The Darling Dahlias and the Texas Star

by Susan Wittig Albert

  Raylene turned from the skillet, a spoon in one hand. When she saw Aunt Hetty, her eyes widened, startled, and she ducked her head and turned away again. For a moment, there was a silence.

  Then Aunt Hetty said, very quietly. “I’m sorry—what did you say your name was, hon?”

  When Raylene didn’t immediately answer, Myra May repeated, a little louder, “This is Raylene Riggs, Aunt Hetty. She’s been working in Tampa as a hotel chef and has had lots of experience as a cook. Violet and I think we’re downright lucky to have her.”

  “Raylene, is it?” Aunt Hetty said. She went to Raylene, then put up her hand and gently turned Raylene’s face toward her. “I know you, don’t I?”

  Raylene pulled back, shaking her head, her lips pressed tightly together. But Aunt Hetty was not deterred. She put her hand on Raylene’s arm.

  “I do know you, Raylene—or I used to, a long time ago. Put down that spoon and come over here by the window, child. I want to see you up close, in the light.”

  Raylene cast an anxious glance at Myra May, who shook her head slightly and continued to peel the boiled egg she had in her hand. She knew better than to interfere when Aunt Hetty had her mind set on something. As one of the oldest women in Darling—certainly the oldest Dahlia—she was a law unto herself. Reluctantly, Raylene followed the old lady.

  “Now, you just let me have a good look,” Aunt Hetty said, as they stood in front of the window. She lifted her hand and traced the outline of Raylene’s face and mouth. “Yes, I know you, my dear,” she said softly. There was a tremor in her scratchy old voice. “And you know me.”

  “No. No, I don’t think so,” Raylene said, and tried to turn away.

  But Aunt Hetty took her by the arm and turned her back. “Well, I do,” she said. “I know I do. And while I may not be a spring chicken any longer, there’s nothing wrong with my memory. I never forget a face.” She turned to look at Myra May. “Don’t you, Myra May?”

  Myra May put her peeled egg down on the plate and sliced it down the middle. “Don’t I what, Aunt Hetty?” she asked casually. With a spoon, she scooped out the cooked yolk and dropped it into a bowl. She picked up another egg.

  “Know this lady,” Aunt Hetty said. “Why, I’m sure you must, Myra May. You don’t recognize her?” She gave a long sigh. “No, I don’t expect you do, and no surprise. You were too young, I reckon. You were just a little ’un, not two years old, not even talking yet. You wouldn’t remember.”

  “Really,” Raylene said, and tried to turn away again. “I have so much to do for this party tonight, Miz Little. I can’t stand around talking about—”

  “You’re Ina Ray, aren’t you?” Aunt Hetty said, still clutching Raylene’s arm. “Miss Ina Ray Sparks.” She paused, while the silence lengthened. “Mrs. Ina Ray Sparks Mosswell.”

  Myra May dropped the boiled egg she held in her hand. It smashed onto the floor and rolled under the table. Her knees felt suddenly weak and she groped for the nearest chair.

  “Myra May,” Raylene said, in a choked voice. “Please—”

  Myra May was staring at Aunt Hetty. “Ina Ray?” she whispered. “But she . . . she can’t be! My mother is dead, Aunt Hetty. Don’t you remember? She died when I was a little baby. She went on a visit to Savannah, to see her parents, and she got sick. She died and she was buried there. My father told me. He said she was dead. He said—”

  And then Myra May stopped and looked at Raylene. But she was also seeing the gold-framed photograph on her dresser, her striking young mother dressed in a lacy white shirtwaist and long dark skirt, in a photograph taken when Myra May was the baby girl in her mother’s arms. Her mother’s face—and Raylene’s face, thirty years younger. The same firm jaw, the determined mouth, the wide-spaced eyes. Raylene and Ina Ray. They were the same, weren’t they? Weren’t they?

  “He said you were dead,” Myra May repeated. She bent over, clutching herself, and began to cry. “Why did he say you were dead?”

  Raylene was at her side in two strides, gathering her into her arms. “There, baby girl,” she whispered, holding Myra May tightly against her, both of them crying now. “There, there, baby girl.”

