The Darling Dahlias and the Confederate Rose

Having claimed the run of the house and yard, Lindy made it his own. He was a wildly adventuresome cat who raced up and down the stairs at all hours of the night, dragged half-dead mice and tree roaches into the house, and climbed the curtains all the way to the top. From this vantage point he would launch himself gaily into the air, alighting on all fours on the back of the sofa or a chair or even someone’s head. Whoever was nearest this daredevil aviator would shriek—except for Mrs. Sedalius, who just smiled and said that Lucky Lindy was living up to his name and wasn’t he cute?

It was this last trick that had so upset Leticia, for Lindy had leapt off the top of the living room drapery valance and landed on the lampshade next to her chair, knocking the lamp into her lap, spilling her tea, and causing her to choke on a cookie. Leticia swore that if Lindy ever again came within an inch of her, she was going to brain him with the stove poker, at which Mrs. Sedalius went into hysterics and had to be comforted with a cup of hot chocolate. This was where matters stood when Miss Rogers voiced her complaint.

“The wretched animal has torn the knitted cover off my dear little pillow,” Miss Rogers said thinly. She brushed a tear from the corner of her eye. “My grandmother’s pillow.”

“Your . . . grandmother?” Bessie asked, surprised. She had been acquainted with Miss Rogers for some years but had never known that she had a grandmother—or more precisely, that Miss Rogers knew who her grandmother was. Bessie had understood that Miss Rogers’ parents died when she was quite young and that she’d had no contact with her family since.

“My little pillow is the only thing I have left of my family,” Miss Rogers said tearfully. “I was carrying it with me when I entered the orphanage at the age of five, and I’ve been told that I wouldn’t let it out of my sight. It belonged to my grandmother Rose, of whom I have no memory at all. I have cherished it all these years.” She gulped down a helpless sob.

Bessie stared at her. Miss Rogers was the model of stern self-control. She never allowed herself to appear irritated, never lost her temper, never cried. Verna often joked that decorum must be her middle name.

“I’m sorry,” she began. “I had no idea that—” But she didn’t get to finish her sentence.

“And now that terrible beast has destroyed it!” Miss Rogers cried raggedly. “He has torn it to shreds. This is the last straw, the very last. I’m telling you, Miss Bloodworth, you will have to make Mrs. Sedalius get rid of that cat.” She pulled herself up, glaring at Bessie. “Do you hear me? Either he goes or I do!”

If this had been one of the other ladies, Bessie would have put an arm around her shoulders and soothed her. But this was Miss Rogers, who shrank away when anyone ventured to touch her, as if any show of intimacy repulsed her.

“I’m very sorry this has happened,” Bessie said honestly. “The cat really is a terrible nuisance. But he means so much to Mrs. Sedalius that I’ve been reluctant to ask her to give him up. I’m sure we can repair whatever damage—”

“No!” Miss Rogers cried, and stamped her foot. “My dear little pillow is totally beyond repair.” She gestured imperiously. “Come with me. I’ll show you.”

Bessie knew there was no point in arguing. She followed Miss Rogers through the dining room, up the stairs, and down the second-floor hallway, past the open doors of the three other Magnolia Ladies’ rooms. While the upstairs bedrooms were the same size, Bessie always encouraged her boarders to furnish and decorate to suit themselves. All were happy to agree, so each reflected the personality of each resident.

Mrs. Sedalius had brought an antique walnut dresser and filled the top with photographs of her late husband, “her boy,” and her grandchildren, along with the doilies she knitted and crocheted. Maxine had put blue wallpaper on the walls, made a ruffled blue spread for her bed, and painted her rocking chair blue. A dedicated reader and member of the Darling Literary Society, she filled several shelves with books, and books were stacked on the floor. Leticia, who didn’t like to read but loved oil painting and watercolors, filled her cluttered shelves with art supplies and souvenirs from her extensive travels. Displayed on her walls were many of her artistic endeavors, as well as maps with pins stuck in to mark the places she had traveled.

Miss Rogers’ room, in contrast, might have belonged to a nun. Her narrow bed was covered with a plain white chenille spread. There was a white dresser scarf on the utilitarian chest of drawers, and a plain white net curtain at the window. Three books were stacked on the shelf beside her bed: a Bible, a thick volume of Shakespeare’s plays, and the library book—The Life and Adventures of Robinson Crusoe—that she was currently reading aloud to the ladies. There were no pictures on her walls, only one photograph on her bureau, and just one spot of color in the room: the bright red knitted pillow, about sixteen inches square, that was lying on the floor beside the bed.