TWO

Myra May Is in Trouble

Myra May Mosswell reached up and switched off the Philco radio on the shelf behind the counter in the Darling Diner. “In a Shanty in Old Shanty Town,” performed by Ted Lewis and his band, had been at the top of the charts for several weeks and it seemed like WODX, down in Mobile, was playing it every fifteen minutes or so. Every time she heard it, she wondered just what kind of silly fool would actually be ready to give up his palace and go back to that old tumbledown shack next to the railroad track, even if his silver-crowned queen—presumably his mother—was waiting for him. And what kind of man who lived like a king would let his gray-haired old mother live in a little old shack with a roof that slanted down to the ground? It didn’t make a lick of sense.

Myra May herself had been lucky enough not to grow up in a shanty. Her daddy had been a prosperous Darling doctor and they had lived in a very nice house. Her mother, Ina Ray, had died when Myra May wasn’t any bigger than a minute—and she hadn’t died at home, either. She had been taken sick on a visit to her parents in Montgomery, where she was buried. Myra May had never even seen her mother’s grave.

Dr. Mosswell, who felt his young wife’s loss very keenly, adamantly refused to speak of her, so Myra May had no secondhand recollections of her mother to comfort her. Nothing except for the gold-framed photograph she kept on the dresser upstairs, a striking young woman in the lacy white shirtwaist and ankle-length gored skirt of the prewar era, holding her baby girl in her arms. Every time Myra May looked at the photograph, she felt an aching emptiness in her heart. Her life would have been so different if her mother had lived to love her, laugh with her, and take care of her. Instead . . .

Instead, Myra May had been brought up like a very proper young Southern lady by her very prim and proper Aunt Belle (whom Myra May irreverently called Auntie Bellum). In spite of this smothery upbringing, she certainly knew what a shanty looked like and smelled like, because there were plenty of them on the other side of the L&N railroad tracks. She also knew that every person of her acquaintance—that is, every man, woman, and child in Darling—would a darn sight rather live in a palace, although in these hard times, they would be happy if they had electricity and indoor plumbing and the rent paid up for the next month.

Myra May glanced around, checking to be sure that everything was in order. It was a half hour past closing time on a Monday evening, and the front door was securely locked. The diner’s lights were off, except for the flickering red neon Coca-Cola sign on the wall over the Dr Pepper clock, which cast moving red shadows across the oilcloth-covered tables. The red-checked curtains had been pulled neatly across the lower half of the front window, the red and gray linoleum was swept clean (and mopped, where Mr. Musgrove, from the hardware store next door, had dropped the catsup bottle), and the red-topped, chrome-plated counter stools were wiped and stowed neatly under the long red linoleum-topped counter. Behind the counter, the coffee urn was waiting for its next-day job. And on the other side of the pass-through window to the kitchen, the cookstove top was clean and ready for Myra May to start the bacon and eggs and fried potatoes at six the next morning, and for Euphoria to come in at nine and start baking her Pie of the Day. Since tomorrow was Tuesday, that would be peanut butter meringue pie, which was a favorite among the noon crowd.

Myra May sighed. That is, if Euphoria came in tomorrow, which she might not. She had taken off her apron and gone home sick after this morning’s breakfast—at least, that’s what she’d said, although she didn’t look sick to Myra May. Which left Myra May, Violet, and Earlynne Biddle’s boy Bennie to handle the noon crowd and the supper crowd by themselves. Again.

At the back of the diner, the door to the telephone exchange was open and Myra May could hear the low murmur of Nancy Lee McDaniel’s voice as she worked the switchboard. There was a cot with a pillow and a blanket back there, so Nancy Lee or Rona Jean Hancock or Henrietta Conrad—whoever was on overnight duty—could catch forty winks between calls. All three were light sleepers, which was good, because they had to wake up fast when somebody rang the switchboard. After midnight, calls were usually emergencies, either for Doc Roberts (somebody having a baby or one of the old folks sick) or for Sheriff Roy Burns (somebody getting liquored up and using his neighbor’s cow for target practice). And just last Friday, Nancy Lee had fielded a call for Chief Pete Tate of the Darling Volunteer Fire Department. Mr. Looper’s barn was on fire. Resourcefully, Nancy Lee had remembered that Friday night was Chief Tate’s poker night and had overheard (on the exchange, where else?) that this week’s game was in the back room at Musgrove’s Hardware. The chief got the word and Mr. Looper’s barn was saved.

