PraiseforMissDreamsvilleandtheCollierCountyWomen’sLiterary

Society

“One can feel the immensejoy of Amy Hill Hearth’sengagementinherfirstnovel.It radiates through everysceneandthrougheverypage.

Sometimes, an exceptionalwriter finds an exceptionalpremise, and the result is atruly exceptional book. Suchis the case with MissDreamsville...Thewritingisbrilliant, especially thedialogue through which thecharactersaredefined.”

—SouthernLiteraryReview

“Amy Hill Hearth’s firstnovelisacharmingandfunny

snapshot of life in a tinyFloridatownin1962.It’salsoa sweet-tart reminder thatthose good old days weren’tsogoodforeverybody.”

—TampaBayTimes

“Funny, insightful, poignant,anduplifting.”—TheClevelandPlainDealer

“You may already knowHearth’s name—the former

journalist wrote thenonfiction book Having OurSay: The Delany Sisters’ First100 Years, which was abestseller and play. Herfictional storytelling is just ascaptivating.”

—TheDurham(NC)Sun

“Throughout this engagingtale, which sweeps smoothlyfrom humor to touching tohorrifying—justaslifedoes—

the words of Hearth’s 80-year-old narrator fall as trueasaplumbline.”

—TheBerkshireEagle

“Hearth’s characters areinstantly likeable and therefor each other as they takeboldchances...Abookthatringswithauthenticity.”

—TheDaytonaBeachNews-Journal

“Hearth has done very wellwithherfirstworkoffiction.Thecharactersareendearing,and she has a goodunderstanding of theAmericanSouthinthe1960s.Irecommendit.”

—HistoricalNovelSociety

“AmyHillHearth’sdelightfulfirst novel is a rollicking,provocative tale about howreading and meeting others

who are different can be themostsubversiveofacts.”

—RuthPennebaker,authorofWomenontheVergeofa

NervousBreakthrough

“Amy Hill Hearth honorsand humanizes people andtheir wonderful diversities.Sheastutelyweavespertinent,factual histories into herdebutnovel.Whatalaudablebook!”

—CamilleO.Cosby,PhD,educatorandproducer

“Segregation, feminism, gayscoming out, inter-racialdating, it’s all in MissDreamsville, written as ithappened in small townseverywhere. And wisdom;you could learn a lot aboutlife from reading this book.Most of all, be daring, befriends,betruetoyourself.By

the end, I cried and I mustsay, I wouldn’tmind hearingmoreabouteachoftherichlypaintedcharacters.”—PatriciaHarman,authorof

TheMidwifeofHopeRiver

“Miss Dreamsville’s cast ofcharacters includes apostmistress, a librarian, aconvicted murderer, anorthern transplant, a loneAfrican-American girl, and

an even lonelier gay man,among others. Set in Naplesin the early 1960s, its localcolor and plot will surpriseFlorida natives and visitorsalike.”

—EnidShomer,authorofTheTwelveRoomsoftheNile

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Inlovingmemoryofmyniece,AnnaKatherineHill(1980–

2012)

OneDolores Simpson was awoman with a past. Now,depending on your age andwhereyou’refrom,youmightinterpret that in anumberofways. Let me assure you,however,thatinthesouthern

part of the United States ofAmerica,inacertainera,thiscould mean only one thing:mantrouble.

This affliction spares fewwomen. Even maiden ladiesand great aunties—the oneswho smile and nod on theporch, contentedly snappin’peas—havestoriesofyouthfulturmoilandshattereddreams.

Dolores Simpson,unfortunately, had what my

mamausedtocallseriousmantrouble. After leading aquestionable life in Tampa,Dolorescamebackhomeonesummerday in 1939with allherworldlygoodsinasatchelunder one arm and a brand-newbabyboyintheother.

Yes, indeed. Serious mantrouble.

Home, for Dolores, wasone hundred and twentymiles south of Tampa in

God’s forgotten paradise,Collier County, which isbordered by the Gulf ofMexico on one side and theedgeof theGreatEvergladesSwampontheother.Inthosedays, RadioHavana inCubawas the only station thatcouldbeheardonthewirelessand alligators outnumberedpeople by at least tenthousandtoone.

Dolores’s destination wasan abandoned fishing shackthat once belonged to hergrandfather.Theshacksatonstilts on a tidal river whichwas so wild and forbiddingthatnoonewithanounceofsensewould try to live there.Still,itwasallDoloresknew.Shehadfailedatcitylife.Shehad failed at pretty mucheverything. The river was aplacewhereshecouldprotect

her secrets and nurse herfrustrationwiththeworld.

And there she stayed,alone except for the son sheraised,fortwenty-fiveyears.

•••

I, TOO, HAILED FROMCOLLIER County, butinsteadoftheriverorswampsIwasraisednearbyinNaples,an itty-bitty town with a

sandy strip of beach on theGulf.

I barely knew DoloresSimpson. She was, shall wesay, reclusive to an extreme.My only knowledge of herwasthatshehadoncebeenastripper but now huntedalligators for a living. If shehad been a man she wouldhave been admired as afearlessfrontiersman.

I wouldn’t have knowneven thismuch, nor would Ihave met her, if not for herson, Robbie-Lee. In the latesummer of 1962, he and Ibecame friends when wejoinedanewbookclubcalledtheCollierCountyWomen’sLiterary Society. To itsmembers,theclubprovidedasanctuaryofsorts.Eachofuswas a misfit or outcast intown—inmy case, because I

had come back home after adivorce—butinthebookclubwe discovered a place tobelong.

It is one of the ironies oflifethatbeingpartofagroupcan, in turn, leadyou to findstrengthandindependenceasan individual. That’s exactlywhat happened to Robbie-Lee and me. After a year inthe book club, we decided it

was time to follow ourdreams.

For Robbie-Lee, wholoved the theater, the onlyplace on his mind was NewYork City. He spokeendlessly of Broadway andwas determined to get a jobthere, even if it meantsweeping sidewalks. Dolores,whose maternal instinctskicked inwith amighty roarat the idea of him leaving

Collier County, objected tohis planned departure, butlost the battle. Robbie-Leecaughtanorthboundbusonasteamy August morning in1963.

At thesametimeRobbie-Lee went north I set off forMississippi. I was hoping tolearnmoreaboutmymother,who was born and raised inJackson. Mama had diedwithout telling me certain

things. She never talkedabouther family, orhow shemet Daddy, or when andwheretheygotmarried.AllIknowistheygothitchedataMethodist church becauseMama insisted on having abona fide preacher conductthe ceremony. They leftMississippi and came toFlorida because Naples wasDaddy’shometown.

WhatIhopedto findwaskinfolk. An aunt or uncle,perhaps. Or maybe a cousin.Since I was a small child,MamaandIhadbeenonourown. It’s painful to say, butDaddyupandleftus.AtleastI hoped to find out whymyname is Eudora WeltyWitherspoon—“Dora” forshort. Icouldonlyguess thatEudora Welty, the famedMississippiwriter,hadbeena

friend of Mama’s when shewasgrowingup.

As I said, Mama nevertoldmecertainthings.

IfiguredI’dgotoJacksonfor a few weeks or at mostseveral months, but before Iknew it I’d been away fromFloridaforayear.Ihadmademore progress finding outabout Mama and her peoplethan I ever could haveimagined.AllIneededwasa

little more time to wrapthings up and settle themproperly.Ihadajobshelvingbooks at the Jackson Libraryand I renteda small room inthehomeof awidownamedMrs. Sheba Conroy. Iplanned on giving propernotice—Ididn’twanttoleaveanyone in the lurch—thenheadhometoNaples.

And then the telegramcame.

TwoPoor Mrs. Conroy, mylandladyinJackson.Icanstillpictureherfacewhenshesawthe Western Union manthroughtheglasspanelofherfront door. Even under thebest of circumstances Mrs.

Conroy was nervous as a ratterrier,andwiththearrivalofa telegram she was likely toneedherfaintingcouch.

To her generation, atelegram was how theyusually found out somebodyhad died, and even thoughthe modern era had arrivedand you could make a long-distance telephone call—especially toacityas largeasJackson—plenty of folks still

reliedon theWesternUnionmantodeliverurgentnews.

Icouldn’tbelieveitwasforme. I’d never gotten aWesternUnioninmylifeandhadhopedIneverwould.Fora moment I was tempted totear itup,unread,andtoss itout the window right intoMrs. Conroy’s Gulf Prideazalea bushes. But sooner orlater,IknewI’dbeoutsideonmy hands and knees

searching for the pieces andtrying to put them backtogether. I’d have to knowwhatitsaid.

Mrs. Conroy was soworkedupIthoughtshewasontheverge of an apoplecticfit. She was quivering likeAunt Pittypat in Gone withthe Wind when the YankeeswereshellingAtlanta.“Well?”she shrieked, even before I

could read it. “What does itsay?”

I didn’t answer at first.Finally, with my voice allaquiver, I blurted out, “It’sbadnews.”

“I knew it!” Mrs. Conroywailed. “Somebodydied!Oh,Lord!SweetJesus...”

“Well,Idon’tknowaboutthat,”Isaid,tryingtocalmusboth down. “It just says

something’s wrong. But itdoesn’tsaywhat.”

“Letmeseethat,”shesaid,yanking it from my hands.“ ‘Big trouble. Come homenow.’ ” She read the wordsaloud then looked at me.“Whatdoesthatmean?”

“Idon’tknow,”Isaid.“Oh,Lordy,Lordy.”Poor

Mrs. Conroy was wringingher hands. I’d never actuallyseenanyonedothat,butsure

enough, that’s what she wasdoing.

“Mrs. Conroy,” I tried tosound respectful, but firm.“CouldyouleavemealoneforamomentsoIcanthink?Justforamoment,please?”

She left reluctantly. Iheard her moving pots andpans around in the kitchen.Thenshebegansinging“TheOldRuggedCross,”which isaniceoldhymnbutnotgreat

background music whenyou’re trying to figure outwho sent a Western Unionthat upended your life andwhy.

Thesenderwasnoneotherthan the stripper turnedalligator-hunter herself,DoloresSimpson.

A horrible thoughtoccurred to me: Maybesomething had happened toher son, my friend Robbie-

Lee.Buthewas still inNewYork City and had justwritten to me that he waswellandhappy.

One thing was for sure.Whatever was going on wasveryserious.Iftherewasevera woman who didn’t rattleeasy, it would beDolores. Ifshe said there was trouble,you can bet grandpa’s petbuzzard it was the Gospeltruth.

Butwhat kind of trouble?Whosetrouble?

All of a sudden I wantedto go home. I had to gohome.AndIhatedmyselfforstayingawayforawholeyear,even though it had been agood year and I’d found outsomethingsaboutMamaandherfamilythathadturnedmywayofthinkingupsidedown.ButIhadbeenfoolingmyselfto think that nothing would

change in Naples and that Icould go back anytime Iwantedandeverythingwouldbejustasitwas.

Most likely, someone haddied, just as Mrs. Conroyfeared. Since my social lifehadrevolvedaroundmybookclub, I went over the list ofmembersinmyhead.BesidesRobbie-Lee there was JackieHart, who had started thebook club and was in good

health as far as I knew. JaneWisniewski, known to all as“Plain Jane,”was a poetwhomade a living writing sexystories for women’smagazines under the nameJocelynWinston. Shewas inher late fifties and had nevermentioned any healthconcerns. Priscilla Harmon,who at nineteen was theyoungestmemberofourbookclub, was at Bethune-

CookmanCollegeinDaytonaBeach. Miss Lansbury, thelibrarian who helped uschoose our book selectionsand kept the library trusteesfrominterfering,hadgoneoffto live with her kinfolk, atribe of local Indians. Andthen there was Mrs. BaileyWhite,who,cometothinkofit, was quite elderly. Tenyears older than God, asMama would have said. But

whywouldn’tDoloresjustsaythat in the telegram? “So-and-sodied.Comehome.”

Instead, it said “bigtrouble.”

Which led me back toJackie. She’d been anewcomer to Naples, havingmoved from Boston, of allplaces,whenherhusbandwashired towork for one of ourwealthiest residents, Mr.Toomb.Jackiewasglamorous

and witty but she had aspecialtalentforupsettingthestatusquo.Ifthey’dbeenabletogetawaywithit, thetownfathers would have had hertarred and feathered andshippedbacknorth.

The book club upendedthe grapefruit cart, but thatwasn’t all. Jackie had alsostarted a secret radio showshecalledMissDreamsvilleonWNOG, “WonderfulNaples

on the Gulf.” This was thefirst late-night radio show inNaples. I don’t know whatgoes on in Boston, but inCollier County, Florida, amiddle-agedwifeandmotherlike Jackie had no businesshaving her own radio show,especially if it involved thedeliberate cultivation of asecret, seductive persona (orto use Jackie’s favorite term,“temptress”).

Then,Jackiecameupwithher wildest idea yet. Shevolunteered to take care of ababy so that its unmarriedmother—our book clubmember, Priscilla—could goto college. Plain Jane andMrs. BaileyWhite agreed tohelp. Now this was anextraordinaryofferthatwouldhave been considered an actof great Christian charity

exceptforonething.Priscillaandherbabywerecolored.

Oh, that was more thanenoughtocause“bigtrouble.”

And yet it didn’t makesense that Dolores Simpsonwouldsendthetelegram.Sheheld a grudge against Jackie.Whywouldshecare ifJackiewasintroubleuptoherears?

Mrs. Conroy had movedon to another hymn, “UpfromtheGroundHeArose,”

nevermy favorite, but at themoment, hearing it sung byMrs. Conroy with hermachine-gun vibrato, mademe want to beg for mercy.Although I could haveborrowed Mrs. Conroy’stelephone I slipped out thefrontdoorandscurriedtothephone box on the corner. Ithought I’d try to call Jackiesince Dolores didn’t haveelectricity let alone a phone.

As luck would have it, thelong-distance operator couldnotget through toanyone inCollierCounty.A stormhadknocked down the lines inLeeCounty,northofCollier,and it would be another dayor two before calls could gothrough.

So this is what I did: Iborrowed money from Mrs.Conroy. And I took oneTrailways bus after another

all the way back to CollierCounty.ItwasthesamerouteI’d taken a year earlier, onlyinreverse.

The last stretch fromTampa to Naples on theTamiami Trail was thelongest, or so it seemed. Iasked the driver to drop meoffatalittlesideroadthatledto an area known as GunRack Village. It was a sorryexcuseforaroad,buttheonly

way to get to DoloresSimpson’s fishing shackunless you had a small boatwithashallowdraft.

The bus driver made mepromise to be careful. Hiswarning that I better watchout for swamp things wasgood advice. I whistled andsang, or bangedmy hand onmylittlesuitcase,justtokeepfrom catching any snakes orgatorsbysurprise.

IfoundDoloressittingonthe step to the rickety dockthat led to her two-roomfishing shack. She waswhittling a stick into a smallweaponknownasa“gig.”Atany other time and place Iwould have been wary ofsomeonecraftingaspear,butseeing her there, knife inhand, made me feeldownright nostalgic. Irealized I’d been gone too

long. This was theEverglades, the River ofGrass. To the SeminoleIndians, it was “Pa-hay-okee.”

To me, it was simplyhome.

ThreeDolores spat out a bigstream of tobacco juice.“Well,it’sabouttimeyougothere,” she barked, barelyglancing up from herhandiwork.

ThiswasnotthegreetingIexpected. “I left as soon as Icould,” I said, thinking thatthe leastshecoulddowasbeimpressed, maybe evengrateful, that I’d done whatshe’d asked. “You know,Jackson,Mississippi,isalongway from here. I had toborrowmoney—”

“I don’t care about that,”Doloressaid.

“Well,areyougoingtotellme what this is about?” Myvoicewashighandsqueaky.Ihated that, especially when Iwastryingtosoundconfidentandmature.

Shekeptwhittling.“Look, Dolores, I think

youowemeanexplanation.”Shestilldidn’tanswer.“Is this about Jackie Hart

fromthebookclub?”

“That woman’s a damnfool,andsoisoldMrs.BaileyWhite and that other gal—what’shername,PlainJane—who are helping raise thatbaby.”

I had a terrible thought.“IsPriscilla’sbabyallright?”

“Baby’sfine,”Doloressaid.“Thenwhat is it?” Imust

have been on my last goodnervebecauseIspokesharply.“You sent me a Western

Union! What in tarnation isthe ‘big trouble’ you weretalkingabout?”

She finally stoppedwhittling and looked meeyeballtoeyeball.

“Your ex-husband,” shesaid.

“Darryl?”“Well, that is his name,

isn’tit?”I felt my face flush. “I’m

surprised,isall.”Darrylwasa

pain in the hindquarters, tobe sure, but I would neverhaveputhim in the categoryof“bigtrouble.”

“Well, let me be the firsttotellyou,”Doloressaid.“Hewants to buildhouses onmyland.Anda shoppingcenter!And maybe even a golfcourse! He’s going to fill inthiswholestretchoftheriverand run us all out of here.”She dropped her head and

tookasharpbreath.Maybe,Irealized,tocoverupasob.

Ifeltlight-headed.“Darryldoesn’t have that kind ofmoney,” I said finally.“Besides,he’sdumbasapost.Hedoesn’thavethesmartstodream up a project like that,ormakeithappen.”

