Miss Dreamsville and the Lost Heiress of Collier County (12 page)

“Well, the real star of the movie is a storm,” I said. “A hurricane. But maybe I shouldn't tell you more. Sometime maybe you'll see the movie and I wouldn't want to ruin it for you.”

“But—wait—what's this got to do with Seminole Joe?”

“There are characters in the movie who are supposed to be Seminole Indians,” I said, “and I think some of them really are. So Joe probably looked more or less like the Indians in
Key Largo
.”

Judd looked disappointed. “But how am I going to see the movie?” he said. “It could be five years before they show it on TV.”

“You could go to the library and see if they have any books on the Seminoles,” I said, and his face brightened. “They must at least have a book about Andrew Jackson and the Seminole Wars,” I added.

Well, that was the last I saw of Judd that day. He was off
on his bicycle like Paul Revere warning folks that the British were coming, an image that fit mighty nice, considering that he'd spent the first eleven years of his life in Boston.

Judd's energy was inspiring. After fixing myself a fried bologna sandwich, half of which I fed to my turtles, I decided to go for a stroll on the beach to look for shells and clear my mind. To my surprise, every little shell or pebble seemed to hurt my bare feet. In my year away from home, it seems I'd become a tenderfoot on account of wearing shoes all the time. But the surf was gentle and soothing as bathwater, and I realized, splashing along in ankle-deep water, that I was happy. Not happy about Darryl's development plans or his remarriage to some Northern gal, of course, but happy with the general direction of my life. I had learned a great deal during my year in Mississippi—some of it hard to take—but I was more independent than I'd ever been. I was going back to Jackson, not forever, but for a little while longer. I was not going to run away from the city of my mother's birth and the story that was unfolding there about her past.
My
past.

There was still plenty of daylight, so I went home, found my old Keds, and walked slowly downtown. I told myself I was going to get a root beer float at the Rexall counter but truth be told, I wanted to see if anything was going on. Sometimes, folks would gather downtown when something important was happening. I'd be able to judge how big a reaction Jackie's story was getting by the number of people—usually at home on a hot night in Naples—milling around and looking for an excuse to talk.

Sure enough, there were people gathered by the bench in front of the post office, outside the Rexall, and by the Winn-Dixie. I recognized a few people from high school but wasn't
eager to talk to them, especially Betty Jane Pomeroy, who was holding court over by the Green Stamp Redemption Center. Betty Jane had a way of inserting the topic of her happy marriage, brilliant children, and fabulous house into every conversation. Fortunately, I saw Plain Jane walking along by herself from the direction of the Dairy Queen. We saw each other at the same moment, and I was reminded, once again, how much my old book club meant to me. Before them, especially since I'd gotten divorced, I'd felt like a stranger in my own hometown.

Plain Jane and I perched on the top step of the Everglades Savings and Loan, a good location for spying on people ever since it was rebuilt at eight feet above sea level after being trounced by Hurricane Donna. “You know what they're talking about, don't you?” Plain Jane said, between bites of an ice cream cone that was melting faster than she could eat it.

“I can guess,” I said.

“Someone said Darryl is going to have a press conference tomorrow,” she said. “Apparently she really stirred things up. You know, people don't talk about spirits, much less Seminole Joe. Everyone around here knows the stories but no one has ever written about it in the newspaper.”

This was true. Somehow, just the fact that Seminole Joe had made the pages of the
Naples Star
made a scary story seem real. Official. Or, as Mama would have said, bona fide.

Hard to say where this was headed, though. Were they upset about Seminole Joe, or mad at Jackie for writing about him? Would their fear become anger at Darryl for possibly disturbing Seminole Joe?

That night I didn't sleep well and I bet the same was true for half the population of Collier County. I couldn't decide which was worse: to sleep with the windows shut and die of the heat or
leave them open and possibly be ax-murdered by Seminole Joe. When I finally fell asleep, my eyes were closed but my ears were wide open, and any little sound had me leaping out of the bed.