  After a few moments, Aunt Hetty coughed. “I understand why Dr. Mosswell sent you away, Ina Ray. But I never understood why he and his sister told ever’body you were dead. Didn’t seem right then. Doesn’t seem right now.”

  “They did it because I was dead to them,” Raylene said in a choked voice. “To both of them. They wanted me to be dead to my daughter.” She was still holding Myra May to her, crushing her, as if she would never let her go. “He warned me. He said if I ever came back, he would tell Myra May how evil her mother had been. He would destroy me forever in her eyes, in her heart.”

  “Not evil, just foolish,” Aunt Hetty amended quietly. “It was a mistake, you and that young man—but we all make ’em.” She paused. “That young man. I misremember his name.”

  “Roscoe,” Raylene whispered. “Roscoe Bennett.”

  “Ah, yes. Preacher Bennett’s middle boy. You were so young. And Jeremiah Mosswell was—what? Twenty years older? Twenty-five? And proper. All them Mosswells was stiff and proper as deacons. Never had an hour of fun in their lives.”

  “Mama?” Myra May whispered incredulously. She lifted her eyes, the tears blurring her vision so that all she could see was the shape of the pale face, the smiling face in the photograph. “Mama?”

  “Yes,” Raylene said. kissed her forehead tenderly. “I am so sorry, Myra May. So, so, so sorry. I don’t know how I could ever have gone away and left you behind. How could I have done that?”

  Aunt Hetty sighed. “We do what we have to, Ina Ray. And you were so young. I said at the time, I don’t know what your daddy and mama could ever have thought, marrying you off to a stuffed-shirt Mosswell. Sixteen, were you?”

  “Seventeen, just barely,” Raylene replied. “I was rebellious. They thought I needed to be taken in hand, and that Dr. Mosswell was the one to do it,” Raylene said. Myra May heard the note of bitterness in her voice. “He and my daddy were old friends, you know. Daddy trusted him to settle me down. Well, he was bound to do that, body and soul. Settle me down.”

  “Jeremiah would do that, and more,” Aunt Hetty said darkly.

  Myra May couldn’t take her eyes off Raylene—off her mother. “Mama?” she whispered again. “Is it really you? Really?” Her vision was beginning to clear. The remembered photograph faded and all she could see now was the face of the woman. Raylene’s face.

  “Really. Yes, really.” Raylene knelt down beside Myra May. “You’re too young to remember, sweetheart, but the first time I left your daddy, I bundled up all your little dresses and toys and took you with me. We didn’t get far, only to Pensacola. That’s where the police caught up with us and made us go back to the Mosswells, to your daddy and his sister.” She smiled shakily. “You were so sweet, Myra May, such beautiful dimples and little fat hands and a glorious laugh that went straight to my heart. I meant . . . I thought . . . I was sure I’d be able to come back to Darling and get you. I even tried, twice.”

  “You did?” Myra May gulped, still incredulous. She put out a hand to touch Raylene’s face. “You really . . . came back for me?”

  Raylene nodded. “Once when you were six and again when you were eight.” A smile played across her mouth—a mouth, Myra May thought, that was very like her own. “The first time, I just stayed out of sight and watched. The second time, I got a room at the Old Alabama and walked past your house several times, watching you playing outdoors. When you ran off with one of your friends, I went into your daddy’s office to talk to him. I wanted to take you with me for a visit.”

  “But you didn’t talk to me?” Myra May whispered. “You were that close and you didn’t talk to me?”

  Raylene shook her head. “I couldn’t, Myra May. He had already told you I was dead.” Her musc
les of her jaw tightened. “I can’t tell you how much that hurt. But I had to agree with him that it would be too confusing, too difficult for you to handle. And it looked like your Aunt Belle was taking good care of you—”

  “Auntie Bellum,” Myra May said, and managed a tearful laugh. “Oh, she took good care of me, all right.”