Dolores scoffed so loudshe startled a night heronnesting halfway up a treeaboutthirtyfeetaway.

“Aw, shucks,” Dolorescalled over to the heron, “Iain’t going tohurt you.Nowjust settle down on yer ol’eggsandstopyourfrettin’.”

I looked over toward themama night heron, my eyessearching until I saw thefamiliarshapeofitsbeakandthe markings on its littlehead.Theywereodd-lookingbirds on account of theiryellow eyes with red irises.

Plus, they didn’t sing.Instead, they made a soundlikethecrankyoldcrowsthatused to raid Mama’ssunflower garden the minuteweturnedourbacks.

“Your Darryl has gothisself help—people from upnorthwillbepayingforit.”

“He’snot‘my’Darryl.”“You were married to the

idiot for a few years. Ithoughtyoucould try to talk

somesenseintohim.Besides,wholovesthishererivermorethanyoudo?”

Well, thatwas true. Iwasknown for bringing all kindsof swamp and river crittershomewithme,whichMama,amazingly, tolerated. After awhile, folks around thecounty had gotten torecognize I had a specialtalent with turtles. After Irescued an Everglades

snapping turtle the size of atruck tire fromthemiddleofU.S. 41, folks started callingme the Turtle Lady. Fromthen on, people broughtturtles to me that neededhelp.Threeofthemstayedonaspets—NormaJean,Myrtle,andCastro.

I looked again at themama heron. A heron nestwas a messy-looking pile ofsticks, and I remembered,

with a flush of shame, thatyears before I had made funofonewhenI’dbeenoutforawalkwithMamaintheseveryswamps. She’d said to me,“Now, it may not look likemuch to youbutnodoubt itis perfectly suited to theheron. The heron knowswhatit’sdoing,restassured.”

Doloresfollowedmygaze.“Huh, she’s giving you thestink eye,” she said of the

heron. “She don’t like beingstared at, especially by astranger.”

This seemed a surprisingside of Dolores. It didn’t fitwith her reputation. It washardtoimaginetendernessofany kind in her heart, butthen again, she had raisedRobbie-Lee and he was thenicest man I ever met. Gofigure.

“Dolores,”Isaid,tryingtoget back to the problem athand. “What do you expectme to do about it? AboutDarryl,Imean?”

“Don’tyougorushingme,girl,” Dolores snapped. Herraisedvoicewasmetwithtwosharp squawks, like warningshots,fromtheheron.

“Aw, will you just stopworrying yourself to death?”Dolores called to the bird.

“Do you think I’m going tocook you formy supper? If Iwasgoingtodothat,I’dhavedoneitalready.”

“Dolores, look, I want tohelp,butIdon’tknowifIcanstopDarryl,” I said. “I’m justone person, and I haven’teven livedhere thepast year,and—”

Shehurledherwhittlingtothe ground and jumped upwith clenched fists, her arms

flailinglikeatoddlerhavingatantrum.For a split second Ithought she might runstraight for me and stranglethe life out of me, so Istepped backward, trippingovermy suitcase and landingon my rear end. The heron,apparently unhappy with thecommotion, burst from itsnest, wings a-flapping, inwhatstruckmeasanalmost-perfectimitationofDolores.

“Youcan’tlethimdothis!”Dolores screamed. Halfsprawled in the sand, I feltlike a turtle that finds itselfupside down. I heard thesound of fast-movingfootsteps heading away fromme—thankyou,Jesus.Adoorslammed, and I feltmomentarily relieved. She’dgoneinside.

Then it dawned on methat I was in a fine pickle.

Soon itwouldbedark in theswamp,andIwasn’tabouttowalk back to the TamiamiTrail with no flashlight ortorch.Moonbeamshadawayof illuminating sandy pathsthatweren’tvisibleduringthedaytime,makingiteasytogetconfused—and lost—atnight.

I’dbeensoeagertotalktoDoloresI’dscurriedrightovertoseeher,rightoffthebus.I

guess I thought she’d inviteme inside and we’d talk. Ithadn’t occurred to me thatwe’dhaveabigfussandshe’dleavemeoutsideallnight.

The fall had knocked thewindoutofmylungs.Ispentseveral long moments justlooking around me. Doloreshad made someimprovements to the fishingshack since her son had lefthome.Thefrontdoor, ifyou

could call it that, had beenpainted shocking pink. Ahand-carvedsign,stuckinthegroundandtiltingwildly likea forgotten grave-marker,readHomeSweetHome.Offto the right, brush had beencleared away from theouthousewhichnowfeaturedthe words “Powder Room”paintedinagirlishscript.

But the ’Glades werecoming alive with evening

sounds. I soon decided thatgators, snakes, and pantherswere, in fact, scarier thanDolores—although frankly Iwasn’t 100 percent sure. Istruggledbacktomyfeetandedgedmywaycarefullyalongthe dock toward the shack,which sat like a little islandon rough-hewn pilings. As Iknocked, I ducked to oneside,justincasesheansweredwithashotgunblast.

When she didn’t respond,Icalledout,hopingshecouldhearme.“Dolores,youknowIcan’tstayouthereallnight.Ineedtoborrowaflashlight.”

Nothing.Quietasagrave.I tried again. “Dolores,

whatwouldRobbie-Leesayifhe knew youweren’t lookingafterme?”

The latch clicked and thedoorswungopen.

“Don’t you go saying myson’s name,” Dolores said.“Heain’thereanyway.Heupand left me. Went to NewYorkCity.”

“He’ll be back,” I saidgently. “He’s young, and justwantedtoseealittlemoreoftheworld.JustlikeIdid.”

“See the world,” sheharrumphed. “I guess the’Gladesain’tgoodenoughforthelikesofyou,orhim.”She

paused. “Why would anyoneinhis rightmind go toNewYorkCity?”

I couldn’t argue with heron that point. Mississippiwasn’texactlyastone’sthrowaway, but at least it was theSouth.

I noticed she had a drinkin her hand. I wasn’t sure ifthis was a good sign or not.“You must hear from him—right? Does he send letters?

Heshouldbesendingletters,”Isaid,takingherside.

“Yes, he writes me lettersbut he doesn’t tell me muchofanything.Saysawhole lotof nothing in them letters.Justthingsaboutprettyparksand big, tall buildings.”Suddenly, she brightened.“He saw Liz Taylor outsidesometheateronBroadway.”

“Really?” I asked,forgetting my problems.

“Robbie-Lee saw ElizabethTaylorinperson?”

“Yes, he did,” Doloresreplied proudly. “She wasgoing to see a play, and hesaid he was maybe ten feetfrom her, with him workinginthetheaterandall.”

“Well, ain’t thatsomething?”I said. “Wasshejust as purty in person? Didhesayintheletter?”

“Oh, purtier!” Doloresreplied, as certain as if she’dbeen there herself. “Can youimagine seeing a Hollywoodperson like Elizabeth Taylorintheflesh?”

“She was my mama’sfavorite movie star,” I saidsoftly.

“Mine, too,” Dolores saidwistfully. “Ever since I sawherinFatheroftheBride.”

Now I was really seeinganother side of DoloresSimpson. I had troubleimaginingDoloresinamovietheater at all, let alonewatching such a sweet andcharming movie. Of course,that film had come outfourteen years ago, in 1950,anditmademewonderwhatDolores must have been likewhenshewasyounger.ThenI had a memory of Mama,

talking about forgiveness andhowharditwasforhertogetpast the fact that ElizabethTaylor stole someone else’shusband. My mind was athousand miles away whensuddenly I realized Doloreswaspeering atme as if she’dnever really seen me before.All this talk about ElizabethTaylorhadalteredtheairwewerebreathing.

“Comein,”shesaidfinally.

•••

THE NEXT MORNING IWOKE up on an ancienthorse-haircouchthatsmelledlike spilled beer, stalecigarettes, and low tide. Anold metal spring was pokingintomyback.

She had left me a note,writteninpencilinallcapitalletters. THIS HERECORNBREAD IS FOR

YOU. TAKE IT ANDEAT. TAKE A COKE,TOO. SORRY IT BEWARM. COME BACKAFTERYOU’VETALKEDTODARRYL.

Talk toDarryl?OhLord,in my disoriented state, I’dalmost forgotten. Honestly,I’d rather havemet the devilbefore daylight but I hadagreed the night before thatthis was the next step. If it

wastruethathewasgoingtopave over this part of the’Glades, I needed to hear itfromthehorse’smouth.Andgivehimapieceofmymind.

Andfindoutwherehegotthemoneytopulloffsuchanidea.

Andfindawaytostop it.Or at least, keep it fromhappeningrighthere.

I washed down thecornbreadwithCokeandwas

revived enough to startwalking back to the Trail. Inoticed, as I left, that themamanightheronwasusingtheHomeSweetHome signforaperch.ShestaredatmewarilyasIwalkedpast.Iwastempted to say howdy butthought better of it. Poorthing had been through ourruckus the night before. AsMamaused to say, “When itcomestoNature,leaveitbe.”

The thick smell of the’Glades made me feeldrugged or a little feverish. Iwasn’t used to theoverwhelming clash of plantlifeanymore,someofitquitestinky in its own right butbunched together, almostnauseating. Mixed in was avague scent of decay, helpedalong by humidity that wasalmost indescribable, thougha high-school friend had

come close when he said itfelt like being caught in adownpour,onlyitwasrainingup.On particularly hot days,Jackie, in her wry Northernway, would say, “Howrefreshing! Essence ofSwamp!” which was funnybut always made me feelinferior. However, havingbeenaway forayear, I couldseeherpoint.

AsImarchedalong,Itriedto picturemy friendRobbie-Lee making this same trekdayafterdayforyears,justtogettoschoolorthelibraryoranywhere. And I wonderedhow in the world he hadsurvived growing up withDoloresashismother.

After disturbing severalsnakesalongtheway,Ifinallyreached the Trail where,mercifully,Igotaridefroma

truckdriverheading south toEvergladesCity.IguessIwasa pathetic sight, walkingdown the side of the roadwithasuitcase inmyhand.Iofferedhimadollarwhenhedropped me off by the Essostation, but he wouldn’t takeit. Told me I’d better takegood care of myself, andthat’s when I realized that Imust’ve looked like deathwarmedover inasaucepan.I

didn’twantanyoneelsetoseeme like that. Pride is a sinand so is vanity, but whowants to return to herhometown looking like awiltedorchid?

It was still early, andNapleswas not fully stirring.I walked quick as I could,hoping I wouldn’t run intoanyone. Itwas alreadyhot asHades,andIhadtocatchmybreath twice. While I was

confident that Judd Hart,Jackie’steenageson,hadbeentaking good care of my petturtles, I was eager to seethem. Imanaged to half runthe last hundred yards tomylittle cottage with my littlesuitcase bumping against mythighateverystep.

I opened the gate andstepped into the yard.Nothingstirred,soIwhistledand stayed still. I whistled a

second time and heard somerustling. Slowly, they cameout from their hiding places,their heads poking out,curious. And then theylumberedtowardme,pickingup speed, with Norma Jean,always the boss, in the lead.When they got close theystopped short. They didn’thave the greatest eyesight intheworldbutassoonasthey

heardmy voice they knew itwasme.

Iwantedtospendthenexthour right there in the frontyard but I had to go insideand pull myself together.Happily, the cottage did notneed airing out. Judd hadclearly been following myinstructions.

I unpacked my suitcaseandshowered.OnlythendidI allow myself to settle into

Mama’sfavoritechair.HowImissedher. In theyearIhadspent away I had oftenimagined sitting in her chairand feeling comforted, and Idid.ButIalsofeltadeepstabofsadness.

I was born right here inthis little cottage. Therewasn’t a nickel to spare for adoctor, not that there wasusually one available,especially with the

Depression going on.Thankfully, Mama had beentrainedas anurse and so shebirthedmeherself.

Mama used to say that atleastDaddyleftuswitharoofover our heads. Not that itwas much of a roof. Everytime we had a hurricane itleaked in a new andmysterious way, and Mamaand I would spend thedurationofthestormmoving

mop buckets from place toplace untilwewere too tiredto care. The year I turnedfifteen, Mama finally hadenoughmoneysetasidefromherpart-timenursing jobs tohaveitfixedproper.

When ImarriedDarryl, alocal boy I’d known sincechildhood, we set uphousekeeping all the way upin Ocala. I wasn’t happyabout it, but Darryl had

landed a good constructionjob. Before longMama tooksick, and I began spendingmoretimewithherinNaplesthanwithDarrylinOcala.

That’s when I found outthat Darryl had a meanstreak. He didn’t like mebeing away from him, evenforagoodreason.ThesickerMama got, the more pettyand irritated Darryl became.Later, I spent a lot of time

trying to decide if he’dchanged overnight or if he’dalways been that way and Ihadfailedtonotice.

MamaandIboththoughtshe had glade fever and itwould pass once the weatherturned. But even when therains ended, she was stillfeeling puny. I knew thingswerebadwhenshegaveupallher part-time nursing jobs,one by one, including her

favorite, her twice-daily visitto check on Miss MaudeMobley, who was ninety-three and lived alone. MissMobley had outlived all herfriends and kin. She didn’tneed to be in a state home;she justneeded someone likeMama tomake sure she wastaking her liver pills andeating proper. Mamawouldn’tresteasyuntilIwenttoMissMobley’schurchand

asked the preacher to findsomeone to take Mama’splace.

Not that anyone couldtake Mama’s place. I alwaysknew that was the case, butimagining and living it aretwo different things. Herfinaldeclinehappenedsoonerthan I expected. Withouttellingme,Mamaslippedoutone morning while I wasshoppingat theWinn-Dixie.

She took the bus to FortMyers,whereshesawablooddoctor. When she camehome, she told me she hadcancerandtheycouldn’tfixit.Two weeks after Mama sawthedoctorinFortMyers,shecrossed over to the SpiritWorldinhersleep.

Aftertheburial,Iwentupto Ocala, packed up mythings,andcamehome.Nowit was just me at the little

cottageon theGulf.Meandmyturtles.

ReturninghometoNaplesas a divorced woman wasevenharderthanIthought itwould be. People I’d knownmywhole life—evenoldpalsfrom school—avoided me. Igot a job at the post officeand was thankful for it, butonthedaysIwasassignedtocounter duty I found myselfhaving to make small talk

with people who lookeddownonme.IfnotforJackieHart and her book club, I’dhaveremainedfriendless.

These memories wereexhausting, and I wastempted to let myself fallasleep in Mama’s chair. Thedeep, soft cushions stillsmelledofher.

But my mind was toorestless.PartofmewantedtohandleDarryl onmy own to

show everyone that littleDoraWitherspoonwasmoreindependent and confidentthansheusedtobe.Thiswasplain foolishness, however,and I could practically feelMama glaring down at mefrom the Other Side. Mamawouldhavesaidtherewasnoshame in asking for help, inwhich case I had only oneplace to turn: my old bookclub. If anyone could stop

Darryl,itwasthemembersoftheCollierCountyWomen’sLiterary Society. Especially,an outspoken woman fromBostonnamedJackieHart.

FourDoloresSimpsonsatonthedock that led to her fishingshack and wondered howshe’d ended up here, alone,on the edge of the ’Gladeswithnooneto talk toexcepta nervous night heron.

Nothing inher lifehadgoneright. She wasn’t even surewho shewasanymore.Truthbe told, she wasn’t evenDoloresSimpson.

Her realnamewasBunnyAnn McIntyre. She alwayswondered what her mamahad been thinking when shewrote those words in thefamilyBible.Ofcourse,whenshe became a grown girl andwasworkingasastripper(she

preferred “fan dancer”) inTampa, Bunny was aperfectly suitable name. Atleast shedidn’thave to comeup with something new andcatchy likeall theothergirls.The funny thing was, girlsnamed Mary, Elizabeth, andSusan who became Safire,Sugar, or Bubbles wereannoyedthatshewas,infact,an actual Bunny. Why thisbotheredthemwasamystery

to her, but then women ingeneral had always seemedmorecomplicatedthanmen.

When she fled from thatlife and moved back to theEverglades,shewantedanewname to go with a new life.On the bus heading southfromHillsboroughCounty,aladyinatailorednavysuitlefta magazine on the seat nextto her. Dolores picked it upandflippedtoarandompage

where she began readingabout a woman namedDoloresSimpsonwhoowneda six-bedroom home, anOlympic-sized swimmingpool, a maid, and even aLincoln Continental. Andshe hadn’t done it bymarrying some man. No,according to the story, shehadstartedherownbusiness.She was even quoted assaying she didn’t need a man

in her life. Incredible! Howshewished she could be thatwoman, and if she couldn’t,well,atleastshecouldborrowhername.

Good-bye, “Bunny.”Hello,“Dolores.”

But a lot of good it haddoneher.

She spat a stream oftobacco juice, takingcarenotto hit the pink bougainvilleathatRobbie-Leehad planted

at the foot of the dock.Doloreshadlearnedthehardwaythatbougainvillea,whichwas generally quite hardy,wouldshrivelupanddie if ithad an unlucky encounterwith tobacco spit.While shewasn’t partial to flowers,Dolorescouldn’tseethesensein ruining a perfectly goodplant. Besides, Robbie-Leewas fond of it, and she

wanted it to be here lookingpurtywhenhecameback.