The next day, the
Naples Star
carried this story on the front page:

STRONG RESPONSE TO ‘MISS DREAMSVILLE' DEBUT

by the Editors

Collier County residents reacted with unusual animosity yesterday to an opinion piece by our new columnist, Mrs. Jackie Hart, also known as Miss Dreamsville, after her famous radio show of that name. Our phone rang off the hook yesterday from calls by readers incensed by Miss Dreamsville's (and this newspaper's) decision to publish an account of the legend of Seminole Joe. A logbook kept by our staff showed that eighty-seven callers complained that Seminole Joe did not like attention and that Miss Dreamsville's column could cause him to rise from his ghostly grave and commit new atrocities. We find this highly unlikely, although we are flattered that so many residents assume that Seminole Joe is a faithful reader of the
Naples Star
. Collier County residents, let us remember that “Joe” is a legend! This is 1964, the Modern Age, and as such it is time we put these superstitions to rest, or at least keep them in check, or our fine community will remain stuck
in the putrid fog of backward thinking. We will be running a special Letters to the Editor section on Friday to address readers' concerns. In a related development, Mr. Darryl Norwood has announced that he will hold a press conference today at 7:00
PM
to answer questions about his project.

Well, I had the answer to my question. So far, at least, people were more upset with Jackie and the newspaper than they were with Darryl. As I tried to decide what to do next, Judd came by on his bicycle. He said he'd tried to call his father, who was in Tallahassee, but hadn't been able to reach him.

“Mom was on the phone with a lawyer in New York City, then she got so mad she left the house,” he confided. “I tried to call Dad but the long-distance operator wouldn't make the call because I'm a kid.”

Judd left, but not before agreeing to go with me to the press conference in case Jackie showed up and made a scene. I would rather have a tooth pulled without novocaine but I knew in my heart I had to go—for Judd's sake, at least.

About two o'clock in the afternoon, while I was writing a letter to Mrs. Conroy, my landlady back in Mississippi, I heard Jackie's car pull up. To my surprise, she marched right in—right past Norma Jean, Myrtle, and Castro. This was not a good sign. She was so mad she forgot to be afraid of “those dreadful things.”

“That odious, reprehensible, son of a lobster boat!” she hollered, by way of a greeting. I'd never heard anyone utter that particular string of words before but, considering the circumstances, I figured this was some kind of exotic, Northern insult.
I was relieved somewhat by the realization that I was not likely the intended recipient of her anger.

She remained in the doorway, her hand still on the knob of my front door, and yelled again. “He's going to get away with it! He can
use my name
!”

“Jackie,” I said, my voice shaking, “come sit down.” I approached her gingerly, like she was a wild critter that had escaped from Jungle Larry's African Safari, a tourist trap on the Tamiami Trail. Carefully, I took her arm and led her to Mama's old chair, where she collapsed in a theatrical heap. I left her side long enough to retrieve a tall glass of sweet tea and carry it back to her on a little tray with a napkin. After a few sips, she was calm enough to tell me what had happened. She spoke in short, little sentences, like she was going to blow a fuse if she tried to say a whole sentence at once.

“I talked to the lawyer. On the phone. I called him long distance.”

I waited. “Well,” I said. “What did he say?”

She swallowed hard. “Darryl can call his development Dreamsville if he wants. He just can't use my picture on any of the advertisements. He can't say that I endorsed it, since that would be a lie. But he doesn't have to get my permission to call it Dreamsville, or Dreamsville Estates.”

“I see.” Actually, I didn't understand it at all.

“I don't ‘own' the name Miss Dreamsville,” she added, sensing my confusion. “Not in a legal sense.”

“So you can't sue him?” I asked quietly.

“Well, I could sue him. But I wouldn't win.”

“And that's what the lawyer told you? On the phone?”

Jackie lit a cigarette. “Yes,” she said. “That's the way it is. Unfortunately.”

“And this was the lawyer in New York?”

“I called two—one in New York, the other in Boston. They both said the same thing.”