Past the open door to the telephone exchange were the stairs that led up to the flat that Myra May shared with her friend and co-owner, Violet Sims, and their little girl, Cupcake, the sweetheart of Darling. At this very moment, Myra May could hear Violet’s light footsteps over her head as she moved around, putting Cupcake to bed and getting ready to settle down to some needlework (she liked to embroider little things for the baby) or a library book before bedtime. Violet was one of Miss Rogers’ most devoted customers at the Darling Library. She liked to improve her mind.

Myra May took off her apron and hung it on the peg beside the door to the exchange. She was well aware that their upstairs flat was not a luxury penthouse and the diner was by no means the Ritz. That distinction belonged to the Old Alabama Hotel, on the other side of the courthouse square, where guests sat down to dining tables that were all gussied up with white tablecloths, damask napkins, tall candles, and crystal bowls of flowers. And while they enjoyed their tomato frappe, asparagus vinaigrette, filet mignon wrapped in bacon, and maple nut sundae, they could listen to Maude LeVaughn playing tasteful dinner music on the rosewood square grand piano in the hotel lobby. Everybody said that it was all just as elegant as the finest Mobile hotel.

The Old Alabama, however, had recently raised the cost of a meal from seventy-five cents to a dollar, which generally limited the clientele to traveling gentlemen who had come to Darling on an expense account—and there weren’t too many of them, these days. Most Darlingians couldn’t fork over four bits a plate for dinner, even if it did come with flowers, candles, and Maude LeVaughn at the piano.

On the other hand, almost everybody could afford a meal at the Darling Diner. The tables were covered in oilcloth; the paper napkins stood up proud in a shiny metal holder with red Bakelite salt and pepper shakers on either side; and instead of Maude LeVaughn’s keyboard rhapsodies, the Philco behind the counter was likely to be reporting the current price of pork bellies and soybeans or playing Ted Lewis and his “In a Shanty in Old Shanty Town.”

But you could get a plate of fried chicken, meat loaf, or liver and onions, along with sides of boiled cabbage or green beans or okra with fatback and onions, or potato salad and sliced fresh tomatoes, plus all the coffee you could drink. This would set you back just thirty cents, plus ten cents if you wanted a piece of pie—a generous piece, one-sixth of a whole pie instead of the measly one-eighth served over at the hotel.

There were plenty in town who preferred the diner, and not because it was cheap, either. It was on account of Euphoria Hoyt, the colored cook who had come as part of the deal when Myra May and Violet bought the diner and half of the Darling Telephone Exchange from old Mrs. Hooper a couple of years before, and who was famous all across southern Alabama. Euphoria was known not just for her crispy, crusty fried chicken, but also for her pies, especially the ones with meringue on top, which stood up in tantalizing bronzed peaks and swirls and curls all over their chocolate or lemon or banana cream filling. In fact, Euphoria’s reputation was a more important drawing card at the Darling Diner than candles and flowers and Mrs. LeVaughn’s piano music at the Old Alabama Hotel.

But there was a drawback. Euphoria might be one of the best cooks in southern Alabama, but she was also queen of the kitchen, ruler of the roost, and sovereign of the skillet, all rolled into one—and she knew it. She made sure that Myra May and Violet and even Earlynne Biddle’s boy knew it, too. And lately, she had begun acting on her queen-hood, coming in late or going home early, at her royal pleasure.

In fact, today was the third time in the past seven days that Euphoria had taken off her apron and headed out the door, leaving Violet to make the biscuits and Myra May to fry the chicken and bake the meat loaf. The two previous times, Euphoria had shown up right on time the next morning, tying on her apron just as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened the day before. But even though Myra May knew she should sit down and have a serious heart-to-heart with Euphoria about this deplorable behavior, she just couldn’t stiffen herself to the task. Her heart quailed within her. She lacked the courage. While Myra May was tough about a great many things, she was a scaredy-cat when it came to dealing with Euphoria.