  Raylene threw back her head and laughed. “Yes. Antebellum. She was a Mosswell, that’s for sure—stiff and unbending and old-fashioned as all get-out. I am sure that woman wore a steel-boned corset until the day she died, bless her heart. But I stayed around for a while after I talked with your father, and watched you with Belle. You were such a beautiful little girl, and so strong and lively—a handful. Too much, I suspected, for your aunt. And too much, certainly, for your daddy. But they were taking good care of you. I was sure of that.”

  “That might be true,” Myra May said somberly. “But I almost never saw him, you know. Not then. Not when I was a little girl. He was always away, taking care of other people’s kids. Auntie Bellum said it was because I reminded him of you, which I thought ought to make him happy, since he always said he loved you. It didn’t, though.”

  “I’m sure it didn’t,” Raylene murmured, touching Myra May’s cheek. “But as I was watching you, it seemed to me that you looked happy. And I knew I couldn’t give you all the things your father could give you—a comfortable home, nice clothes, an education. Especially an education. What kind of an education would you have if you came with me? So I went away feeling sorry for myself and thinking I’d come back when you were older and independent. But things happened in my life and the years went by and—

  She broke off, frowning a little. “You were, weren’t you, Myra May? You were happy, growing up? You seem so happy now that I think you must have been happy then.”

  “Most of the time, yes, I suppose,” Myra May said, “except for missing you. All I had was your photograph, and a big empty hole where you were supposed to be.” She knew that her voice sounded petulant and whiney, a little girl’s voice, but she couldn’t help it. Yes, she was happy now. But there had been long stretches of her girlhood when she was pinned under the thumb of strict Aunt Belle and all she could do was squirm. Those years would have been much happier if she’d had her mother. Wouldn’t they?

  “Don’t look so sour, Myra May,” Aunt Hetty said in a kindly tone. “You neither, Ina Ray. Doesn’t help to hold a grudge, y’know. Life’s too short for that.”

  Raylene wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “I remember something I heard you say once, Aunt Hetty. Something about keeping our faces to the sun so we can’t see the shadows.”

  “And planting sunflowers and marigolds amongst the collards and sweet potatoes and okra,” Aunt Hetty added. “It’s true, too. Life’s too short to be bitter. Look on the bright side, is what I say.”

  Raylene chuckled. “How could I be bitter,” she said, “when I have everything that’s wonderful and sweet, right here.” She bent over and cupped Myra May’s face in her hands. “Right here, right in front of me.”

  Myra May caught at her hands. “You’ll stay this time, though? You’ll stay?”

  “That’s why I’m here.” The tears were running down Raylene’s cheeks. “That’s why I’m here, my precious, my beautiful daughter.”

  EIGHTEEN

  Closed Until Further Notice

  Charlie Dickens usually ran off the weekly Dispatch on Thursday evening, so he could take the papers to the post office for mailing on Friday morning. But this week, he had postponed the press run in order to escort Lily Dare to the special showing of Hell’s Angels, and then he had spent the night at the airstrip in the company of Rex Hart. Having shared a companionable bottle of Mickey LeDoux’s white lightning with the fellow, Charlie was about ninety-nine percent certain that Hart had had nothing whatever to do with the sabotage of Lily’s airplane. He seemed to be concerned about the safety of the planes—as well he might be, since his job depended on it.

  And as for the Texas Star herself—well, after that ridiculous little abduction stunt at the Kilgores’ house, Charlie was entirely disgusted with her. It didn’t matter what kind of a run-in she had had with Roger and Mildred, she wasn’t justified in doing what she did. Climbing out of the window was utterly stupid, and it was even stupider to make it look like she’d been kidnapped. Charlie had lost all patience with her—and she had lost any attraction she ever held for him. He’d be just as glad if he didn’t see Lily Dare ever again. He didn’t owe her so much as a second thought.

  But Charlie couldn’t hold back the swarm of second thoughts that had continued to plague him since he had left Fannie Champaign on Wednesday night. The echo of her sad little sigh, the memory of her disappointment in him—these stung him now even more piercingly than they had when he had left her, wearing the noble righteousness of his lie like a badge of honor. Then, he had thought it was better to convince Fannie that he wasn’t suitable husband material and that he intended never to marry—and that the best way to do this was to get her to see him as a two-timing jerk. Lily Dare had happened along at exactly the right time to assist in this deception.