Ifhecameback.“Oooh, my son is gone.

Gone to see the world,” shemoaned softly. Adding,“Fool.Dangfool.”

She wished she coulddirect that nasty stream oftobaccojuicerightatthefeetof the folkswho had createdherproblems.FirstwasJackieHart, that trouble-making

redhead from Boston.Robbie-Lee had been doingjust fine until Jackie camealong. The boy had apromising future which henow had thrown away. He’dmanaged to get hisself therarest kind of job, one inwhichhedidn’tgethishandsdirty. As the sole employeefor Sears, Roebuck &Company in Collier County,he’d helped folks place their

orders from the catalog. Itdidn’t matter that the SearsCenterwhereheworkedwasthesizeofanicecreamstand.Heworeniceclothestoworkand he wasn’t going to ageovernightthewaymostofthemenfolkinCollierdid,eitherfrom the fishing industry orfarming melons andsugarcane.

Butthenallofasuddenheleft for New York City. Just

like that. New York City!Inspired by that awfulwoman,JackieHart,whoputit in his head that he wasmissing something. Well,dagnabbit,ifhewantedtogonorth sobadlyhe couldhavegone to Fort Myers, orSarasota, or maybe evenApalachicola. At least hewould have still been inFlorida. He’d have still beensquarelyonConfederate turf.

But why New York City? Itwasn’tevenpartoftheUnitedStates, as far as Dolores wasconcerned.

She looked over at thenight heron. “Oh, just youwait and see,” Dolores saidmournfully. “Being a motherishard.When theygrowup,they gonna do what theygonna do. Your young’unswill do the same to you thatmyboydidtome.

“But he’ll be back oneday,” she added, this time toherself.“Iknowhewill.”

The second person whohad messed up her life wasDarrylNorwood,ex-husbandof that little gal, DoraWitherspoon. She hopedshe’dgottenthroughtoDora.The telegram had worked tobring her back here. Maybetherewassomehopethattherivercouldbesaved.

If not, she would havenowheretogo.“Thingswon’tbesopeachy foryou,either,”she called over to the bird.“You’re going to be the lastnight heron in CollierCounty. What we have hereis amighty bad situation.Atleast you can fly away. Youcan start over. I can’t. I’mgoodfornothin’.I’mstuck.”

Dolores examined herhands. Twenty-five years

working in the ’Glades, andthey looked like the skin ofthealligatorsshecaught.Butthat was the least of herworries. Back when she’dbeen a dancer, the owner oftheclubhadcomplainedthather breasts were too small.Unless she allowed liquidfiller to be injected into herbreasts, she would lose herjob.She’dgonealongwithit.Now they were lumpy, and

hard, and hurt in ways shedidn’t think possible. Howstupid she’d been when shewas young. Some mistakesyoupayfor,forever.

Her first mistake wasthinkingshewasinlove.Shewas fifteen and had justfinished eighth grade.Whenherbellystartedswelling,shethought maybe she hadworms, or possibly a hernia.But her mama and daddy

knew otherwise. They threwherout.

She’d hitchhiked toTampa on the back of atomatotruckinpouringrain.She still didn’t know whatwas wrong with her or whyher parents made her leave,but a stranger on the streetsof Tampa took one look ather and walked her to ahospital emergency room.Threehourslatershehadher

baby.Thenunsconvincedhershewasrackedbysinandnotworthy to be a mother. Shenever had a chance to holdthe baby. She wasn’t evensure if the baby was alive orhealthy,andthereweretimeswhenshewonderedifshehaddreamedthewholething.

She left that hospital fourdays later on her own twofeet,alone.Shehitchhikedtothe beach in St. Pete and

survived by stealing picnicsfrom tourists. Being soyoung, her body bouncedback quickly, and soon shegot herself a job at anightclub. It was only aftershe showed up on her firstday of work that she foundout she was to be a dancer,not a waitress. She wentalong with it, thinking she’ddo it just for a while, but “awhile” turned into seven

years. And that’s when shegotpregnantagain.

The owner of thenightclubsuggestedanoptionthat would, as he said, “fix”thesituationbutDoloreswastooscaredtoconsiderit.Oneof the other dancers—asweet-faced girl fromAlabama—had gone to anundergroundclinicanddied.

Surrenderinganotherbabyto the State of Florida was

out of the question, as far asDoloreswas concerned.Thisbabywasakeeper,comewhatmay.Shehadhimatthesamehospital as the firstone,onlythis time she was prepared.Shescoopedhimupandtookoff out of there beforesomebodycouldthrustpapersin her face and hand her apen.ShenamedhimRobbie-Lee after a crop reporter shelikedtolistentoontheradio.

A man who sounded nice,day in and day out, whetherhe was discussing theworrisome possibility of aJanuary freeze in the orangegroves or warning listenersabouta fierce stormthathadpoppedupovertheGulfonasummer day. Sometimes thefriendlyvoiceaskedquestionswhich he quickly answeredhimself.Forexample:Didyouknow that Tampa is the

lightning capital of the UnitedStates? (Well, it is!) Or:Didyouknow thatmanyhistoriansbelieve our city gets its namefromtheCalusaIndians,ortheShell People, because “Tampa”means “sticks of fire” in theirancient language? (Well, itdoes!)Soherradioannouncerwas smart as well as nice, aquality which Doloresadmired.

Within hours of leavingthehospital,shefledtheareawith Robbie-Lee curled uplikeakittenunderasilkscarfshe’d snatched years earlierfrom a Canadian traveler, or“snowbird.” She skipped outofDodgewithoutsomuchasa fare-thee-well to anyone,not wanting to alert herlandlord, who would havehadher sent to jail for beinglate on the rent.Nevermind

thatherbabywouldbetakenfromher.

AllshecouldthinkofwastoheadbackdowntoCollierCounty. That’s what peopledowhenthey’realmostoutofhope,right?Headhome?Shehad heard through thegrapevine that her parentswere dead, so at least shedidn’thavetofacetheirscornagain. And Collier Countywasfamiliar.Asformakinga

living, her granddaddy hadhunted gators in the ’Gladesback in the day, and shethought, Well, heck, I can dothat. I watched him do it. Ihelpedhimdoit.

Besides, she figured,huntin’gatorscouldn’tbeanyharder or more dangerousthan working in some oldstripclub.Infact,itmightbeeasier.

The years slipped by likethe hidden currents in theriver. Shewouldn’t have saidshe’dbeenhappy—shewasn’tsure what that felt like—butshewasn’tmiserable.Shegotby, and folks left her alone.Most importantly, Robbie-Leehadgrownuphandsome,clever, andnice, just as she’ddreamed.

If only Robbie-Lee hadstayed away from that book

club he would be here,helping her with the gators.Shehatedtoadmititbutshehad come to relyonRobbie-Lee to lend a handwith thebig, unruly ones. Since he’dleft, she’d pretty much givenup the gator businessaltogether.Especiallyafteranoddthinghappened:Shehadstarted feeling sorry for thecritters. She’d neversympathized with the big

ones, which would just assooneatherup,butthelittleones—the only kind shecouldnowgrabholdofthesedays—well, theywere almostcute! This had come as ashock to her, and she hadquietly started retiring hergear.

Shewas livingon fish shecould catch from her dock.She sold grunts—minnows,the Yankees called ’em—to

thebait shops, always settingaside a healthy portion forherself. She rolled the tinythings in flour and fried ’emup whole, just like hergranddaddy did, and served’em with a mess of grits.Indeed, there was nothingDolores liked better than abig ol’ plate of grits andgrunts.

Andnowsomeonewantedto take it all away. To some

folks it probably wouldn’thave seemed like much. Butto her, it was a little slice ofheaven.

Howcouldamangrowupin the ’Glades and fail to seeits beauty? How could helookatitandseeonlymoney?She’d run intoplentyofmenlike Darryl in her life. Theythoughtofnooneotherthanthemselves.Theyweren’tanydifferent from the school-

yardbullieswhousedtopickon Robbie-Lee, calling him“homo” and other names.Darryl and those just likehim,shedecided,wereevil.

The person who washarder to understand wasJackie.Shehad anicehome,ahusbandwithasteadyjob,acouple of kids, and a Buickconvertible.Whatelsecouldawoman want? If I had thatkind of life, Dolores thought

wistfully, I would be busyliving it. I wouldn’t waste mytime creating problems andmeddling in other people’sbusiness.

Dolores had never metanyone from Boston andwonderediftheywerealllikeJackie. First of all, thatpeculiar accent thatwas nearimpossible to understand.Plusthebizarreurgetospeakyour mind and have

everythingupfrontandoutinthe open. And the worstYankee trait of all, amissionary zeal to fixeverythingSouthern.

Not that Jackiewas a badperson. She wasn’t evil likeDarryl.ShewasjustaYankeeand, typical of the Northernborn, couldn’t leave wellenoughalone.

FiveThere’ssomethingIneedtotell you,MissWitherspoon,”JuddHart was saying, and Inoticed he wouldn’t lookmein the eye.Whenhe heard Iwasbackintown,Juddmadeabeelinetomycottagetosay

hello.With his red hair andblue eyes, it was easy to seethat he was Jackie’s son. Hewas thirteen now and aboutfourinchestallerthanwhenIleft. We were sitting on thebottom step of my porch,feeding pieces of honeydewmelon to my snappers. Ofcourse, this meant having toscoldNorma Jean from timetotime.Shewassuchapiggy,

and I could see she hadn’tchangedabit.

“Judd,” I said, “you don’thave to call me MissWitherspoon. You can callmeDora.”

“I can’t call you Dora.You’reagrown-up.”

“Well, then, call meMissDora,”Isaid.

Juddfrowned.IguessthatwastooSouthern.

“Well,” I prompted him,“what is it you want to tellme?” I tried to hide thenervousness from my voice.“Is it about all this businesswithmy formerhusbandandthe development hewants tobuild?”

“No, not that,” Judd said.“I just wanted to warn youthatwhen you seemymom,she’ll look a little, um,different.”

All I could think of wasthat maybe Jackie hadchanged her hair, or gainedweight.

Judd looked away. “She’llbe wearing black,” hemumbled.

“What?”“Black. You know,

mourningclothes.”“Oh, Judd! Someone in

your family went to Glory?Noonetoldme!I’msosorry!

Whowas it?”Myheartwentinto a tailspin of pity andsorrow.PoorJackie!

“Well, no one in our . . .family.” Judd lookedmiserable.

“Then...who?”Iasked.“PresidentKennedy.”Hmmm. Jackie had been

wearing mourning clothes—forPresidentKennedy?Sincethe previous November? Inthree months it would be a

year.Ihadfiguredshetookithard but I didn’t think shewouldcarryonthislong.

“She says she’s going towearthemforoneyearandaday,” Judd went on. “I justdidn’t want you to besurprised.”

“Judd, let me ask yousomething,anditmightseemlike a silly question,” I said.“YouknowI’veneverbeenupnorth.What Iwant to know

is, is this something allYankees do?” In my head, Iwas picturing everyone inBoston walking around inblack.

“Nope,”Juddsaid.“Idon’tthinkso.I’mprettysureshe’sthe only one in America,other than the Kennedyfamily,of course.This is justMombeingMom.”

“Oh,” I said, at a loss forwords.Sowearingblackfora

year, for a president noteveryone liked (especially inthe South), would beconsidered odd even inBoston.Thereweretimeslikethis when I got a hint thatJackie was over the top evenfor a Yankee. “Well,” I said,finally finding my voice, “asthe saying goes, ‘To eachhisown.’ ”

Judd suddenly seemeddefensive. “I guess with her

being from Boston and all,and she’s such a fan ofMrs.Kennedy, and all that . . .”Hisvoicetrailedoff.Hetriedto grin but it came off as alame little smile, so heshrugged instead. “I didn’twant you to be, you know,caught off guard. BecausewhenItoldherI’dheardyouwerebackintown,sherantoget dressed and I know she’s

headed over here anyminutenow.”

We’d run out of melonstrips to give the turtles.Castro andMyrtle had goneinto the shrubs to take naps.NormaJeanwasstillbeggingfor goodies. She stared at usand made munchingmovements with her mouth.“Yes, we see you, NormaJean,”Isaid,laughing.Itwashard to miss an Everglades

snapping turtle the size ofMama’sdivan.

“Youknowwhat, Judd?”Isaid. “You’ve done a fine jobhere, looking after myfriends.”

Judd beamed at mycompliment. “I really meanthat,” I added. “I wouldn’thavegoneofftoMississippiifyou hadn’t been here to takecareofmyturtles.Andcheckon my little cottage. But

everything looks swell. Didyouhaveanyproblems?”

“No,ma’am,”hesaid,andI was pleased to hear the“ma’am” roll off his tongue,since a Boston boy wouldn’tsurvivedownhere for long ifhe didn’t learn the basics.Seems like he’d settled infairlygood.

And then he asked me aquestion I didn’t know the

answerto.“Howlongareyougoingtobebackfor?”

“I don’t know, Judd.” Isighed before continuing.“I’ve still got something Ineed to do back inMississippi. But I’ve got toseeifIcanhelpRobbie-Lee’smother. She’s going to loseherhomeifmystupidformerhusband”—I paused for amoment,regrettingthatIhadreferred to Darryl in such a

mean-spiritedwayinfrontofJudd—“uh, if my formerhusband fills in the swampoverthere.”

Judd was quiet for amoment. “But where wouldall the turtles, and the gatorsandeverything,go?”heasked.

IwasthinkingJuddmightbeagreatallywhenwebothheard brakes squeal. Beforeyou could say “Sweet Jesus,protect me from whatever

that is,” Jackie’s convertibleslid to a halt in the wind-driven sand that alwaysseemed to pile up on thestreet directly in front ofmycottage. There was no oneelse in Naples who drovequite like that. And, therewas no other car like thatsouthofTampa:acompletelyimpractical, two-door,banana-yellow 1960 BuickLeSabre for which she had

traded, in amoment of purerebellion, her dull andmatronlystationwagon.

We loved that car. Oh,how we all loved it. No oneelseinourbookclubownedacar, and Jackie had enjoyeddriving us around. It waswonderful to see her again,rightbehindthewheel,whichis how I usually pictured herin my mind although theeffect was altered somewhat

since shewas indeedwearingblack. A black head scarf.Black gloves. Black cat-eyesunglasses. And, of course, ablack dress that was tastefulbut not especially demure.Probably, fromthatstoreshewas always talking about,Filene’s.

Black is not an easy colorto wear in Florida under thebest of circumstances and, inNaples,itwasalwaysasignal

that someone had up anddied. Black was for grievingand condoling only. Ofcourse, that might not havebeen true, say, in Miami orsome other place where theyhad bona fide nightclubs.HereinNaplestheonlyplacewas theShingleShack,andIdoubt any woman ever woreblack unless she was comingstraight from the kind of

funeral that drives a womantodrink.

Jackie leaned on the carhorn, a Yankee habit thatmade me want to reach forsmelling salts. Why in thename of Our Sweet Saviordid she think this wasnecessary? Did she think wecouldn’t see her? She wassmiling and waving her armwith the kind of jauntyNorthern confidence that

annoys the beeswax out ofSoutherners. Plain Jane, thepoetfromourbookclub,wassprawled in the backseat likeshe was sunbathing on achaiselounge.Ialmosthadn’tnoticedher.

“Woo hoo!” I called out,onceIhadrecoveredfromthecar horn. “So great to seey’all! Git yourselves out ofthatcrazycarandcomesetonthe porch withme and Judd

for a spell!” But as soon as Iraised my voice, I could feelMama’s disapproval comingstraightdownfromtheSpiritWorld like a bolt oflightning, since hollerin’ was“notnice.”Mamawasalwaystalkingaboutthingsthatwereeither “nice” or “not nice.”That was pretty much howshe saw the world. Judd,Jackie, and Plain Jane wereprobably wondering why I

sprang up, rabbit-like, ratherthan shoutagain,but Iknewbetter than to disrespectMama. It didn’t matter thanshewas six feet under at theCemetery of Hope andSalvation over by the Essostation.

Jackie and Plain Jane hadboth climbed out of the car,andI thoughtweweregoingto have a bear-hug reunion,but when I got to the gate

and started fussing with thelatch, Jackie startedscreechinglikeabansheeonacoconut-milk binge. “Don’topenit!”shepleaded.

I had plumb forgot thatJackiewasscaredtopiecesofmy turtles. It was a wondershe let Judd look after themwhile I was away. For thesake of friendship, and tokeep Jackie calm, I climbedover my own fence. Jackie,

Plain Jane, and me had athree-way hug like a footballhuddle. You know you likesomeone, and truly missedthem, when you don’t mindembracing them in thesuffocatingheatofFlorida inAugust.

I wasn’t sure about otherbook clubs, but making adecision, evenwith just threeof us present, required morediscussion than Khrushchev

and Kennedy probably hadduring the entire CubanMissile Crisis. Plain Janewanted to sit on my porchand sip iced tea and getcaught up. Jackie balked onaccount of my turtles which(alittlerudely,inmyopinion)shekeptreferringtoas“thosedreadful things.”Shesuggestedwegotoherhouseand drink mimosas. I knewwhat I wanted to do, but I

waitedforthetwoofthemtotalk their ideas to death.Finally, there was a lull.“Where’s the baby?” I asked.“I’mdyingtoseeher.”

