Lizzy was startled—and concerned. The switchboard operator was always the first to know if there was a fire or an automobile accident or if somebody had died and the relatives were calling Mr. Noonan, who ran Darling’s only funeral parlor. “Has something happened, Myra May? Who was that on the phone?”

Verna got up and pulled out a chair. “Here. Sit down and have some coffee. You look pale.”

Myra May sat down with a thump. She took a sip of coffee and put down the cup. “What’s happened,” she said bleakly, “is that Violet’s sister has died.”

“Oh, dear,” Lizzy exclaimed, horror-stricken. She knew how much Violet had loved her sister, how close they had been. “Oh, Myra May, that’s too bad! I am so sorry!”

“The baby’s going to be all right?” Verna asked.

“The baby’s fine. It’s the mother who’s dead.”

“So keep repeating ‘It’s the berries,’ ” Bing Crosby sang. “And live and laugh at it all.”

“Applesauce.” Verna got up and switched off the radio.

Lizzy put her hand on Myra May’s arm, glad that the song, with its forced, phony cheerfulness, was gone. Into the silence, she said softly, “What’s Violet going to do?”

Myra May gave a heavy sigh. She looked down at her hands and Lizzy could see the worry gnawing away at her. “Bury her sister, I guess. Stay in Memphis and take care of the baby while the daddy is at work. There isn’t much else she can do.” Another sigh. “Trouble is, he’s a drinker, and he didn’t really want the kid in the first place. Plus, the apartment is a really small place. She’s sleeping on the couch, with Dorothy in a dresser drawer.” She dropped her head into her hands.

Lizzy shivered. A drinker. Prohibition—the Volstead Act had gone into effect nationally in 1920—was supposed to take care of that, wasn’t it? But of course it hadn’t. There seemed to be a lot more booze than there ever was before. In small towns everywhere, local moonshiners and bootleggers made sure that anybody who wanted a bottle could get one—even in the South, which, as Will Rogers joked, was dry and would continue to vote dry as long as people were sober enough to stagger to the polls. In big cities like Chicago, gangsters such as Al Capone and Bugs Moran were making millions out of the sale of bootleg alcohol, and black markets were flourishing everywhere.

“How about Violet’s mother?” Verna asked. “Can’t she help?”

“She died a couple of years ago,” Myra May replied, her voice muffled. “There aren’t any other relatives, on either side of the family.” She raised her head and pushed her pie plate away. “Sorry, girls. I don’t much feel like eating dessert. I’d just rather . . . rather be alone, I guess.”

“We understand, Myra May.” Verna stood and picked up the empty plates and cups. She glanced at the clock on the wall. “Come on, Liz. It’s past ten. Time we were heading home.”