And with good reason. If Myra May got feisty about the need to show up and leave on the dot, Euphoria might just up and quit. And that would be a catastrophe, especially since they had agreed to cater the garden party at the Kilgores’ on Friday night. Thirty couples, plus special guests. Myra May wasn’t sure that she and Violet could handle the job alone, without Euphoria.

Without Euphoria. Myra May pushed this thought away with a shiver. But the burden of worry was like a twenty-pound sack of cornmeal grits on her shoulder as she said good night to Nancy Lee and turned away to climb the stairs. The more she thought about it, the more she feared that they were going to have to find another cook. But where on earth could they find somebody whose fried chicken and meringue pies could hold a candle to Euphoria’s? Not in Darling, that was for darn sure.

Myra May was not going to carry that worry into the flat she shared with Violet and Cupcake, however. When they first bought the diner and agreed to share the upstairs apartment, Violet had made a very strict rule. Except in the case of a dire emergency, like a fire or food poisoning among the customers, they would leave the diner’s business downstairs in the diner and spend their evenings together talking about anything else.

Now, if you happened to glance at Violet’s pretty face, petite figure, and frilly, feminine dresses, you likely would never guess that this young woman had a spine of steel. She also had a very definite way of explaining just how things ought to be done, although she always sweetened it up here and there with a winning smile and “honey” or “darlin’” delivered with a charming Southern accent. Violet might be slight and frilly, but she could work as hard and as long as any man, and at the end of the day, she’d look just as cool and unruffled as she had that morning.

Myra May, on the other hand, had never been anybody’s idea of pretty—or sweet, either. She had a square jaw, a determined mouth, and a long history of tomboy ways. As a girl, she insisted on wearing overalls to play, like the boys in her class at school, and refused ribbons, ruffles, and Mary Janes. No matter how often Auntie Bellum attacked her dark brown hair with the curling iron, it still hung limp and straight—until her friend Beulah scissored it off in a bob that was cool and easy, and that was the end of the curling iron forever. It was the end of dresses, too, for Myra May had taken to wearing trousers, which suited her much better. Poor Aunt Belle (dead now some dozen years) had despaired of her awkward, gawky niece ever finding a husband who would tolerate her straight-shooting, pull-no-punches way of meeting the world.

After high school, Myra May went away to the University of Alabama, where she majored in Domestic Science, minored in Education, and figured out that she lacked the patience to be a teacher and tell kids what to do—or the inclination to marry somebody who would tell her what to do. After college, she came back to Darling to take care of her ailing father. After his death, she got a job managing the kitchen at the Old Alabama and then (with Violet) bought the Darling Diner, demonstrating that her bachelor’s degree in Domestic Science had not been a complete waste of time and money after all.

Myra May was on the third step when Nancy Lee called out from the switchboard. “Oh, Miz Mosswell, somebody’s askin’ for you. Do you want to talk to her down here at the board or would you druther I wait and ring you when you get upstairs?”

Myra May turned around and went back down. “Down here,” she said, picking up the other headset and sitting at the switchboard next to Nancy Lee. “If you ring upstairs, it’ll wake Cupcake.”

“Well, we sure wouldn’t want to bother that sweet little thing,” Nancy Lee said, and plugged her in.

Myra May put on the headset. “Hello,” she said.

There was a breathy pause.

“Hello,” Myra May repeated. “Who is this?”

“This is . . . Raylene Riggs,” a soft female voice said. “Am I speakin’ to Miz Mosswell?”

“Yep, that’s me,” Myra May said curtly. “Myra May Mosswell.” By now she was suspecting that this was some sort of sales call. Well, she knew how to handle that. She’d make it short and not-so-sweet. “Just what is it you’re wanting, Miz Riggs?”

Clearing her throat, the caller spoke hesitantly. “Well, I . . . I’m stayin’ with some friends just now, over here in Monroeville.” Some twenty miles to the east, Monroeville was the county seat of Monroe County. “Years ago—years and years ago, really—I used to come over to Darlin’ to visit. I always thought it was a right pretty little town, the kind of place I’d like to live. I’m lookin’ to settle down now, after travelin’ around all over, and I—”

“Excuse me,” Myra May broke in. “It sounds to me like you’re lookin’ for Mr. Manning. That would be Mr. Joe Lee Manning, Junior. He handles real estate, and last I heard he had a whole long list of houses for sale or rent.” A long, sad list, most of them bank foreclosures, sitting silent and empty. She reached for the switchboard plug that would connect the caller to Mr. Manning. “It’s a little on the late side, but I can ring him for you. I’m sure he won’t mind.” He wouldn’t, either. Joe Lee Manning would drag himself out of bed at any hour to unload one of those vacant houses.

