The Darling Dahlias and the Texas Star

Nancy Lee gave her a look over her glasses. “I couldn’t help hearin’ what you were saying about Euphoria,” she remarked. “I was over to the post office this afternoon when Old Zeke came in. I heard him tellin’ Mr. Stevens that Euphoria and Jubilation are goin’ to work for shares in the Red Dog, that juke joint over in Maysville. They’re fixin’ to start cookin’ there this week. I figured Zeke was talkin’ about Jubilation cookin’ full time and Euphoria nights and Sundays, but maybe—” A caller’s buzz interrupted her. When she plugged in the call, she turned back to Myra May. “Sorry I’m not a better cook, or I’d be glad to help out. My Daddy Lee says all I’m good for is makin’ chick’ry coffee.” Nancy Lee had grown up in New Orleans, where chickory coffee was a favorite.

Myra May sighed, said good night, and went upstairs, feeling like that sack on her shoulder was another twenty pounds heavier. It was a warm July night, and the windows were open to the buzzy song of the cicadas in the trees and the sweetly scented nighttime breeze. Wearing her old pink flowered cotton sleeping chemise, Violet was sitting in her favorite chair with a book—the library copy of Edna Ferber’s Cimarron—and idly fanning herself with a black-bordered cardboard fan from Noonan’s Funeral Home while she read.

She looked up and closed the book on her finger to mark her place. “There’s a pitcher of cold tea in the icebox. Everything okay downstairs?”

“Not exactly,” Myra May replied glumly, thinking that what she had just heard constituted an emergency and thereby permitted her to break Violet’s rule. She went to the icebox and took out the frosty glass pitcher. “We got a phone call from some woman over in Monroeville who heard that Euphoria and Jubilation are going to cook at a juke over on the other side of the tracks. Specifically, at the Red Dog, was what Nancy Lee heard Old Zeke tell the postmaster. Zeke said they’re working for shares in the business. They’re going to be part owners.”

There were several jukes in Maysville, but the Red Dog was the most popular. It showcased traveling blues musicians like Son House and Lead Belly, who always brought in a crowd when they came to town. Myra May suspected that if Euphoria and Jubilation were cooking there, the Red Dog would soon be as popular for its food as it was for its music.

“Well, if that don’t beat all,” Violet said, laying her book aside. “It makes a lot of sense, though—and it’s better for Euphoria. Why should she work for us when she can work for herself? More power to her, I have to say.”

“You’re right,” Myra May said, sinking into her favorite chair, across from Violet. “But I wish she would’ve told us what she was planning. I guess when she comes in tomorrow morning, I have to ask her straight out if this is true or not. I’d rather know for sure than stand around worrying whether it’s actually going to happen. Or when.” She shivered. “I sure hope she’ll stay for the weekend, anyway. We could probably handle the Kilgores’ party without her, but it would be pretty tough.”

Violet pulled up her legs and propped her chin on her knees. She looked worried. “Euphoria is going to be a tough act to follow. You got any ideas who we can get to replace her?”

“Ophelia Snow’s maid, Florabelle, has a sister who does good fried chicken,” Myra May said. “I had some at the Snows’ picnic last summer. I could ask Ophelia to find out if she’s available. Or—” She paused, sipping her cold tea. “There’s that woman who called tonight looking for a job—Raylene Riggs, her name is. She says she’s a real good cook. Experienced.”

“That’s what they all say,” Violet replied pertly. “But it usually turns out that they’re good at one thing or another but not good at both. The thing about Euphoria is that her pies are every bit as good as her fried chicken—and her catfish is the best I’ve ever tasted. We might check this woman out, though. If it turns out that Euphoria is fixing to quit, we could invite her in to cook one day. Give her a tryout. Florabelle’s sister, too.” She paused, cocking her head. “Actually, we might run an ad in the Dispatch asking folks to audition, the way they do for dancers and actors and such.”

“Now, there’s an idea,” Myra May said, snapping her fingers. “If we’re trying out cooks, we could get the customers to tell us who they like best. Maybe the auditions can even tide us over until we find a replacement for Euphoria—if we have to.” She paused, adding hopefully, “But it might not be true, this rumor about her quitting, I mean. Maybe it’s just talk. You know how people are.”

Violet considered this. “Well, I’m thinking that even if she says she’s staying on, it wouldn’t be a bad idea to let her know we’re looking for a backup. The way it is now, we are at her mercy. What do you think?”

“Agree a hundred percent,” Myra May said definitively. “I’ll talk to her first thing in the morning.”

“Good luck,” Violet said, picking up her book again.

“You bet,” Myra May muttered, under her breath.

It took her a long time to fall asleep that night, and when she did, she dreamed of going into the diner kitchen and finding it silent and the kitchen range stone cold, while customers were lined up outside the front door and around the block, waving signs and shouting in unison, “We want Euphoria! We want Euphoria!”

Myra May woke up in a cold sweat. She lay there for a long time, thinking how much she hated to be at the mercy of a cook who couldn’t be counted on, no matter how talented she might be when it came to fried chicken and chocolate pie.





THREE




Looking for a Cook