Instantly, it was agreedthatwewould all go toMrs.Bailey White’s house, wherethe baby spent most of hertime.

Judd was obviouslyrelievedthatwewereleaving.Jackiecalledtohim,“Honey,

Imadesomechiliforyouandthetwins.GoaheadandeatifI’m not home in time forsupper. And there’s a specialhoneydew melon that Iboughtjustforyou.”

As we were driving away,two things occurred to me.One was that theaforementioned honeydewmelon was, in all likelihood,thesameoneJuddandIhad

just fed by hand to “thosedreadfulthings.”

ThesecondwasthatIwasthrilledtobebackwithJackieand Plain Jane in the Buick.On the radio, the Supremeswere singing “Where DidOur Love Go?” and for themoment, all was right withtheworld.

SixMrs. BaileyWhite’s housewas haunted. How could itnotbe?Someonehaddiedanunnatural death there. Thatsomeone was Mrs. BaileyWhite’s husband. Althoughwhat really happened was a

topic of popular debate inCollier County, and Mrs.Bailey White insisted it wasself-defense, she had beenconvicted. And she went toprisonfordecades.

I have to admit I wasscared of Mrs. Bailey Whitewhen she showed up atJackie’s book club at thelibrary two years before. Weallgotthecreepy-crawliesbutwere too polite to ask her to

leave. Itneveroccurred tousthat we would grow to likeher.

Nowwe were on the wayto her house, which hadbecome a familiar place tome. I rode up front withJackie; Plain Jane stretchedout again in the back.Therewas a time when peoplescowled at the sight ofJackie’s outrageous car, butthat was before the town

discovered she was MissDreamsville, the incognitoradio star. Now peoplesmiled, a few waved, andsomechildrenevencalledout“Miss Dreamsville! MissDreamsville!” as we drovepast. The impossible hadhappened: The town nowtolerated Jackie as one of itsown. She’d made Naplesfamous with her radio show,andeventhoughshehadquit

the show (it wasn’t as muchfun, she said, now thateveryoneknewwhoshewas),shewould always be thoughtofasMissDreamsville,justaspeople would always call methe Turtle Lady, and Mrs.BaileyWhitewouldalwaysbethe Black Widow of CollierCounty.Likeitornot,intheSouth, nicknames stick likebarefeetinaclaypit.

Mrs.BaileyWhite’shousewas tucked back from theroad. I still got a littlethumpety-thump in my heartas we approached it, butwhenweroundedthebendofthe long private drive I wassurprised. Why, the oldVictorian house lookedalmost presentable. Theserpent-like vine that hadgone up one side of thehouse, across the roof, and

downtheothersidehadbeenremoved. There was a freshlayerofpaintorstain,andthebroken window on the thirdfloor had been replaced. Iwouldn’t say the old houselooked spiffy.Therewas stillsomething about it thatwasn’t quite right, and Ifound my eyes searching forflaws. It simply looked tired,as if it were an older ladytrying to reclaim her glory

days by wearing an excess ofMaybelline.

I’m pretty sure I’d neveractuallybeenhuggedbyMrs.Bailey White, even when IclimbedonthebusboundforMississippitheyearbefore,soI was a little shocked whenshe greeted me with aferociouslittleembrace.This,despite her appearing moredelicate.Shedidn’tlookolderbut somehow gave the

impression of being morefragile,andyetIcouldseeshehadn’t given up in the waythat some older ladies do.Her clothes and hair weretidy and there was atoughnessinhermannerthatwashardtodescribe.Shewasin a battle against decline,muchlikeherhouse.

She excused herself tolocate a bottle of wine she’dmade from her rose blooms

the previous year. I don’tknow what impressed memore, the fact that she wasable to grow roses inCollierCounty or that she’dmanagedtomakewineoutofthe fadedbloomsbefore theyturnedmoldy. There was notellingwhatanold-timerlikeMrs. Bailey White hadstashedaway in thatmindofhers.

Wewere interrupted by ashrillsound,andforasecondI thought a bird got itselfcaught in the chimney andcouldn’tfinditswayout.

“She’s awake from hernap,” Plain Jane announced,andIrealizedshewastalkingabout the baby. “My turn,”she said, clapping her handstogether, and thenpracticallyran up the stairs. Plain Janelooked thinner than I

remembered, at least frombehind.Theywereallgettingolder, I thought, a bitstartled. Since I was pastthirty I wasn’t anyone’s ideaof a spring chicken but Iwasn’t in the same league.PlainJane,asIsaid,wasmoreor less sixty; Jackie hadcrossed the most dreadedboundaryofall—forty.Mamawould have lumped them allinto the category “ladies of a

certain age,” which is acourteousway of referring toawoman past her “prime,” aterm which I’d always foundannoying on account of itmakingyousound likeasideofbeef.

I didn’t know about upnorth—I could ask Jackiesomeday, at a delicatemoment—but here in theSouth, women were said topeak by twenty. By the time

you were in your latetwenties, itwas said that thebloom was off the rose.While I was busy broodingover the unfair burdensplaced on womankind, PlainJane, beaming, appeared atthe top of the steep staircasewith a sleepy infant cuddledinherarms.

EudoraWeltyDreamsvilleHarmon—Dream, for short—lifted up her head when

shespiedastranger—me.Shewas wearing a starched pinkdresswithmatchingpinkhairclips and little white leatherlace-up shoes. But whatimpressedmemost were hereyes, large and soft andintense like a doe’s, exactlylikehermama’s.Shecouldn’tstop staring atme thewholetime Plain Jane walkedcarefullydownthestairs,untilthe moment I put out my

arms to take her. Then shebegantowail,andburiedherfaceinPlainJane’sneck.

“That’s okay, she doesn’tknow me at all,” I saidcheerfully, although I was—truth be told—a little sad. Ihadn’t seenDream since shewas four months old, and Iknew she would have nomemoryofme.Still, the factthat she was so comfortablewiththeothersmademefeel

like a fifth wheel. The babywas partly named afterme—the EudoraWelty part—andDream was a nod to JackiebeingMissDreamsville.ButIhadn’t been around to watchhergrow.

Mrs. Bailey Whiteappeared with what Ipresumedtobetherosewineand ushered us into herparlor,whichwasdrippinginlaceandvelvetandfeatureda

horsehair sofa that no onewanted to sit on.With greatcare, she set up a neat littlerow of crystal glasses, nicerthan anything I’d ever drunkfrom, that’s for sure. WhenDream turned her head andsmiled right at Mrs. BaileyWhite, we all cooed withdelight—even Jackie, whohad never struck me as thecooingtype.Consideringthatneither Mrs. Bailey White

nor Plain Jane had children,andJackiewasn’texactlyJuneCleaveronLeaveIttoBeaver,itwasapleasuretoseethey’dallgotthemotheringbugandwere not just doing aperfunctoryjob.

Jackie offered a toast. “ToDora,whohasreturnedtous.Atleastfornow.”

Mrs. BaileyWhite settledherself into a fine-lookingrocking chair and stretched

out her arms. “Let me haveher,”shesaid.

“Oh, all right,” Plain Janesaidreluctantly.

As I watchedMrs. BaileyWhite settle herself in therocker with Dream on herlap, I wondered to myself,Why does this seem so strange?And it dawned onme that Ihadneverbeforeseenawhitewoman with a colored babyon her lap. Negro women

took care of white women’sbabies, not the other wayaround. And yet it seemedperfectlynormal.Nodoubtitwould upset plenty of whitepeople to see this, but howcouldtheyobject?Itwaslove,thatwasall.Justlove.

“Can you believe this,Dora?” Jackie asked,interruptingmythoughts.

“What?”

“That we’re taking suchgood care of Dream? Aren’twe just the most devotedmommiesyou’veeverseen?”

“You surely are,” I said.“Howoldisshenow?”

“Sixteen months,” Jackiesaidbetweensipsofwine.

“Sixteenmonthsandthreeweeks,”PlainJanecorrected.

Mrs. Bailey Whitelaughed.“Andtwodays.Notthatanyone’scounting.”

“Priscilla must be veryhappy with the job you’redoing,”Isaid.

“You just missed her,”Jackiesaid.“Shewashereforthree days, on one of hervisitshome.”

This was disappointingnews.

“Butdon’tworry, I’msureshe’ll be back soon,” Jackieadded, seeing my long face.

“Shecomeshomeasoftenasshecan.”

“Is she doing well inschool?” My mama wouldhavesaidthatwasa“noneofyourbusiness” questionbut Icouldn’thelpit.Iprayedthatthisarrangementwasworkingout for Priscilla. I’d neverbeensosurprisedinmylifeaswhen I learned that she wasexpecting a baby. She wasn’tmarriedandtherewasn’teven

abeauinthepictureasfarasI knew, and I thought we’dbeenprettygoodfriends.Shewas focused, mature, anddiligent in the way she livedherlife.Butshewasalsoveryyoung, just nineteen whenDreamwasborn,and,astheysay,itonlytakesonemistake.No one—not even ourPriscilla—wasperfect.

If there was anyone whodeserved a second chance in

life, itwasher.Althoughshehad hoped to go to college,andsharedherdreamwithusat book club meetings, onsome level she never trulybelieved it could happen. Aperson gets tired of aimingfor a dream that most folksthink is pure foolishness, shesaid.OnedayshemetamanandmadewhatMamawouldhave called an “unwisechoice.” In a single moment

of weakness, she nearlyruinedherwholefuture.Thatishowsheexplained it—thatit was a mistake—but inmyown heart I wondered if shehadallowedthepregnancytohappenasawayofgivingup—of sabotaging her owndream—because she couldnotstandthestrain.

And, indeed, that gal wasunderpressure.Itwasn’tuntillater thatweunderstood that

hercommunityhadplaceditshopes on her shoulders. Shewas theonewhoshowed themost promise, and she wasexpectedtosucceed.Itwasn’tjust “Priscilla is going tofollow her dream and go tocollege.” It was, “Priscilla isgoingtomakeallourdreamscome true by showing theother young folk how it’sdone.”

Whenherdisgracebecameknown,themostexcruciatingscornwasfromthosewhofeltlet down. Then there werethejealoustypeswhothoughtshe’dbeenreachingtoohigh,anyway. The way Priscillatoldit,shehadtoendurethesneers of those who said, “Itoldyouso”and“Ha,she’snobetter than the rest of us.”When Jackie came up withherwild idea, givingPriscilla

the chance to go to collegeanyway, part of hermotivation, she confided inme,wastogetawayfromherownpeoplewhowerejudgingher.Theotherfactorwasthatshe really did want to go tocollege, and with Jackie andthe others looking afterDream,shefigureditmustbepart ofGod’s plan.But it allhingedonwhether she couldmake the adjustment—being

away from home, the firstperson inher family togo tocollege, and leaving a babybehind might prove toomuch. While she’d writtenmeseveral letters, I felt therewasalotshewasn’tsaying.

“She’s doing great inschool,” Plain Jane said. “Sofarshe’shadperfectgrades.”

Nosurprisethere.Priscillawas the smartest person I’deverknown.

“But how is she doingwith . . .” I searched for therightwords.

“With missing Dream?”Jackie said, finishing myquestion. “Well, as good ascould be expected. I mean,she cries for hours before it’stime forher to catch thebusbacktoDaytonaBeach.”

“But she wants to keepgoing?” I asked, saying aloudwhatIfearedmosttoask.

“So far, so good,” Jackiesaid.“We’retryingtomakeitas easy on her as possible bytaking very good care ofDream. And they’ll bereunited when Priscillagraduates.”

To myself, I thought,That’s threemore years. I hopePriscillacanholdon.

“Well,allwecandoisthebest we can,” Jackie saidcheerfully. “And we are

getting expert guidance fromPriscilla’sgrandmother.”Thishad been part of the deal:Priscilla’s grandmother, wholived a few miles away andmade a livingworking in thefields, would see the babyregularly.

“Now, let us hear aboutyou, Dora,” Plain Jane saidwarmly, “and why you arehere. Not that you need areason.”

“Oh,Itellyouwhat,beingback homemakesme realizehowmuchImissedit,”Isaidwitharushofemotion.“Howmuch I missed y’all. But IhavealittlemoreIneedtodoin Jackson.And I can’t leavemy landlady hanging onforever.”

“Well,howeverlongyou’rehere, we are happy to seeyou,”Jackiesaid.

“We were just about towriteyoualongletter,justtolet you know what’s goingon,”Mrs. BaileyWhite said.Shesoundedalittleuneasy.

“About Darryl,” Jackieadded, in her direct, Yankeeway.

“Thank you,” I said,suddenly feeling self-conscious. “But I got atelegramaboutit.”

This raised a feweyebrows. “Really?” Jackiedemanded.“Fromwhom?”

I told them how DoloresSimpson had contacted me,hoping I would come homeand talk some sense intoDarryl. “Her house is rightsmackinthemiddleofwhereheplanstobuild,”Isaid.

Jackie looked surprisedandmaybea little impressed.So did Plain Jane and even

Mrs.BaileyWhite.They’dallencountered Robbie-Lee’smother in the past andconcluded they were nomatchfortheformerstripperturned alligator hunter wholivedbackintheswamps.

“So you saw her?” Jackieasked. “I mean, you’ve metwithhersinceyougotback?”

“Lastnight,”Isaid.“Wentstraight to see her aftergetting off the bus. By the

way, Mrs. Bailey White,” Iadded, trying to divert theconversation away fromDolores Simpson, “have youlooked at the maps? I’mworried that your house isn’tall that far fromDolores’s,atleastasthecrowflies.Ihopeyou’re not in the way ofDarryl’splans.”

A moment of dreadseemed to settle in the roomlike a cloud of decades-old

dust. “Not to worry,” Mrs.Bailey White said. “Icornered the mayor when Iwas at the bank recently.Hewouldn’t give me any detailsbut he said I wouldn’t beaffected.HesaidI’mnearthedevelopment but not directlyintheway.”

“But Darryl couldn’t takeyour house, anyway, unlessyou wanted to sell,” PlainJanesaid.

“Oh, who knows what hecould do, now that he seemsto have the town fathersbehind him,” Mrs. BaileyWhite said in a voice thatsoundedworld-weary.

“Who, exactly, are these‘townfathers’?”Jackieasked.

“The powerful people intown,” Plain Jane said. “Themayor,ofcourse,butalsothehigh school football coach—he could probably burn the

towndownandgetawaywithit—and also the preacher atFirst Baptist, plus the coregroup of people who comefrom good families with oldmoney.”

“My family was ‘oldmoney’ people with a goodname,exceptIkindofmadeamess out of things,” Mrs.BaileyWhitesaidsheepishly.“Imean by going to jail and

all,”sheadded,asifwedidn’tknowwhatshemeant.

“I think we need to lookinto Darryl’s money source,’cause he’s getting financingfrom somewhere,” Plain Janesaid.

“Well, it’s not from Mr.Toomb,”Jackiesaid,referringtoherhusband’semployer.

“How do you know thatforsure?”Iasked.

“AfewweeksagoTedwastalking on the phone late atnightwithMr.Toomb,andIpickeduptheextensioninthekitchen and listened,” shesaid.“Mr.Toombwassayingthat he didn’t like DarrylNorwood one bit, and thatthe young scallywag—thatwas the word he used—wastoo big for his britches. Ithink Darryl angered Mr.Toombbynot kowtowing to

him. Mr. Toomb wouldexpect a young man likeDarryl to come to him firstand let him know what hisplanswere.”

“Well, then Darryl isgetting his money fromoutside the county, andprobablyoutof state,” I said.“Frompeoplewhowon’tcareone bit about what happenshere.”

“Carpetbaggers,” Mrs.BaileyWhitesaidominously.

“What, like Sherman’smarch?” I asked. “Wreckingeverything in his path? Thatwas a hundred years ago, upinGeorgia.”

“Yeah, and there’s beencarpetbaggers in one way oranother ever since,” Mrs.Bailey White said gravely.“Always some Yankeessniffing around thewreckage

and making money off thesuffering of their Southernbrethren.”

“Oh, for Pete’s sake!”Jackie said. “So Darryl mayhave Northern investors.Thatdoesn’tmakethemevil.”

“Theproblemisthatwhenmoney comes fromsomewhere else, there seemstobea lackofconcernaboutthe,uh,repercussionslocally,”PlainJanesaid.“Andthereis

a history of that in theSouth.”

“Ugh, and what a badcombination!”Icriedout. “Aheartless local boy—Darryl—andYankee investors!They’llprobablypaveover thewholeEverglades.”

“Is it reallygoingtobeallthat bad?” Jackie asked. “It’sjust one project and I, forone, wouldn’t mind if thistown got a little larger. We

sure could use some newpeople around here, maybesome new restaurants! Andshopping...”

“What?!” I almost yelled.Dream, still cuddled inMrs.BaileyWhite’slap,jerkedherhead around and studied myface.She looked like shewastryingtodecideifsheshouldcry, or not. I surely wasgettingoffonthewrongfootwithDream.