“Oh, no, ma’am, I’m sorry,” Raylene Riggs said quickly. “I am not lookin’ for a house, at least, not yet. Maybe later I will, after I’ve landed a job.” She cleared her throat apologetically. “That’s actually what I’m lookin’ for. A job.”

Myra May was nearly out of patience. Didn’t this woman know anything? “Well, then, you want to pick up a copy of the Darling Dispatch. If there’s any jobs to be had in this town, that’s where you’ll find them.” Lots of luck, she thought ironically. Job openings in Darling were few and far between. Anybody who had one hung on to it like grim death.

“But I’m not lookin’ for just any old job.” The woman pulled in her breath. “What I mean to say is that I hear your cook is quittin’. There at the diner, I mean. That’s why I’m callin’, Miz Mosswell. I am a real good cook with lots of experience. I thought I might could—”

“I don’t know where you heard that,” Myra May snapped. “About our cook, I mean.”

“A . . . friend of mine happened to hear it,” Raylene Riggs said, almost apologetically. “He says that Euphoria is a real good cook and he’ll truly miss her fried chicken. But he thinks my meat loaf is even better than hers and my meringue pies—”

Myra May cut her off again. “She didn’t actually quit—she just took off a little early one day. So you tell your friend he can rest easy about his fried chicken. We are not in need of a cook.” I hope, she added silently, thinking of Friday night’s party. Oh, lord, lord, I hope.

There was a moment’s pause. Then, “Well, I guess I must’ve heard wrong. My friend also works with Miz Euphoria’s oldest boy, Chauncy, at the depot here in Monroeville, you see. Chauncy happened to mention that his mama and her sister, Jubilation, have decided to set themselves up in business, in one of those little joints over in Maysville.”

Myra May gulped a breath. She knew for a fact that Euphoria had a sister named Jubilation and that her son Chauncy unloaded freight at the railroad depot over in Monroeville. Maysville was the colored section of Darling, on the east side of the railroad tracks, and several juke joints there were known to serve very good food. Altogether, the story had the ring of truth. Myra May shivered. Was it possible that Euphoria’s recent irregularities were inspired by a plan to strike off on her own?

But she didn’t want to let on what she was thinking. She steadied herself and said, cautiously, “Well, I don’t know anything at all about that, Miz Riggs. Far as I know, we’ve still got us a cook. A real good one, at that.”

“It sounds like Chauncy was misrememberin’,” Raylene Riggs replied hesitantly, “or else he maybe didn’t have all the facts.” She wasn’t making any effort to disguise the disappointment in her voice. “But I wonder—well, how ’bout if I just give you the phone number, here at this place where I’m stayin’? That way, you can call me if things don’t turn out the way you think. I’m available now, in case you find out that you need help right away.” Without waiting for Myra May to answer, she rattled off a telephone number.

Myra May reached for a pencil. “What was that again?” she asked, reminding herself to be polite. After all, the woman was only looking for a job, like lots of other out-of-work, out-of-luck people these days. Anybody who heard about a possible opening was smart to jump on it lickety-split, since there were bound to be a couple dozen folks in line before the day was an hour older. She wrote down the number the woman had given her.

“Thanks,” she said. “I don’t think we’ll need anybody, but if we do, we’ll let you know.”

“That’s all I’m askin’,” the woman said. She added, with what Myra May thought was an odd, lingering reluctance, “It’s been real nice talkin’ to you, Miz Mosswell.” A breath, and then, with greater—and more puzzling—intensity. “Just real nice. I appreciate it.”

“Same here,” Myra May replied uneasily, and broke the connection. Next to her at the switchboard, Nancy Lee shifted in her chair. Myra May noticed that she had not unplugged her switchboard jack, which meant that she’d been listening in—not usually allowed, but she would’ve overheard Myra May’s half of the conversation anyway.

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.