Jean does rather look like…” She laughed a little. “I don’t know why I should be surprised. She certainly has the figure for it. Still-”
“Go on, Verna,” Liz urged. “Show her what you showed me earlier this afternoon, before the meeting.”
Verna’s black leather handbag was on the ground at her feet, and she picked it up and pulled out a creased piece of paper. “Lorelei LaMotte signed this playbill for me, Bessie, backstage at the New Amsterdam Theater after her act. That’s her signature.”
“My gracious.” Bessie took the playbill and studied the picture for a moment, feeling her mouth drop open. Miss Hamer’s niece, revealing all that bare skin? What would the old lady do if she saw this? She took a breath. “Well, I must say it does look like her, platinum hair and all-although she’s certainly not showing so much of herself these days.”
“It’s her,” Verna said flatly, “although for some reason or another, she doesn’t want to admit it.”
Bessie took one last look-really, those breasts! And all that bare skin!-and handed the playbill back. “Well, Darling is a quiet little place. I don’t suppose she wants people here in town-most especially her aunt-to know what she’s been up to since she left Monroeville.” She looked from Verna to Liz, trying to calculate just how much she should say. “And I don’t doubt that she is Miss Hamer’s niece, if that’s what you’re wondering. Miss Hamer really did ask her to come, although not very willingly, I have to say. In fact, I’m sure she wouldn’t have done it if DessaRae’s back hadn’t gone bad. And if Doc Roberts hadn’t insisted.”
“That’s actually what we wanted to ask you about,” Liz said. “Since you know Miss Hamer so well, we thought you might be able to fill in the details. Forgive us for being nosy,” she added. “Miss Jamison is… well, an unusual person. Here in Darling, anyway.”
Bessie couldn’t help herself. She gave a sarcastic chuckle. “What makes you think I know Miss Hamer? To tell God’s honest truth, often as I’ve talked to that old lady, I don’t really know her. Nobody does. She’s a mystery,” she added darkly. “And not a very pleasant one, in my considered opinion.”
“But we thought you were helping her,” Liz said, raising her eyebrows in surprise. “That you were a friend.”
“Of course I’m helping her!” Bessie said indignantly. “That’s what neighbors do, when a person lets them. But Miss Hamer has alienated everyone else on Camellia Street over the years. I’m not a friend, I’m just the only one left-aside from DessaRae, of course-who will have anything to do with her. And that’s only because she and I go back a long, long way.” She pressed her lips together and looked away. And then, quite unexpectedly and entirely without intending to, she added, “And because of her brother.”
“Her brother?” Verna asked, looking puzzled.
A bright yellow butterfly lit on the clipped green grass at Bessie’s feet, fluttered its delicate wings for a moment, then flew away, dancing on the light breeze. Wishing she hadn’t spoken, Bessie straightened her shoulders and clasped her fingers in her lap.
“Anyway, the current situation is pretty straightforward,” she said, not answering Verna’s question. “Miss Hamer hasn’t been able to manage without help since the beginning of summer. She’s not bedridden yet, but nearly. DessaRae’s back finally got so bad that she couldn’t lift the old lady the way she used to, or get her into her chair or onto the chamber pot. So Doc Roberts finally put his foot down and said that Dessa Rae could do the cooking and light work, but that somebody else was going to have to do the heavy lifting. He suggested one or two ladies he knew were available, but they didn’t want to live in-and they wanted to be paid.” She chuckled drily. “And since Miss Hamer is so hard to get along with, they wanted to be paid quite a lot. One of them asked for twenty cents an hour.”
“Ah,” Verna said thoughtfully.
“Exactly,” Bessie replied. “Miss Hamer has plenty of money-in fact, she’s got more than all the rest of us put together. Some people say that she keeps it under her mattress, because she doesn’t trust Mr. Johnson at the bank.”
“I can understand that,” Liz muttered.
“But however much she’s got,” Bessie went on, “she doesn’t like to spend it. So that’s why Nona Jean is here. A few weeks ago, out of the blue, she wrote to her aunt from Chicago. Said she was wanting to come back to Alabama and wondered whether Miss Hamer could help her get a job and find a place to live.”
“Out of the blue,” Verna repeated in a meaningful tone. “It sounds as if they hadn’t been in contact over the years. Is that right?”
“I think that’s right,” Bessie replied. “Miss Jamison’s mother-Miss Hamer’s sister-has been dead going on twenty or twenty-five years. I don’t remember Miss Hamer ever mentioning that she had a niece.” Although of course it wasn’t a subject they talked about. Like the other part of the Hamer family history, which neither of them had ever mentioned to the other, at least not in the past twenty years. The Hamer and Bloodworth history, two chapters of a single story.
Verna was frowning intently, as if she were mentally sorting through a series of filing cards. “Did Miss Hamer verify who she was?”
Bessie could see where this was going and wondered why she hadn’t thought of it herself. “You mean, did the old lady get somebody to check her out? No, I don’t reckon she did. Why are you asking?”
Verna cast an I-told-you-so look at Liz, who said, rather hurriedly, “I don’t suppose Miss Jamison mentioned anything to her aunt about dancing. Or vaudeville or Broadway or Mr. Ziegfeld.”
“You’re certainly right about that,” Bessie said caustically. “If she had, she’d still be in Chicago. Dancing is one of the things Miss Hamer can’t abide. One of the many things.”
“I suppose that’s why Miss Jamison refuses to admit that she’s Lorelei LaMotte,” Verna said reflectively. She folded the playbill and put it back in her handbag, then gave Liz another look. “I guess there’s no point in even thinking about the talent show, then.”