We all hushed, realizingwewere disturbing the baby.Finally, Jackie spoke. “I’msorry, Dora,” she said softly.“I didn’t realize how muchyoucaredaboutRobbie-Lee’smother and the thought ofherlosingherhouse.”

“It’snotjustaboutherandher house!” I said, trying tokeep my voice level. “It’sabout the river, and all thatprecious land around it.

Those swamps are not justemptyspace,youknow.”

Plain Jane interrupted.“Dora, you need to prepareyourself,” she said in a tonethatwasboth firmandkind.“A lot of folks around heresee this as a good thing. Itmeans lots of new jobs. TheChamber of Commerce isbehind it, and they keeptalking about constructionjobs which will pay better

thanworking in the fields orfishing. Plus, once thedevelopment is built, therewill be jobs in retail, atrestaurants, all kinds of newopportunities.”

“Well,I’mallfornewjobsbutatwhatprice?”Isaid,mytone bitter. “You wantopportunity,gotoacity!Youneeda job, thengo towherethe jobs are.Why ruin whatwe have here? What about

nature? And what about thepeople who live back thereandwouldhavetoleave?”

Backatmycottagelater,Ithought about all those whowould lose their way of life,and have nowhere to go.Allof them were already dirtpoor.Tomyknowledge theyweren’tbotheringanybody.Itwas almost as though thefolks who ran Naples wereupset that those poor folk

existed. I’d heard it over andover again while I wascoming up: Why don’t theygosomewhereelse?

“They” were hardscrabblewhite folks like DoloresSimpson,afewIndians,andasmallvillageofcoloredpeoplewho had been there sinceslavery days ended. TheNegro settlement includedPriscilla’s grandmother. Ifpoor, backwoods white folks

and Indians were seen as anuisance, Negroes wereconsideredathreat,andtherehad been a not-so-subtleeffort to relocate themwherethey could be watched andcontained, notably, theconstruction of a complex ofnine buildings calledMcDonald’s Quarters indowntown Naples near thetraindepot.EveryprogressiveSoutherntownhaditsNegro

quarters, and in this regard,Naples refused to be leftbehind. The new complexwaspresentedtotheNegroesas a step up—a safe,modernenvironment with indoorplumbingand runningwater.Truth be told, it operatedmore like a prison, especiallyat night, since a curfew keptNegroes off the streets ofNaplesaftersundown.

Some of the Negroes hadrefused to go toMcDonald’sQuarters, however. It wasn’tlost on them that the placewas called the Quarters,whichwasreminiscentof theslave quarters of yesteryear.Their rejection wasdenounced by the rich folksas sheer folly and a lack ofgratitude. Occasionally therewas some fussing about the“renegade”Negroes who had

insulted the good people ofNaplesbyrefusingthetown’shospitalityandgenerosity.

And then it would diedownagain.IconfessIdidn’tpay much attention unlessMama brought it up, whichshe did often. Mama alwaystook the side of poor folks,regardlessofcolor.

I wondered what Mamawould have said aboutDarryl’s project, and the

words came through strongand straight from heaven.Darryl’s a shortsighted andgreedy jerk, I heard her sayinside my head, and justthinking those words mademealmostlaughoutloud.

Was I imagining Mama’swords or did I have a directline to her, reposing as shewas,beyondthepearlygates?It didn’t matter. Her wordsrangtrueeitherway.Thefact

is I’d been assuming thatmovingpoorfolksawayfromthe river would be aconsequenceofDarryl’sproject.Knowing my hometown, Inow realized it was possiblethat getting rid of them wasan underlying reason for thegroundswell of support forDarrylinthefirstplace.

SevenJuddHart showedup atmycottage the next morningwith a small snapper whoseshell had been damaged,probablybyalawnmower.

“Look, I fixed him up,”Juddsaid,beamingbutalittle

hesitant. He had used gauzeand first-aid tape, and Iwonderedaloudifitwoulddothe job. “Oh, I’ve beenstudying,” Judd said. “Notthatyouweredoinganythingwrong,” he added quickly,“butIreadacopyofNationalGeographic magazine, and itsaid the shell has to breathe.Weshouldneveruseanykindofepoxy,orheavytape.”

I had used anything Icouldthinkofovertheyears,even duct tape inemergencies, to hold aninjured turtle’s shell together.And here was Judd, atthirteen years old, showingme something new. I washumbled. He bit his bottomlip, and I realized he wasafraidhemighthaveoffendedme. Truth be told, I was alittle embarrassed, but my

instincts told me that Judd’sneed for praise was greaterthan my need to protect mypride. It couldn’t be easyhaving Jackie for a mother,plusadadwho traveleda lotas the business manager forMr. Toomb. This was a boywho might have benefitedfrom having a brother, butinstead he had two oldersisters—identical twins—whowereintheirownlittleworld.

I’d never actually had aconversation with either ofthem.

“Judd,” I said, “you’reverywiseandI’msureyouwillgoplaces in life. I am veryimpressed, and, on behalf ofturtles everywhere, thankyou.”

Heblushedashadeofredthatnearlymatchedhishair.Irealized if this conversationwent on any longer it would

be excruciating for him, so Ichanged the subject. “So,when does school start?” Iasked.

Hisfacefell.“Twoweeks,”hesaidsadly.

“Um,well,whatgradewillyoubein?”

“Eight,” he said, notsoundinganyhappier.

I racked my brain for abettertopic.Iwasnotusedtoconversing with teenagers.

“Oh,” I said, “your mothermentioned that you joinedtheCivilAirPatrol.”

“Yes!” he said, almostbowling me over with hisenthusiasm. “I’m too youngtoflybutIcangoalongasaspotter. I’m going to keepdoing it during the schoolyear, though I’ll have to cutback my hours. I had topersuadeMom that it wouldbeokay,andconvincemydad

that it was somethingimportantIshoulddo.”

He was right: It wasimportant. The Floridacoastlinewassovastthateventhe Coast Guard couldn’tpatrol every inch. The CivilAirPatrolfilledthegap,withvolunteers flying their ownsmall planes to check forboaters in trouble. But theNaplesCivilAirPatroldidn’tjust fly over the Gulf. They

followed the rivers andstreams into the Everglades.In recentyears, thevolunteergroup had taken on anadditional role that seemedstraight out of a JamesBondmovie except it was real—tokeepaneyeoutforsuspiciousactivity since Collier CountywassoclosetoCuba.

Judd told me about thethings he had seen. Therewas a fishing boat that ran

outoffuelandwasindangerof sinking because of aproblemwithitsbilge.Andatourist who fell asleep on afloatanddriftedtoofarfromshore to swim back. “I sawsomething really strange lastweek,”hesaid.“Alotoftreesbeingcutdownbytheriveraways behind Mrs. BaileyWhite’s house but furtherdown.”

If I’d had anything inmyhands, I’d have dropped it.“What?!Wait,areyoutalkingabout where Darryl isplanninghisproject?Areyousayinghe’salreadystarted?”

Judd looked panicky.“Well, I don’t know . . . Imean,Idon’tknowifit’shis,or if something else is goingon. But every day it seemslike there’s more trees cutdown.”

He was sorry he hadbroughtitup.Icouldseeitinhiseyes.“Judd,”Isaid,tryingto be calm, “have you everseen a map of the plans? Imean, Darryl’s developmentplans?”

“No, ma’am,” he said.“Thereain’tanymapasfarasIknow.Oh,don’ttellMomIsaid ‘ain’t,’ okay? She’dgroundmeforaweek.”

“Theremust be amap,” Isaid, thinking aloud. “Judd,I’m going to leave you withtheturtlesandgoseeifIcanfind someonewhowill knowwhat’sup.”

Judd nodded.As I turnedto leavehe added, “There’s atrailer. I saw it from the air.It’s inaclearingaboutamilefrom the Trail.Maybe that’swhere you’ll find your, uh,formerhusband.”

•••

ICOULDN’TFINDANYONEDOWNTOWN who wouldtalk to me. I went to themayor’s office; I went to thehardware store and theBookNook. My little town wasusually a gossip mill but notwhenitcametothissubject.

Judd had drawn a roughmap showing the way to gettothetrailer.Itwasmuchtoo

far to walk, and, anyway, Ineeded reinforcements. Ihated to do it but I calledJackiefromthepaytelephoneinside theRexall.Would shetake me over there? Wouldshekeepmecompany,incasewe found Darryl and he gotugly? If there was one thingJackie loved, it was intrigue.That, and the possibility ofsomesurefireexcitement.

“Of course, Dora dear,”shesaid,“IbelieveIoweyouanapology.Iwasthoughtlessand selfish about theconstruction in the, um,swamps.Iwasthinkingaboutit and I believe you are rightthatthecreatures,uh,critters,asyousay,havearighttobehere, too. Mankind isnothingifnotarrogant.And,anyway, if I can help you, Iwouldliketo.”

Icouldn’tresist.“Evenifitmeans you won’t get newrestaurants and stores?” Iasked,needlingher.

Shesighed.“Yes,ifit’stherightthingtodo.Besides,I’mmadat your formerhusband.I don’t like the way he’shandlingthis.”

“Thatmakes twoofus,” Isaid.Nodisagreementthere.

“Ican’tgooverthererightnow, though,” Jackie said.

“Canyouwaitanhour?”“Surelycan,”Isaid.“I’llbe

atthepostoffice.”I was reluctant to see my

former colleagues because Iwasn’t ready to answerquestions about my yearaway, and they had away offlusteringme.Working therewasn’tsobad,butastheonlywomanI’dalwaysfeltIwasabit of an intruder. Too badMarty, my second cousin on

Daddy’s side, had beenrelocatedtothepostofficeinPlantCity.

Ifoundthreeofmyformercolleagues having a smokebreakinback.Theyhadbeenlooking at a girlie magazineandwhen they sawme, theyquickly put it away. Ofcourse, this made it evenmore awkward to speak tothem.

Maybe because I’d caughtthem doing something theyshouldn’t—and feared Iwould tell their supervisor—they were friendlier than Iexpected. I learned therewasa lot of support in town forDarryl’s project, and, just asPlainJanehadsaid,itwasallaboutjobs.Oneofmyformercolleagues put it this way:“My son has no future here.TheonlyhopeIhaveofhim

coming back to CollierCounty after he graduatesfromGainesville isthattherewillbenewopportunityhere.Otherwise,he’llmoveaway.”

Great, I thought. What Ididn’t saywas,Whydon’t youmove with him, to some placethat’s already paved over? Butsince I was trying to getinformationfromthesefellas,I couldn’t afford to alienatethem.Theyweretryingtobe

honestwithme.Thesmartestthing I could do was listen.So far they’d been prettyforthcoming. But when Iasked if Darryl hadpermission from the mayorand the council, they eitherdidn’tknowordidn’twanttogivemeastraightanswer.

“There have been somelegalformalities,”oneofthemsaid, choosing his wordscarefully. “I’m pretty sure,

from what I hear, that he’salreadystartedwork.”

A car horn blasted outfront.“That’smyride,”Isaid.“Thank you, but I’ve got torun.” I wanted to hurry sothatJackiewouldn’thonkthehornagain.

The youngest of the threemen followedme.He’dbeenin the Navy, and I alwaysthoughthemightbesweetonme.“Dora?”hecalledout.

“What?”“I don’t think things have

beendoneproperly,”he said.“ByDarryl,Imean.Iwenttooneofthetownmeetingsandit seemed like it was a donedeal.Importantenoughtoberushed through. Please becareful,Dora.”

His comment almost tookthe wind out of my sails. Iclimbed into the passengerseat, grateful that the

convertible top was up, onaccountofitlookinglikerain.I didn’t feel like seeinganyone—or being seen—atthemoment.

ButJackiewasonatear.“Ijustlearnedthemostamazingthing,” she said breathlessly.“Ted is on the road—up inthe Panhandle or whateverit’s called—and he phonedmebecausehewon’tbehometomorrow, even though he

said he would. Anyway, itseemed like it just kind ofslipped out—like he wasn’tgoing to tell me—but whenhe’sontheroadhegetstiredand I think he let his guarddown—”

“What?”Isaid.“He said thatMr.Toomb

is going to . . . well, I don’tknow how to say this, itsoundssoridiculous.”

“Jackie!You’rekillingme!”

“Mr.Toombisstartinganairline.” She hit theaccelerator.

I thought I must havemisheard.“Anairline?”

“A regional airline. Youknow, Naples to Miami.Naples to Tampa.Jacksonville to Tampa. Butthemajoronesinplacebytheendofthisyear.”

First the real estatedevelopment,nowanairline?

What next? I said a quickprayer that the ultimate goalwas not like the plansrumored for Orlando, wheresomeone widely suspected tobe Walt Disney was said tobe buying up huge tracts ofland. Walt Disney himselfwasthoughttobewaitingforthe right time tomake a bigannouncement about his“FloridaProject.”

I finally found my voice.“Jackie,” I croaked out thewords,“doyouthinkthishasanything to do with thatproject planned by WaltDisney?”

“Sure,”Jackiesaid.“IthinkoldMr.Toombispositioninghimself to ride on WaltDisney’scoattails.”

“WhataboutDarryl?”“Oh, I think Darryl is an

opportunist just like Mr.

Toomb. I asked Ted if heknew anything and he saysDarryl’s money is comingfrom New Jersey. Somesuburb in New Jersey—Ithink it’s called Basking-something. Basking Ridge, Ithink. Anyway, Darryl’sinvestors may be trying tocapitalize on Disney too,sameasMr.Toombis.”

“But we’re so far south ofOrlando,” I said. “Heck,

that’s almost two hundredmilesnorthofhere!”

“Doesn’t matter,” Jackiereplied. “That’s the wayinvestors think. Florida is‘hot’ right now. Everything’sonthetable.That’swhatTedsays.”

I could see it all now.Napleswouldbeconnectedtotheoutsideworld in away ithad never been. “Won’t theyhavetoimproveourairport?”

I said, thinking that wouldtake some time. All we hadnow was a little cementrunway good enough for theCivil Air Patrol to take offand land. Just a few privateplanes, that’s all. Acommercial airline wouldchangeeverything.

“Oh, they’re alreadydoingthat,” Jackie said. “Judd saidsomethingtomeaboutitthe

other day, but Iwasn’t reallypayingattention.”

ThiswasbiggerthanIhadeven imagined, and beyondanything I could prevent. Imight as well try to part theRedSea.Whatwasthepointin confrontingDarryl? But afunnythinghadhappenedtoJackie. Now that I wastuckered out, she was full ofthat unstoppable Jackieenergy.

“Well,we can’t stopWaltDisney,andthere’snotmuchwe can do about Mr.Toomb,” she said. “But Idon’t think we should raisethewhiteflagtoDarryl—notwithoutafight,anyway.”

EightDang, thought DoloresSimpson, the former BunnyAnn McIntyre. Why was ittaking that little gal, DoraWitherspoon,solongtomeetupwith her ex-husband and talksomesenseintotheman?When

wasshegoingtocomebackhereandtellmewhatintarnationisgoingon?

Dolores was notaccustomed to feelingimpatient. Living in herfishing shack all these yearsmeant she had none of thestresses and deadlines ofordinary life. There’s noreason tobe inahurrywhenyouhavenowheretogo.Thefish would bite, or they

wouldn’t.Thenightheronsatstoicallyonhermessyol’nest.Five minutes could havepassed,orfiveyears.

“Hey,” she called, “howmany eggs you got there,anyway?Three?Four?”

The small heron staredback.Sometimes,she’dshakeherheadjustlikeapersonbuttoday shewasn’t going to bebothered.

“I wonder when yer ol’eggs are going to hatch,”Doloressaidhalftoherself.“Ihate to break it to you,” sheadded, calling over to thebird,“butincasenoonetoldyou, your little night heronchicksaregoingtobeuglyasa toad’s hindquarters. Now,don’t take it real personal;that’sjustthewayitis.Ifthisis your first nest of eggs, Idon’t want you to be

surprised,that’sall.ButLawdknows there ain’t nothinguglier in this world than anightheronchick.”

Thebirdstretcheditsneckandletoutasharpsquawk.

“Oh, you didn’t like that,huh?Well,I’msorry.Ididn’tmean to upset you. Justteasin’you,isall.”

Dolores swallowed amouthfulofporch-brewedteafrom an old canning jar.

Besideher on the stepwas abasket overflowing withswamp reeds. Marylou, aSeminole Indian, had taughther how to make basketsyearsbefore.Itwasamiracle,watchingMarylou turn reedsinto a work of art—a usablework of art that the touristswouldbuy.Marylouhaddieda long time ago—ten years?fifteen?—and ever since,Doloresdidn’thavetheheart

tomakebaskets.Butwithallthismess going onwithnewdevelopment, somethingmade her start again.Maybeit was the easy rhythm ofweaving the reeds. Worstthing in the world, waitingfor news. And maybe evenharder when you’re all byyourself, ’cept for a nightherontokeepyoucompany.

She remembered howquickly Marylou’s hands

movedwhenshewasmakinga basket. Why, she couldmake one in a few hours,dependingonthepattern.Ofcourse, Marylou had beenmakingbasketsfromthetimeshewasfouryearsold,maybeevenyounger.

