The Darling Dahlias and the Cucumber Tree by Susan Wittig Albert

their hands over the mouthpieces so nobody could hear them breathing and know they were listening in. This effort at secrecy was silly, of course, because everybody listened in and everybody else knew it. Some folks now were getting private lines, but most of Verna’s friends and neighbors said they would rather be on a party line. How else would they get the news?
    The call was from Myra May, on duty at the switchboard in the diner’s back room. There were four operators on the exchange, Myra May, Violet Sims, Olive LeRoy (Maude LeRoy’s youngest daughter), and Lenore Looper (Olive’s friend). Each worked an eight-hour shift, so the board was covered twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. There wasn’t that much telephone traffic, though, so Myra May and Violet also waited tables and handled the counter at the diner, also not a very demanding job, now that the diner’s business had fallen off.
    “Verna, is that you?” Myra May asked when Verna said, “Hello.” With so many people sharing a line, it always paid to know who was talking.
    “Yes, it’s me, Myra May,” Verna replied. “What’s going on?”
    “Doc Roberts called for Buddy Norris. The doc asked me to ask you to go next door and tell Mr. Norris that Buddy’ll be late gettin’ home tonight, but not to worry. Doc Roberts is patchin’ him up. He’ll drive him home when he’s done.”
    “Patching him up?” Verna asked, surprised. “Why? What happened?”
    “I don’t know the details, but there was some shootin’ out at Ralph Murphy’s place late this afternoon.”
    “Shooting!” Verna exclaimed. She knew perfectly well that Myra May wasn’t going to tell her everything all at once. She always strung the story out as long as she could, so that everybody who wanted to get on the line had time to get there, and she didn’t have to repeat. In Darling, this was a much appreciated courtesy.
    “Right,” Myra May said. “Shootin’. As in guns. Bang bang.”
    “Well, my heavens. Did Buddy get shot? I hope he isn’t too badly hurt.”
    “Nope. It wasn’t Buddy that got shot.”
    “Well, who?”
    “The Negro who busted out of the prison farm. Didn’t kill him, though. At least not so far as Doc Roberts said.”
    “What happened to Buddy, then?”
    “Ran his motorcycle through Ralph’s corncrib and broke his arm.”
    Verna had to stifle a laugh. “The same one that got broke before?”
    “Nope. The other one. Jed Snow drove him back to town and dropped him off at Doc Roberts’ office. Guess Buddy’ll have to get somebody to fetch his motorcycle later. It’s still stuck in the wall of Ralph’s corncrib.”
    Verna, curious asked, “What was Jed Snow doing out there?”
    “Lucy phoned and asked him to come out. I didn’t take that call, it was when Violet was on the board this afternoon, but Violet said that Lucy was half hysterical. Jed is Ralph Murphy’s cousin, you know. On his mother’s side. He’s out there a lot. Him and Ralph go hunting.”
    “Yes, I know, but—” Verna took a breath. “Ralph wasn’t shot, was he?” She and Ralph had been high-school sweet-hearts back before she married Walter and Ralph had married Emma, who died of a cancer in her breast, leaving him with two very young boys. Verna had been glad when he married again, although it would have been better if he’d found somebody older and more firm-handed than Lucy. The boys—Junior and Scooter—needed somebody to whack their behinds and keep them in line.
    “No. Ralph’s working on the railroad and doesn’t get home every weekend. Lucy was out there with the kids by herself and pretty scared. Guess she thought of Jed and felt like she needed a man around while the prisoners were on the loose.”
    “Oh,” Verna said. “Did they catch both the prisoners?” She wasn’t asking because she was anxious, but because she knew that everybody on the line would want to know.
    “They caught the one they shot,” Myra May replied, “but not the