  Now, giving the matter the second thoughts he should have bestowed on it in the first place, Charlie was beginning to think that he might have taken the wrong approach. He had shown himself to be a complete and utter cad with absolutely no redeeming qualities—and that, surely, was not the case. He certainly wasn’t an angel, but he wasn’t the devil with horns that Fannie now must think him. Maybe he shouldn’t have painted himself as an unregenerate louse who would two-time her with Lily Dare and humiliate her in front of her friends. After all, he hadn’t really two-timed her, had he? He’d just pretended to. To put it bluntly, he had told her a lie for the sake of the truth, but it was nevertheless a lie.

  Now, giving it some second thought, he decided that instead of lying, he should have come straight out and told her that he wasn’t interested in matrimony—at least, not just now, at the moment when it seemed that everybody in town already had them standing at the altar. He should probably have added that he very much enjoyed being with her (which was true) and would miss their evenings together if they stopped seeing one another (also true) and as a matter of fact did not want to stop seeing her (most definitely true).

  So, having given the matter due consideration, he decided that it would be best if he dropped in at Fannie’s hat shop today and cleared up any misapprehension she might have about the true nature of his character. That would allow them to continue seeing one another, but without any inconvenient expectations on her part.

  This vigorous back-and-forth debate was going through Charlie’s mind on Friday morning as he put on his heavy canvas apron and a pressman’s hat made of folded newsprint, to keep the ink out of his hair. At the makeup table, he took one last, careful look at the type forms that made up the four pages of home print—the local news and advertisements that occupied half of the newspaper. The pages looked pretty good, he thought, considering. There was plenty of news, anyway, although he could have wished for a few more ads.

  Headlining the local page was an article Charlie had written about Gene Ralston, a Darling veteran who had gone to Washington, D.C., to join the Bonus Army. Earlier in the spring, some 43,000 veterans of the Great War began to gather at the Capitol to demand the cash bonuses that had been promised to them back in 1924. Their hopes were fired up in June when the House passed a bill authored by Texas Representative Wright Patman, allowing them to collect their bonuses immediately, in cash—then dashed when the Senate defeated it a couple of days later. But the vets were still in Washington, still trying to pressure President Hoover to act on their behalf—a wasted effort, in Charlie’s estimation. Hoover had to hold on to his political base, the Republican loyalists who didn’t approve of any government-backed relief efforts. The president couldn’t afford to do anything that would make them angry enough to stay home come Election
Day next November. Roosevelt’s promises of a “new deal” (whatever that was) appealed to a great many people, more than enough, Charlie thought, to elect him. Hoover was facing an uphill battle.

  There were several other page one stories: the arrest of a couple of local moonshiners by the Revenuers; the monthly meeting of the American Legion; an article on a better way of feeding chickens that resulted in higher egg production, written by County Ag Agent Grady Alexander. Page four featured Elizabeth Lacy’s regular Garden Gate column and the article Ophelia Snow had written about the cooking auditions being held at the Darling Diner, although Charlie was pretty sure they were going to hire that woman who had just popped up—Raylene, her name was. He hoped so, anyway. He’d love to see pulled pork added to the diner’s regular menu. By golly, he’d eat every meal there, if that happened.

  Charlie locked the type into the form, picked up the heavy forms, and carried them one at a time to the old Babcock flatbed cylinder press in the back of the room, where he set them in place. Then he inked the rollers, loaded the paper, and began running the home print pages—two and seven, four and five—on the backs of the ready print pages: one and eight, three and six. These came in on Thursdays on the Greyhound bus from a print shop in Mobile, already made up with the latest national and world news, a sports page, the comics, and the women’s page.

  While the pages came off the press and went into the folding machine, Charlie took a short break to read the front page. One of the lead articles was about Roosevelt’s “new deal,” although the writer seemed to be as much in the dark about what that meant as everyone else was.

  The other article was headed by a photo of men waiting in line for a bowl of soup in New York, where more than 750,000 unemployed men, women, and children were dependent upon city relief, with an additional 160,000 on a waiting list. For each person on relief, the city spent about $8.20 a month.