She worked for about anhour, then rested. Was shegettinglazy,orwasitjustoldage comin’ down the pike?Hard living catches up to a

person real fast, Doloresthought. You think you’redoing purty darn good, nextthing you know you look likesomethin’ that washed in withthe tide. When she’d goneinto town and sent thattelegram to little DoraWitherspoon, she’d beenshockedatherownreflectioninthebigplateglasswindowatthefiveanddime.Whotheheckisthat?Forasecondshe

thought someone wassneakingupbehindherbutitwas time—just time—thathadcaughtupwithher.

Well, one good thingabout getting older was thatthe men didn’t bother heranymore. Whenever thatthought passed through hermind, she got religion.“Thank you, Jesus!” she’d sayaloud.Shedidn’tmissmen—

at least, the bad behavior ofmen—onebit.

Funny thing was, hernearest human neighborswere men. Billy and Marcowere brothers ofundetermined pedigree whoshared a pickup truck andseveralbadhabits.Becauseoftheir antics, usually fueledbymoonshine, the area wascalled Gun Rack Village by

the uppity types who ranNaplesnearby.

There was a fellow whoneverspokeawordandworeclothes like Tarzan. Doloreskept her distance from him,especially once she’d learnedthat Billy and Marco calledhim Sing Sing, after theprison up north from whichhe’d got loose and swumacross a big river—theHudson,maybe.

More recently, an olderman had set up camp near ahuge clump of mangrovetrees.He toldDolores,whenshe’dencounteredhimontheriver one day, that he’d hadenough of themodernworldand intended to live and dieright there. She’d agreed tobury him if she came acrosshisbody.

AndthentherewasWeirdSam. He lived in an old

trawler that had washed uptheriver inoneof thebiggerstorms and had stuck fastbetweentwocypresstrees.Noone knew the details, butaccording to the grapevine,WeirdSamwas fromawell-offfamilythathadhimputinan institution.Atsomepointhe either escaped or was letout; regardless, his familywouldn’thaveanythingtodowithhim.Sohelivedbackin

theswampswithacatnamedFish, a dog namedFreedom,and a parrot called Mrs.Roosevelt. He did notentertainvisitors.

But he did reach out toDoloreswhenhiscatsteppedonsomethingsharpandgotadeep cut in its paw. Heshowed up crying with theparrot on his shoulder, thedog by his side, and theinjuredkitty inhis arms.For

some reason he thoughtDolores could help him, andshe did. He held the cattightlywhileshepouredsomemoonshinedownitsthroat—justenoughtomakeitwoozy—and then stitched up thepoor little paw. The cat wasright as rain in no time, andWeird Sam started toconsiderDolores a friend, orsomethingclosetoit.

Scattered among theragtag white residents wereSeminole Indians, thoughhow many there were, andexactly where they were,Dolores did not know, evenafter living on the river allthoseyears.Doloreshadonlyknown Marylou, who hadtaught her how to weavebaskets.

Further southon the riverwas the small village of

colored folks. Therewas onespot on the river where theywere known to gather on aSunday once or twice a year.The first time Dolores hadseenthemthere, she thoughtshewasseeinghaints.Shehidbehind a small grove ofmangroves and watched asNegro women, dressed inwhiterobes,walkedsinglefiletoward a natural clearing bythe river. What was most

startling to Dolores was thewomen’s absolute silence.Theypausedwhileagroupofsmall boys dashed ahead,poking sticks into reeds andbanging drums up and downthe water’s edge. No doubtthey were scaring off gatorsandsnakes.NotuntilDoloressaw two preachers wade outinto the water, with oneholdingaBiblehighintheairsoitwouldn’tgetwet,didshe

realize this was a baptismceremony. The women weredunked under the water oneat a time and came upspluttering. There was muchhugging and joyful weepingas each newly baptizedwoman joined the others onthe sand. Only after theywere all baptized did theybegin to sing. Their voiceswerelushandgloriousastheysang their praise music in

perfect harmony,accompaniedby the ’Glade’sown peculiar sound, aconstant, low droning thatseemed to come from deepwithintheearth.

Dolores didn’t have anydeep love for theNegrorace,butwitnessingtheirceremonyseemed to soften her a littlearoundtheedges.Itwashardtostayangryandbrittleinthe

presence of such joy andbeauty.

She was raised with thefirm belief that was hard toshake, though, that whitefolkswithout a bank accountoraneducationhad it justashard in life as Negroes. Shedid not see any advantage inbeing white if you were, asshewas,atthebottomofthepile.

YetDoloreshadtoadmirethe gumption of thisparticulargroup; theyweren’tanydifferentfromher inonerespect: All they wanted wasto be left alone. They’drefused to move toMcDonald’s Quarters. TheNegro “renegades,” as theywere sometimes called,included Priscilla Harmon—before the miracle of hergoingofftocollege—andher

grandma. Robbie-Lee hadmentioned once thatPriscilla’sgrandmaworked inthe fields for one of thefamilies that grew sugarcaneand watermelons. Most ofthosecoloredchildrendidnotgotoschool,butPriscillahadtaught herself to read andwritebystudyinganoldSearscatalog and an illustratedBible, according to Robbie-Lee. The girl was so smart

thattheteachersattheNegrohigh school enlisted the helpofthetown’slibrariantofindher new and challengingbooks to read.ThiswashowPriscilla came to know aboutJackie’sbookclub,whichmetat the library. She had justfinishedhigh school andwasworking as a maid for meanoldMrs.Burnside.Then shelet everyone down by gettingpregnant, a disaster that

Dolores understood only toowell. White girls who werepoorlikeDoloreswereinthesameboatascoloredgirls.Allit took was one mistake andthat was the end of yourdreams, assuming you hadany in the first place.Meanwhile, white girls whocame from money simplydisappearedforawhile,camebackhome,andwereallowedto act like nothing had

happened.They’dbeentakenout of state—“gone toGeorgia” was the phrase—tobidetheirtimeatamaternityhome, and their babies givenaway to a well-to-doProtestant couple, orsometimeskinfolk.

As for the young man orboy who helped create theheartbreaking situation, heusually got off scot-free.Once in a while, some irate

daddy would insist on ashotgunwedding—marrymydaughter or else. But thebetter off the family, themorelikelytheyweretotrytohidethegirl’smistake.

Much as Dolores dislikedJackieHart,therewasasmallpart of her that admired herforfiguringoutawaytohelpPriscilla. But Dolores feltsomethingelse,too:aflashofenvy.Noonehadhelpedher,

back inher timeofneedandconfusion.

Now she found herself introuble again—adifferent setof circumstances, of course,andyet familiar in theway itmade her feel. Once again,she was treated as a personwho didn’t matter, who hadnosay.Onceagain,theworldwanted to takewhat shehadand give her nothing inreturn. She was forty-seven

years old and all used up;someofitwasherownfault,some wasn’t. Regardless, allshe really wanted was peace.Wasthatsomuchtoask?

This is why she had tofighttoprotecttheriver.Forherself and her way of life,yes, but it was more thanthat.Thisplace—the ’Glades—felteternal.Initsownway,itwas sacred, like theGrandCanyon, or that place in

California with the gianttrees.

Unfortunately, since the’Glades featured gators,snakes, bugs, and poisonousplants, folks didn’t alwaysrecognize its beauty.Outsiders seemed to think itwas a wasteland. If that waswhereyourpeoplewerefrom,you got used to strangersactinglikeyoucrawledupout

of the swamp yourself. Youfeltcursedbeingbornthere.

Only once had she heardanyone say anything niceabout the ’Glades,and ithadstuck with her. Her familywas not churchgoers. Butonce, curious as a cat, she’dsneaked over and hid in thebushesnearthetentrevivalatthe Colored AdventistChurch, just tohavea listen.Attheendoftheservice,the

preachergave thanks“for the’Glades and the life thatsprang from it.”Thisgotherattention. “We sometimesdon’t appreciate this hereswamp,”he’dsaid,“andwebeskeert at some of the thingsthatliveinitandaroundit.Itain’taneasyplacetolive.Butthankyou,Lord.Theswampbe worthy because youdesigned it, Lord. You putthe swamp here at the same

timeyouhungthesuninthesky, and for this we aregrateful,Lord.”

She memorized thosewords and they came to heroftenovertheyears.Thiswasnot awasteland.Far from it.Shewould fight for the littlenight heron, the mangrovetrees, the flowing water, andthe wild grasses. Surely, theriverhadarighttosurvive.

NineHere, read this while Idrive,”Jackieinstructed,andIwas only toohappy to obligesinceherdriving style,whichneverseemedtoincludebothhands on the wheel, oftenmade me wish I’d stayed at

home in the company ofmyturtles.

Judd had drawn his mapon the back of a piece ofpaperhemust’ve torn fromaschoolnotebook.Ononesidewasato-dolistthat included“Mow Miss Turnipseed’slawn,” “Ask Dad: bike tire,”“Fishing worms,” and “ironuniform.” The latter, Isupposed, referring to theCivil Air Patrol outfit that

made teenagers look likeminiaturegrown-ups.

“Not that side,” Jackiesaid, glancing my way. “Flipitover.”

WhywasitthatIsooftenfelt stupid around Jackie?Sureenough, thereversesidewasJudd’srenderingofwherehethoughtthenewroadhadbeen carved into the swamp,basedonwhathe’dseenfromthe air. Jackie had already

gotten us to the TamiamiTrail and from there sheheaded north. Our first turnfrom the main road wassupposed to be about a halfmile past a combination baitshop and liquor store calledGin and Bare It. Judd hadtoldJackieitwaseasytospotfrom the air on account of agigantic painting of a nakedlady on the tin roof, arevelation which, Jackie

recalled, had left hermomentarilyspeechless.

Jackie wrinkled her nosewhen we passed by, thensloweddownsowecouldfindthesideroad.“Hasn’tanyoneinthiscountyeverheardofastreet sign?” Jackiecomplained. “Wait,” sheadded.“Thatmustbeit.”

Sam Cooke was singing“AnotherSaturdayNight”onthe radio, but the signal was

already fading and Jackieturned it off. The side roadwas a lot like the one I tooktoDolores Simpson’s fishingshack, only more remote.“Oh, rats, why did I get thecarwashed.RemindmenexttimeIbuyacartogetoneofthose surplus Jeeps from thewar.”

The road showed signs ofbeing heavily used, andrecently. This was unusual.

EvenJackie,citygirlthatshewas, noticed the broken treebranches on either side, andshe remarked about ruts inthe road, which shemaneuvered around ratherexpertly. I started lookingforthenextroad,whereweweresupposed to make a rightturn. “If we get stuck outhere,we’re in trouble,” Jackieannounced, as if it wasn’tobvious.JustasIwasaboutto

suggest we turn back, wecameupon the right turn, orwhatwehopedwasourrightturn.

“Maybe we should havetold someone we wereheadingouthere,”Isaid.

“Juddknows,”Jackiesaid.Of course he did. He’d

madethemap.And,knowingJudd, he was looking at hiswatch right now, trying toestimateourlocation.

“Jackie, you look to thefront and I’ll look back,” Isaid.

“Of course I’m looking tothefront,I’mdrivingthecar!”

I paused. “Jackie, I guessno one ever told you this,” Isaid, choosing my wordscarefully, “but when you’redrivingonadirtroadthisfarbackintheswamp,it’sprettyeasy to run over a snake. Ifyou see one and you think

you hit it, it’s important tosay, ‘I think I just ran over asnake.’Andyourpassenger—thatwouldbeme—willneedto be prepared to look backand see if it’s behind the carafteryouranitover.”

“Well,wherewoulditbeifitisn’tbehindthecar?”Jackieasked.

“Could be it’s climbed inthe car. But more likely

underneath and wrappedaroundtheaxle.”

“Oh my God, that isdisgusting! Ew! Ugh! I hatethisplace...”

I was sorry I’d saidanything.

Jackie continued drivingwith her hands clutching thewheel. “How come nobodytold me this before?” shewhined.

“Ihaveno idea,”I said. “Iguess I shouldhave toldyou.I mean, all the times you’vedriventoPriscilla’sgrandma’shouse, someone should havementioned it. I guess we allthoughtyouknew.”

Jackie made a sound likeharrumph. “Whenever I learnsomething like this, itmakesme wonder what else I don’tknow,” she said. Iwas afraid

she might turn around butshedidn’t.

Another ten minutes,however, and she hit thebrakes hard. A brand-newgravel road, twice as wide asthe little unpaved side roads,appeared in front of us.Wasit a mirage? I couldn’t havebeenmoreshockedifaUFOploppeddown in frontofus.Unlike the twisty, haphazardroads we were used to, this

one was straight as a crowflies. Itwasn’t paved like theTamiami Trail but it stillcounted as bona fide byCollier County standardssince an actual engineer,rather thanBilly Joedownatthe so-called highwaydepartment, seemed to havedesigned it. For example, itappeared to be properlygraded. And gravel? Thattookplanning.Andmoney.

Jackietooka longdragona cigarette. “How far do youthink we are from home?”Hermoodwas serious, andIwasgratefulforit.

“Acoupleofmiles,”Isaid.“Four or five, maybe. Whatdoestheodometersay?”

Jackie, for once, lookedsheepish. “I didn’t check theodometerbeforeweleft.”

“Wellthentheonlywaytotell would be to climb a real

tall tree.” Jackiegavemeoneof those “you’ve got to bekidding”looks.

“I’m not climbing a tree,andneitherareyou,”shesaid.“There are things in thosetrees.Horriblebugs!Snakes!”She shuddered, and I turnedmy head to the side so shewouldn’t see me hiding asmile.PoorJackie.Shewassofar out of her element here

that it was hard not to beamused.

And yet, fear was not abadcompaniontohave,backin the swamps. Distanceswere so hard to figure. Attimes, themarsh acted like agiant sponge that swallowednoise. Visually, it was evenmore confusing. You mightcome across a place thatwaswide open andmeadow-like,with rabbits running around,

or a stretch of open waterwith little islands wheregators dozed on the banksand spoonbills perched inlow-slung trees. In manyparts of the ’Glades, though,you couldn’t see farther thanthe nose on your face, asmymamausedtosay.

“Let me see that map,”Jackie said. “If Judd is right,this new road is not morethan a mile long, and the

construction trailer shouldberightattheendofit.”Shehitthe gas a little too hard,causingtherearwheelstodiginto thegravelandsendingathousand tiny pebbles flying.Ahundredyardslater,wesawsomething in the roadway:Agatornotmuchbiggerthanahounddoghadparkeditslazyselfinthemiddleoftheroad.“Look at that disgustingthing!” Jackie said, slowly

bringing theBuick to a stop.She pounded her fist on thehorn, a loud blast that wascompletely ignored by thegator, which didn’t so muchastwitchatthesound.

Jackie hadn’t yet acceptedthefactthatgatorencounterswere inevitable. Why, inCollierCounty,ifyouweren’tcarefulyoucouldstepononedozingonyourfrontsteps.Infact, that’s how Mama’s

friendMissFernTootindied.Not that Miss Tootin gotchomped by a gator. Shetrippedoveritandfell.Butitwasn’tthefallthatkilledher,either. It was on account ofher being so annoyed at thegator that she fired a shotfroma.22caliberpistol,onlythe bullet ricocheted off herwrought-iron fence post andstruckherdead.

Jackie honked again.“Whattheheckiswrongwithit? Do you think it’s dead?”sheshouted.

“Aw, come on, Jackie, it’sjustababy.”

“I should runover it,” shesaid.

“Jackie!Howcouldyousaythat?!”

“Well, it’s not as if therearen’t a million of them

around here. I don’t thinkanyonewouldmissone.”

“Jackie Hart, that littlegator has more right to behere than you do! They’vebeen here since time began,and you just got here in1962.”

Jackie sighed and litanother cigarette, the fourthor fifth one since we startedon this little journey. Inoticed she was using a

lighter I hadn’t seen before.“That’snice,”Isaidquietly.

“What’snice?”“Thelighter.Isitnew?”“Ted got it for me as a

birthday present.” Shehandedittometolookover.“It’s just like the one thatElizabethTaylorowns.Well,not exactly, because hers isprobablysolidgoldandmineisgoldplate.”

This was getting to be alittle peculiar. It was thesecondtimeinthreedaysthatElizabeth Taylor, bless herheart, had unknowinglyintervened and saved the dayfor me. Dang, that womanmust have some mightypowers. She was clear acrossthecountry, inBeverlyHills,andjustbringinguphernamecould change the course of aconversation all theway over

hereintheEverglades.“It’s gorgeous,” I said. I

didn’tsmokebutevenifIdidIknewthatalighterlikethatwould be out of my league.Jackie was one of thosewomen who always lookedgood; my mama would havesaid itwasonaccountofherhaving good cheekbones,though to be honest I neverreally understood what thatmeant.

“Look, Dora,” she said,“I’m sorry. Of course youknowIwouldneverhaverunoverthe,um,creature.”

“I’llgetoutof thecarandchase it to the side of theroad,”Ioffered.

“Oh my God, Dora,don’t!”

“Jackie, it can’t be morethanfourfeetlong.”

“I’lldrivearoundit.”

“Well, then drive aroundthetailendofit,notthefrontend.”