I let this sink in. Jackie seemed more relaxed, like she'd used up all her anger, but I was becoming madder by the second. What the heck was wrong with Darryl that he would steal my friend's name? Was this another swipe at me? I had to admit it was, in a sickening way, an ingenious move on his part. Jackie had put Naples on the map with her radio show. Even Walter Cronkite, the most trusted man in America, had done a little segment on
CBS Evening News
about Miss Dreamsville. It would be easy for Darryl to market his new development to Yankees by calling it Dreamsville Estates.

I hoped Mama wasn't listening in on my thoughts. She never had approved of cussin' in any way, shape, or form. But all I could think of was,
That odious, reprehensible, son of a lobster boat.

T
he challenge at the press conference would be keeping Jackie from speaking her mind. Judd and I made her promise six ways to Sunday that she wouldn't say a single word, what with her talent for making bad things worse.

“Jackie, tonight we are going to be flies on the wall,” I kept admonishing her as we walked downtown from my cottage.

“Yes, all we're going to do is collect intelligence,” Judd added.

“Judd Hart, you've been watching too much of that spy
stuff on television,” Jackie scolded.

“Mom, what I'm saying is that we should lay low and observe what happens. Then we can reconvene and plan our next move.”

Jackie sighed and ruffled Judd's hair. “Do you think the girls will show up?” she asked, referring to her twin daughters—Judd's older sisters.

“Not a chance,” Judd said.

“Well, that's good because I wouldn't want to
embarrass
them,” Jackie said. “They think I'm
embarrassing enough
already.”

“They're girls, Mom,” Judd said soothingly. “They're weird.”

Jackie looked at Judd as if she were going to say something more but didn't. Instead, she ruffled his hair again.

“You're not going to embarrass anyone,” I said firmly, trying to get back to the point. “You will be dignified, like Elizabeth Taylor in
Cleopatra
.”

Jackie had insisted we go early and stand directly in front of the stage set up by the Chamber of Commerce on the grass next to City Hall. I would rather we stood in back but I soon realized what she hoped to accomplish. She wanted everyone to see her. She stood with her arms crossed, staring tragically into the distance. Judd put one hand on her shoulder protectively. I copied Jackie's stance except I planned to look eyeball-to-eyeball with Darryl once he started speaking.

Just as I began to think everyone was staying home, folks starting showing up in little groups of two and three. By the time the press conference started, five minutes late, there were close to two hundred people there, all itching to hear what Darryl had to say. Of course, this being a small Southern town, we had to be patient. First, the mayor led us in the Pledge of Allegiance followed by the Sons of the Confederate Veterans performance of “Dixie.” After that, Little Miss Swamp Buggy 1964 sang “Collier County, I Love Thee” and a rousing rendition of “Yay! Rah! for Naples.”

Yay! Rah! for Naples,

Yay! Rah! for Naples,

Someone in the crowd's singing,

“Yay! Rah! for Naples.”

One, two, three, four,

Naples, that's us! Rah, rah, rah . . .

And then came a string of announcements: The Garden Club needed volunteers to water the flower boxes near the train station (even though most people arrived by car or bus and hardly any trains came through anymore). And someone from the Naples Players announced that the new season would start the following week with
Stop the World—I Want to Get Off
, starring Bucky Holmes from the Esso station.

By the time Darryl was about to speak, I had the embarrassing image of myself crumpling to the ground and being placed on a cot and resuscitated by the eager Boy Scouts who were manning the first-aid squad. Judd looked flushed and Jackie, a bit glassy-eyed, was having trouble maintaining her pose.

The mayor spoke briefly. “I'm sure we all know Darryl Norwood, who grew up right here in Collier County, and is making it his personal goal to bring us into a new era.” I was relieved to hear grumbles in the crowd, and there was no applause when Darryl took the microphone.

“I know why you all are here, and I'm grateful for it,” he began. “I'm glad for the opportunity to straighten out any misunderstandings. It's very important that you all understand that Dreamsville Estates will be the best thing that ever happened to Collier County. And I want to assure all of you that all of this needless fear about Seminole Joe is not helpful. Frankly, I'm surprised that in this day and age, y'all would get yourselves worked up into a lather over the idea that we could be disturbing a haint.” He paused, and laughed dismissively. “There is no such thing as Seminole Joe. There never was.”