“Huh?”“Always drive behind an

alligator’s tail end,” Iexplained patiently. “If youdrive in front of it, it’smorelikely to panic and run rightinfrontofthecar.”

“Oh for Pete’s sake!” Sheground out her cigarette inthe ashtray. “I’m not going

around him! He’s going tohave to get out of my way.”Jackie leaned on the hornagain but the critter didn’tbudge.

She lowered the powerwindow and stuck her headout. “Get out of the road!”sheshouted.

The poor beast, unmovedby the threat of a BuickweighingtwotonsoreventheYankee-style horn honking,

was startled into action byJackie’shollerin’.

“Lookat that,” Jackie saidproudly. “It’s moving.” Sureenough,thegator,nowwide-eyedandapparentlysensingatruepredator,startedtocreepforward,thenmoveswiftlytothe edge of the gravel road,whereitvanished.

“Must have been theBoston accent,” I said. “He

never heard one of thosebefore.”

Jackie laughed. “What doyou say we find that stupidtrailer, and with any luck,your stupid former husband,and get this over with?”Before I could answer shepounced on the accelerator,fishtailing that Buick andgiggling like a half-madschoolgirl.

“Jackie, stop that! Youmustbedamagingtheroad!”

“Oh,sowhat?”Jackiesaid.“Why can’t we have a littlefun. Besides, you hate theroad! It shouldn’t be here,right?”

I hung on for dear life,hoping Jackie wouldn’t losecontrolofthecarandlandusin the swamp. I had neverknownamarriedwomanwhoactedlikeJackie.Iknewafew

girls in high school with asimilarwild streakbut they’dchanged overnight oncethey’dsaidtheir“Idos”and“Iwillobeys”atthealtar.

There’s a saying that ifmarriage don’t change awoman, motherhood will.Well, that was not the casewith Jackie, either. Manytimes the thought had gonethrough my head that hertwindaughters andespecially

her son, Judd, were moremature than she was. Whenthey’d arrived in Naples, thekids were wise, taking theirtime to adjust, but withJackie, it was like she’d beenshot out of a cannon. Thewomenfolk in town wereappalled; the men werescandalized.Herfashiontastewas more AvaGardner thanFlorida matron, herintelligencewas intimidating,

andhertendencytospeakhermind was shocking. She notonlyhadopinions,shesharedthem.

The fact thatherhusbandTed was old Mr. Toomb’snewlyhiredbusinessmanagerhad given her some leeway.She and Mr. Toomb hadtheirdifferencesbuttheyhadburied the hatchet, for thetimebeingatleast.Ofcourse,that’swhatIhoped,butIalso

knewthatJackiewasthekindof person who burned upgoodwillinahurry.

Jackiefinallycalmeddownand began driving like anormal person. I tried tofocusonthepossibilitythatImightbeseeingDarryl.Iwasgrateful that Jackie was withme; even though I neverknew what she was going todonext,Icouldcountonherfriendship.

The road began to curvegently and suddenly there itwas: a brand-newconstruction trailer. Onevehicle, a pickup,wasparkednearby. Aman was hunchedover slightly, studyingsomething—maps maybe, orconstruction plans—that hadbeenspreadoutonthehood.

Darryl.My heart switched places

withmystomach.Iwantedto

begJackietoturnaroundbutsomehow I summoned thecourage to stifle the urge. Ihadtogetthisoverwith.

But as we drove closer, Isoon forgot all my troubles.Jackieslammedonthebrakes,andthecarlurchedtoastop.Wewerecloseenoughtoreadthe lettering on a sign thatread Welcome toDreamsville!

TenNowIwassorry.Oh,wasIsorry. I wish I’d never comehome. I wish I’d never beenborn.Most especially, IwishI wasn’t with Jackie Hart atthatprecisemoment.

Jackie’s reaction wasnothing less than I expected.“I’m going to kill him!” shescreamed, and I was hopefulwewerestillfarenoughawaythat he didn’t hear her,though he looked up andstared in shock when herealized a strange car wassittingapiecedowntheroad.

“He can’t do this!” Jackiehollered, hurting my ear.

“He’s stealing my name! I’mgoingtocallmylawyer!”

“Jackie, let’s turn aroundand go home and talk thisover,” I said quickly. Myinstinct was to retreat, plan,and return to battle anotherday. Jackie’s instinct was tofightfirst,thinklater.

Instead of gunning theengine, however, she drovelikeacivilizedperson(which,frankly, almost scared me

more) until we were closeenough to pull up a few feetfromhim.Icouldseethatherecognizedthecar—ofcoursehe did. Everyone insouthwest Florida knew thatcar.

“Excuse me, sir,” Jackiesaid,likeshewasabouttoaskfordirections.

I almost felt sorry forDarryl. He was entirelyflummoxed. “I thought I

heardacarhornawhileago,”he said. “I guess that wasyou?”

“Might have been,” Jackiesaid with that same edge tohervoice.

“You’reMiss Dreamsville,aren’t you?” he asked. “Mrs.JackieHart?”

“Yes,”shesaidicily.“Oh, I see you’re in

mourning. I’m sorry for yourloss.”

“And I see that you havechosen to call yourdevelopment ‘Dreamsville.’The implication is that I amendorsing this project. Youwill be hearing from myattorney.”

ThiswasasidetoJackieIhadn’t seen. Although shewas somad I sensed shewasquiveringbesideme, shehadreinedinhertemper.

“Well, actually, it’s goingto be called DreamsvilleEstates,” Darryl said withoutemotion. “Our slogan isWelcometoDreamsville!”

“What nerve you have!”Jackie said, struggling tomaintain her dignity. “I amaghast! Never have I seensuchaudacity!”

Darryl smirked. “All’s fair—”

“—inloveandwar?”Jackiesaid, finishing the old sayingforhim.

“And—when it comes toFloridarealestate,”headded.“Butyouwouldn’tknowthat,would you? Since you’re notfromaroundhere.”

“I’mnotbrand-newhere,”she snapped. “I’ve lived herefortwoyears.”

“Well, whoop-dee-do,”Darryl said. “Two whole

years.Lady, if you livedherefortwentyyears,you’dstillbeanoutsider.”

“Go ahead and laugh atme,sir,”Jackiesaid,lightingacigarette and blowing astreamofsmokedirectly intohisface.“Youwillbesorry.”

“Is that a threat?” Darrylasked,pretendingtobetakenaback.

“Takeitanywayyoulike,”she said, “but don’t say I

didn’t warn you. NeverunderestimateawomanfromBoston,ordosoatyourownperil. Oh,” she added,suddenly remembering I wasthere. “I believe that Dorahere”—she gestured to thepassenger seat—“would liketo have a word with youbeforeweleave.”

Darryl leaned down andlooked in amazement at me,hunkeredagainstthefardoor.

“Dora!” he said, clearlystunned.“Whatareyoudoingwayouthere?”

I took thisasmycue.Mykneeswerewobbly,but Igotout of the car. Nowwas thetime. I was hoping Jackiewould understand that Ineeded to be alone withDarrylforafewminutes,anddespite her distress, she gotthehint. “Dora, shall I comebacklater?”sheasked.

“No, Jackie,” I saidquickly. “Justwait here.”Weweren’t at the Dairy Queen,for pity’s sake, and while Iwasn’t particularly afraid ofDarryl, I didn’t want to bestuck out here with him,either. She nodded andmoved the car a respectfuldistanceaway.

“Do you want to talk inthe trailer?” Darryl said, still

looking shocked. “Orwe cantalkinmytruck.”

“Truck is fine,” I said. Icould tell he was havingtrouble reading my mood.Angry?Sad?What?Well,thetruth was that I was nervousas a rabbit at a hound dogconvention but I wasdeterminedtohideit.

He opened the door forme, thenwent around to thedriver’s side and climbed in.

The windows were loweredalready, or the truck wouldhave been hot enough to frybacon. Even so, the seatswereroasting.

“Dang, it’s hot,” Darrylsaid,buyingtime.

“Surelyis.”“It’sreallyhot.”“Darryl, I need to talk to

you about something otherthantheweather.”

“Okay,”hesaid.“Ithoughtyou were in Mississippi. Ididn’t even know you wereback.”

Icuttothechase.“Darryl,whyareyoudoingthis?”

“Doingwhat?”“Ruining the swamp!

Pavingovertheriver!Andontop of it, calling itDreamsville! That’s not fairtomyfriend!”

Darryllaughed.“Youcameall this way to fuss at meabout that?! Let me tell yousomething, Dora, you’re justas nutty as your friend there.If you’d stayedwithme, youcould have been a richwoman.”

“Darryl, what in tarnationhashappenedtoyoursoul?”

“Oh, so now it’s my soulwe’re talking about. Gee,Dora,Inever thoughtofyou

as being the Bible-thumpingtype. You trying to get meback to church? You weren’tthereyourselfeverySunday,ifIremembercorrectly.”

We had fallen back intoour old pattern, the kind offighting that makes you getmadderandmadderandgetsyou nowhere. “Darryl, let’sstay on the topic,” I said,trying to sound calm andmature, although I surely

didn’tfeelthatway.“Youandme—we grew up aroundhere. We played here. Youhelped me rescue turtles, doyou remember that? I knewyouhadchanged.That’swhyIcouldn’tstaymarriedtoyouanymore. But this—thisdevelopment—well, I’mshocked,Darryl.Notonlyareyou going to wipe out theanimals and the birds, thereare people living here, too.

They don’t have anywhereelse to go. If you do this,Darryl,there’snogoingback.The ’Glades have been hereforever; you’re going tochangethat?”

Darrylwassilent. “There’sa lot more ’Glades than justthe part Iwant to build on,”he said finally. “This is justone piece of the ’Glades.Besides,ifIdon’tbuildonit,

someone else will. Trust meonthat,Dora.”

“Well, I don’t trust you,Darryl.Anditmakesmeverysadtosaythat.”

“Soyoucameheretotrytopersuade me to change mymind?”

“Well, yes, Darryl. Ithought it was worth a try.Foroldtimes’sake.”

“There’s something youshouldknow,Dora,”he said,

and his voice soundeddifferent. “I was going towrite to you in Mississippi.I’mgettingmarried.”

“Isee,”IsaidascalmlyasIcould manage. I wanted tosay, Well, that was quick,Darryl, but I curbed mytongue. “Oh,” I managed tosay faintly. “Well, good foryou, Darryl. What’s hername?”

“Celeste,”hesaid,withoutprovidinga lastname.“Imether in New York on abusiness trip.Well, her folksliveinNewJersey.InBaskingRidge.”

BaskingRidge,Ithought.Icouldn’t remember where I’dheard that before but at themoment it didn’t matter.“That’s nice, Darryl,” I saidsimply. “Thank you. Imean,thank you for telling me.” I

suddenly felt tears stingingthe corners of my eyes. Didthis mean I still loved him?Or were they tears of adifferent kind—humiliationthatwehadfailedasacoupleand he had found someonenew? I climbed out of thetruckwithoutlookingathim,hopinghewouldn’t see.As Iwalked back to Jackie’s car,though, I realized he wasfollowing me. I figured he

just wanted to get the lastword.AllIwantedtodowashightailitoutofthere.

“Dora,youshouldn’tjudgeme!” he said, and now hesounded angry.Hewas righton my heels. “Aren’t yougoing to wish me good luckon my marriage?” This wassaidwith somuchbile that Iwas sorely tempted to turnaroundandslaphim.

“Now, you two settledown,” Jackie calledout.Shemust have heard the lastexchange of words, maybemore.Ikeptmystridesteadyandmarchedtothepassengerside, got in, and locked thedoor.

He muttered and fumed,then surprisedmeby turningand walking around toJackie’s side of the car. “Youknow what?” he shouted in

Jackie’sface.“Ifithadn’tbeenfor you and your MissDreamsville radio show, Iwouldn’t have been able togetthefinancing.Youputuson the map! So thank youverymuchforhelpingmegetrich!”

Jackielookedstricken.Sheopened her mouth but nowords came out. Darrylturnedhis back and stompedarrogantlytowardhistruck.A

second later he was gone,tearing down the road at arecklessspeed.

I wondered if he knewhow lucky he was. Aftertaunting Jackie, he hadwalked right in front of hercar. If she had recoveredfaster, my former husbandcould easily have become abrand-newhoodornamentontheflashiestcarintown.

ElevenIhopeSeminole Joe catchesup to him,” Mrs. BaileyWhite said. We were sittingin her parlor, havingskedaddled from Darryl’sconstructionsiteforaplacetotalk things out. Jackie was

worn out, collapsed on Mrs.BaileyWhite’sgoodsofaaftera marathon weeping sessionthat was fueled by pure rageand peppered with threatsand oaths about high-powered Northern lawyersand what they would do toDarrylforhavingthenervetostealhername.

“Who is Seminole Joe?”Jackieaskedwearily.

Mrs. Bailey White and Ilocked eyes, and Plain Jane,slouched in an oversizedleather chair near thefireplace, lookedup from thebook she was reading andchuckledsoftly.

“What’s so funny?” Jackiedemanded.

“Nothin’,”Plain Jane said,returningtoherbook.

“SeminoleJoeisahaint,”Isaid simply. I was sitting on

the floor, trying togetbetteracquaintedwithDream,whowas having a good ol’ timewith a set of alphabet blocksthatPlainJanehadpurchasedat the Junior League yardsale.

“A ghost,” Mrs. BaileyWhite added, translating forJackie.

I didn’t want to get ontothetopicofSeminoleJoe,notafter the day I’d had, and

surely not in Mrs. BaileyWhite’s parlor, where herkinfolk were lined up in jarsonthemantel.Or,rather,theashesofherkinfolk.ThewayIwas raised—alongwith justabouteveryoneelseinCollierCounty—your body wassupposed to be buried, notreducedtodustandplacedinyour home on the mantelpiecelikea4-Htrophy.Ihadnever

got myself used to theirpresence.

But Jackie, being Jackie,was not going to be satisfiedwithourskirtingthetopic.“Ineverheardof this ‘SeminoleJoe’ before,” she said crossly.“Is this some kind of localsecret?”

“Seminole Joe is ourboogeyman,” I said simply. Iwatched as Dream toppledthe blocks by piling on one

too many. She chuckled andclappedherhands indelight.“Maybe,” I added, “weshouldn’ttalkaboutSeminoleJoeuntilDreamhashernap.”

“She’s too young tounderstandwhatwe’retalkingabout,”Jackiesaid.

“Iwouldn’tcountonthat,”said Plain Jane, looking upfrom her book again. “It’stime for her nap, anyway,”sheadded.“I’lltakeherup.”

“So, who is this SeminoleJoe person?” Jackie askedagain.

“As I said, he’s CollierCounty’s very ownboogeyman,”Ireplied.

“I hate that term,‘boogeyman,’ ” Jackie said,lighting a cigarette. “And Idon’t believe in ghosts,” sheaddedbetweenpuffs.

“Youlivearoundherelongenough,you’llbelievein’em,”

Mrs.BaileyWhitesaidunderherbreath.

“Well,whatdoesthishaveto do with Darryl?” Jackieasked. “You said somethingabout Seminole Joe catchingup to Darryl. It may not benecessaryaftermylawyergetsthroughwithhim.”

“Oh, it was just wishfulthinking,”Mrs.BaileyWhitesaid. “I mean, that wouldsolveallourproblems.”

Jackie said nothing. Icould see shewas taking thisall in, though how she wasinterpretingit,Iwasn’tsure.

“Don’t you want to knowwho Seminole Joe was, Imeanis?”Iasked.

“Okay, I’ll bite,” Jackiesaid.

I looked at Mrs. BaileyWhite.Since shebroughtupthesubject,itwasherstorytotell.

Mrs. BaileyWhite took aladylike sip of iced tea,clearedherthroat,andbegan.“Alongtimeago,whenwhitefolksfirstshoweduphere,theIndians didn’t know what tothink,”shesaidinatonethatreminded me of aschoolteacher talking to herpupils. “They were Spanish,and they showed up one dayin their sailing ships. Beforelong they discovered there

was a fresh-water spring onMarcoIslandandthey’dstopthere, regular-like, on theirway to whatever they weredoing.Exploring,Iguess,butalsoraisin’Cain.

“Anyway, an Indiannamed Joe was killed by apirate.Somesaythemurdererwas the famous pirateGasparilla,butnooneknowsforsure.Afterthat,theghostof this poor Indian fellow,

Joe, startedtoattackthemintheir sleep and feed theirbody parts to the alligators.Orsothestorywent.Afterawhile, the Spanish startedavoiding Marco Island andthe area we call CollierCountyaltogether.Aslongasthey stayed away, Joe was atpeace.

“During the War ofNorthern Aggression,deserters from both sides—

Mr.Lincoln’sarmyaswellasourRebs—foundtheirwaytoSouth Florida. They hungdeserters in those days. Themore skeert they were ofgetting caught, the farthersouth they ran. So here inCollier County we had theworst ones—the kind thathadgoneplumbjackcrazy.Inthe First World War, theycalled it ‘shell shock’ but I’mnotsure theyhadanamefor

itbackinMr.Lincoln’sWar.And that’s when the storiesabout Joe’s ghost started upagain. From that time on,folks started referring to himasSeminoleJoe.

“Ifyouwereintheswampafter dark, he might comeafteryouwithahatchet.Lotsof folks went missing onaccountofoldJoe.Hedidn’tseem to bother the Negroes.He only went after the

whites. Especially ourConfederate soldiers, becausethey reminded him ofGeneral Andrew JacksonfromSouthCarolina.Iftherewasoneperson theSeminoleIndianshated,itwasGeneralJackson. Before Jacksonbecame President of theUnited States, he made hisnamefightingtheSeminoles.To this very day, don’t everhandatwenty-dollarbilltoa

Seminole Indian or he willrefuse it and spit on theground, because AndrewJackson’s picture is on thetwenty-dollarbill.”

Mrs.BaileyWhitepausedfordramaticeffect,thenwenton.

“Old-time Collier Countyfolks don’t like to talk aboutSeminole Joe because it wasconsideredbadlucktosayhisname aloud. He was still

roamingaroundwhenIwasayounggirl.Themost famouscase in my day was when amoonshiner named GerryBrevardmade themistake ofsetting up his equipmentrightwhereSeminoleJoeandhis people are buried.Normally, Seminole Joewouldn’t bother with a loserlike Gerry Brevard butSeminole Indians aremightyparticular about their burial

grounds. Gerry Brevard hadtogo.

“My daddy and JudgeHarvey P. Decker are theoneswhofoundhim.Heranstraightoutintotheroad,andthey almost hit him, but hewashalf-dead anyway. Inhisfinal breaths, he pointed tothe swamp and said,‘Seminole Joe.’ There was asound in the swamp andmydaddylookedupandtherehe

was—the old Indian hainthisself, watching them. Nextthing they heard was GerryBrevard’s rattle of death, sotheyturnedtheirattentiontohim.Whenthey lookedbackattheswampamomentlater,SeminoleJoehadvanished.”

Mrs. BaileyWhite pickedup her knitting, which washer way of letting us knowshe had finished her story.Jackielookedatme,startedto

say something, but changedhermind.Iwastryingtohidemy excitement. Mrs. BaileyWhite had told the story ofSeminole Joe in more detailthanI’deverheardit.

After a few moments ofsilence, except for the littleclicking noises from Mrs.Bailey White’s knittingneedles, I couldn’t stand itany longer. “Mrs. BaileyWhite,”Isaidbreathlessly,“I

can’t believe you knewsomeone—yourownfather—whosawSeminoleJoe!”

“Oh,well,Isawhim,too,”Mrs. Bailey White said,pausing in her knitting. “Iwas in the car. In thebackseat.”

“Sweet Jesus!” I said,jumpingtomyfeet.

“Oh,forPete’ssake,Dora,cut it out,” Jackie said. “It’sjustastory.”

Plain Jane came backdownthestairs,havingfinallysettledDream for a late nap.“What’s going on downhere?” she asked. I filled herin, and noticed that she waswatchingJackiecarefully.

“So, Jackie, what do youthink of all this?” Plain Janeasked, although surely sheanticipatedtheanswer.

“I don’t believe any of it,”Jackie declared, “but I

supposeitwouldserveDarrylright if he ran into oldSeminoleJoe.”Shelaughedatherownlittlejoke.

Mrs. Bailey White and Ilooked at each other, a littlealarmed. No matter whatDarryl did, he didn’t deservethat fate. Plain Jane, settlingback in her favorite chair,sighedandshookherhead.

“What book is that you’rereading?” I asked, hoping to

changethesubject.Plain Jane held up the

cover for me to see. “To theLighthousebyVirginiaWoolf.I’ve been hearing about thisbookforyearsandyears,andthenJackiesuggestedwereadit.”

“It’s a book club pick?” Isaid, feeling left out onceagain. I hadwondered if thethree members of the clubwho’dstayedinNapleswould

keepchoosinganddiscussingbooks.

“Why, Dora, we shouldhave told you what we’vebeen reading, and you couldhave been reading it, too,”PlainJanesaidguiltily.

“It’sokay,Ireaditanyway,a few years ago,” I said,adding, “I thought it wasbeautiful.”

“Aw, everyone says theyloveTotheLighthouse,” Jackie

complained.“You didn’t like it?” I

asked,surprised.“Notasmuchastheothers

did,” Jackie sniffed. “I thinkit’soneof thosebooksyou’resupposedtolove.”

“What do you mean?”PlainJanecried.

“It’s one of those bookspeople talk about at cocktailparties,” Jackie said.“Everyone trying to sound so

terriblysophisticated says, ‘Oh,To the Lighthouse is myfavorite!’ but half of themhaven’tevenreadit.”

“Oh, Jackie!” Plain Janesaid. “I think you are sowrong.Ijustreaditagainandfrankly it is unforgettable.There’sapassageI’mlookingfor...”

“Dora, Plain Jane is right—shameonusfornotlettingyou know what we were

reading,” Mrs. Bailey Whitesaid. “We just thought youwere busy with youradventure in Mississippi andwedidn’twanttointerfere.”

“Ah, yes,” Jackie said.“Speaking of your adventureinMississippi, are you goingtotelluswhatyoufoundoutaboutyourfamily?”

“Oh,” I said, completelyoff guard. I started to saysomethingevasivelySouthern

but stopped myself. I couldlearn something from Jackie,couldn’tI?SoItriedmyhandatJackie’ssignaturebluntness.“I’m not ready to talk aboutthatyet,”Isaid,andalthoughit sounded Yankee-rude italso felt surprisingly good tosaywhatImeant.

The others looked a littlesurprised. “Well, Dora dear,wheneveryou’reready,”PlainJane said, rescuing me. “For

the moment, we need tofigureoutwhatwe’regoingtodoaboutDarryl,anyway.”

“What, other thanhopingSeminoleJoegoesafterhim?”Jackie chortled. “Seriously,I’m beginning to think thatold ghost could help us insomeway.”

“Jackie, you are going toget us into some serioustrouble,” Plain Jane saiduneasily.

“Oh,don’tbesilly!”Jackiesaid, lighting yet anothercigarette.“WhatdoyouthinkI’m suggesting? SummoningtheancientspiritofSeminoleJoeandaskingforhishelp?”

“Well,Isupposeoneofuscould dress up like SeminoleJoe and sneak up and bopDarryl over the head, not tohurt him but just to scarehim,”Mrs.BaileyWhitesaidthoughtfully. “Maybe then

he’d be afraid to go aheadwithhisproject?”

I swallowedhard. “I don’tthinkthat’sfunny,”Isaid.

“I wasn’t joking,” Mrs.Bailey White replied. Ilookedatherforalongtime,tryingtoreconcilethissweet-looking little old lady withthe woman who had donetime in jail and was nowsuggesting that we hit my

formerhusbandoverthehead“justtoscarehim.”

“Mrs. Bailey White,” Isaid,myvoiceallsqueakyandtrembling, “this is out of thequestion, and I do not wantto be part of thisconversation.”

“Oh,” Mrs. Bailey Whitesaid, looking a littlechagrined.“SorryIupsetyou,Dora.”

“Now, girls,” Jackie said,tryingtodiffusethesituation.“I have a better idea. YouknowhowIusedtodosomecopyediting over at thenewspaper, before I had myradio show? Well, I’ve beenasked to do somewriting—acolumn,asamatteroffact!”

“Howexciting!”PlainJanesaid, and I might havedetected a touch of envy inher voice. “Jackie, you’re just

full of surprises. Why didn’tyoutellus?”

“I’mtellingyounow.And,besides, they only just askedmelastweek.”

“What’s the columngoingto be called?” Plain Janeasked.Thatwas a question Iwouldn’t have even thoughttoaskbut,afterall,PlainJanehad written for some of thebig-name magazines in NewYork.

“ChatterBox.”“ChatterBox?”“Meaning little bits of

news and delightful gossip,”Jackie said. “And my bylinewill be Miss Dreamsville.”After apause, she said, “Theowner came up with theChatter Box thing. I’m notsure I like it, either. But Iwon the more importantbattle. It will not be on the

Women’sPage! Itwill be ontheEditorialPage.”

“What’s wrong with theWomen’sPage?”Mrs.BaileyWhiteaskedinnocently.

“No, no, no, I will neverwritefortheWomen’sPage,”Jackie said crossly. “It’s allweddings and gardening tipsandallthatjunk.No,no,no!Idon’twantmycolumntobestuckthere!”

“But everyone reads theWomen’s Page,”Mrs. BaileyWhitesaidsoftly.

“Men don’t!” Jackie criedout. “If it’s on theWomen’sPage it implies that mycolumn is forwomenonlyoraboutwomen’s‘concerns’andthat’s not what I’m going towriteabout.”

“Well,whatareyougoingto write about?” asked PlainJane.

Jackiesmiled,andtomeitseemed a little mischievous.“The agreement is that I getto write my column aboutanything I want. My firstcolumnis supposedtorun intwo days and I couldn’tdecide what to write about.The editor suggested a pieceabout how Collier Countyseems to be forgotten at thestatehouseinTallahassee.Butthat seems deadly dull,

doesn’t it?Now I’m thinkingI couldwrite aboutSeminoleJoe.”

“What?”Iasked,realizingIwas at least one step behindJackie’sthinking.

“Well, what if I wrote apiece about Seminole Joe,pointing out that he hauntstheareawhereDarrylisgoingto do all that construction?And maybe get everyone inNaples all scared and stirred

up, so there’d be oppositiontotheproject?”

Thiswaseitherthebestorworst idea I ever heard. I’dhave to thinkon itovernightto decide which. In somerespects it was brilliant. Itmight even work. On theother hand, it was one ofthose ideas that could haveconsequences we couldn’tanticipate. Jackie had ahistoryofgettingherself,and

everyone else around her, inovertheirhead.Shewasgoodat coming up with creativeideas but her strong suitdidn’t include fixing up themesses that sometimesresulted.

She saw our hesitation.“Aw come on, girls! Whatcouldgowrong?”

NotthewordsIwantedtohear, but I admired herconfidencejustthesame.

TwelveIf he hadn’t been sooverburdenedwithwork,TedHartmighthave enjoyed thechallenge to start an airlineforMr.Toomb,hisboss.Thefact was that he was alreadyaway from his wife and kids

more than he or they hadexpected. Hopefully, Mr.Toomb would quickly allowhimtohireanassistant.

But he was off to a badstart. He and Mr. Toombcould not even agree on anamefortheairline.Tedhadsuggested Florida Airlines.Mr.Toomb’sidea?WildBlueYonder Airways. Ted couldsee immediately thatmarketing would be a

problem. The word “wild”could be interpreted as“reckless.” And “yonder” hada connotation that wasanything but sophisticated.Thewell-heeledYankeestheywouldneedascustomerswerenotgoingtolikeit.Well,Mr.Toombwastheboss,andtheboss always got what hewanted.Especiallyifthebosswas a powerful, no-nonsensemanlikeMr.Toomb.

Ted spent two weeks inTallahasseetogetthepermitslined up. It was easycompared to the way thingswere done up north, Tedthought. In fact, beforeanyone realized what washappening, the crummy littleairportlandingstripinNapleswas under construction. TheNaples airport had been solacking thatMr.Toombhadbeen forced to accept that

headquarters for his newairline would be in Tampa,which was, compared toNaples, an actual city.Meanwhile, the headline inthe Naples paper said thestate was financing some“improvements” to thehumble airstrip, but in truthitwas beingmodernized andexpanded to accommodateMr.Toomb’svision.

OneproblemwasgoingtobeTed’s son, Judd,whowasdeeply involved with thecadet corps of the Civil AirPatrol.Makingamentalnoteto himself, Ted vowed to becareful not to say too mucharound Judd,who seemed tobe on friendly terms witheveryone at the NaplesAirport. Mr. Toomb was asecretive man, which meantTed—if he wanted to stay

employed—had to keepsecrets, too. Not that Mr.Toomb was doing anythingillegal, Ted quickly toldhimself. Mr. Toomb was anopportunist. A well-connected opportunist, themostformidablekind.

Ted sighed. This was notwhat he thought he wasgetting into, back when hewas in the Army during thewar andwanted tomake the

world a better place.Somehow that dream hadbeen diverted, one littledecision at a time, into asimpler, more personal goal:gotocollegeontheG.I.Billand become the first personinhisfamilytowearasuittowork. It had meant leavingBoston, which he hadn’tcounted on. It had meantlongdaysontheroad, travel,and, needless to say, time

away from Jackie and thekids. Was it worth it? Ongood days, the answer wasyes.

Jackie’s parents, owners ofa well-known restaurant indowntown Boston, were nothappywhenTedproposedtotheir only daughter.Sometimesitoccurredtohimthat he was still trying toprove himself to them, eventhough he knew it could

never happen. They wouldnot even come to visit. Itwasn’t Florida they wereopposed to; God knowsthey’dspenttheirfairshareoftime at the Fontainebleau inMiami Beach and theBreakers in Palm Beach.They just wouldn’t come toCollier County, that’s all. Intheir minds, Collier Countywasthesticks.

Of course, theway thingswere headed, his in-lawsmight change their stubbornminds about Naples. Therecould come a time whenNaples surpassed theswankierplacesonFlorida’seastcoast.Notlikely,butpossible.

As for his own parents,theydidn’thavethemoneytotravel to Cape Cod for aholiday, let alone Naples. Infact he wasn’t sure if his

parents had ever gone on avacation. This thoughtmadehim so sad that he found itnecessary to light his pipe, ahabitthatcalmedhim.

He watched as a tiny,single-engine plane landedgracefullyonthelonerunwayand taxied carefully aroundconstruction equipment andscores of workmen whohadn’tevenlookedupwhenitlanded. There were no

hangars, only the terminalbuilding which housed aweather station, a bathroom,and a so-called lobby with ahalf-dozen molded plasticchairs, a Coke machine, andplenty of ashtrays.He’d seenbetter accommodationsoverseas in the Army duringWorldWarTwo.

He had no desire to feelnostalgicabouthisstintintheArmy. Back in Boston, he’d

hadafewbeersnowandthenat a local VFW but, unlikemany other veterans, hediscovered he couldn’t thinkofhiswarserviceashisglorydays. Unusual for hisgeneration, Ted was bitteraboutthewar.Aboutallwars.About powerful old men,since the beginning of time,whosentyoungmen to theirdeaths. More than ninethousand Allied soldiers

killed or injured on D-Dayalone. Ted thought aboutthosenumberseveryday.

Hewatchedanotherplaneland then realized that hispipe had grown cold. Heleanedovertoemptythebowlbytapping itagainst theheelofhisshoeandwassurprised,amomentlater,torealizethathe’d struck the pipe so hardthathe’dbrokenitintwo.Hewas glad no one was around

to see this. Men like himdidn’t show their emotionswhenitcametothewar.

His unit had landed atNormandy without him. Hehadbeenpulledoutatthelastminute andnever knewwhy.Theshameandguilt resultedin unrelenting pressure. Youshould have been there, hismind told him daily. You’dbetter have a good life; you’re

livingforallofthosewhodidn’tmakeit.

Twenty years had passedbut it didn’t matter. And, asluckwouldhaveit,therewerefresh reminders. The onlysuitable type of aircraftavailable for Mr. Toomb’sairline,itturnedout,wereoldArmy transport planesaffectionately known as“Gooney Birds.” And thepilots? The only ones who

had answered the newspaperadvertisements were formerWorld War Two pilots whohad kept up their credentialsin civilian life. He’d alreadyhiredtwo.

So far, the federalgovernment had approved aroute between Tampa andpoints east (Orlando) andnorth (Tallahassee). It was ahuge accomplishment in ashort period of time, but

much work remained to bedone.When he was youngerand dreamed of the white-collarlife,Tedhadenvisionedsmoke-filled boardrooms andleisurely lunches of prime riband bourbon. In his mind, asecretary would take care ofall the mundane details atwork,justasawifewoulddoat home. Well, fantasy didnot match reality. While hewasmakingmoremoneythan

he’d ever thought possible,the truth was that he hardlyhadtimetoenjoyspendingit.

At least Jackie seemedhappynow.TheirfirstyearinFloridahadbeentumultuous.Between the book club andthe radio show, she’d causedquite a ruckus. She hadirritated the heck out ofMr.Toomb,buteventhatseemedsmoothed over. The bookclub had mostly disbanded,

andJackiewasspendingmostofhertimehelpingwiththatbaby. Yes, it was a bitunorthodox, but it wascertainlyworthwhile.Hewasrelieved by the decision byJackieandherfriendstokeepthe baby primarily at Mrs.Bailey White’s house, whichwas off the beaten path. Italso meant that the baby’smother, Priscilla, could staythere—and not at his house

—when she returned on hervisits from college. Ted wasnot prejudiced, or at least hedidn’t think he was.However, a man had toprotecthiswifeandchildren,and he was not going to letthem be a target for somefurious redneck who mightthrow a Molotov cocktailthrough the living roomwindow.

Like Jackie, he believedthat the best way to addressthe race problem inAmericawas to helpNegroes advancethrough education. In fact,oneofTed’sfavoritecharitieswas the United NegroCollege Fund, to which hedonated every year since itwas founded in 1944, evenwhen his wallet had beenthin. He had met Priscillaonlyonce,butheagreedwith

Jackiethattheyounggirlwascollegematerial.

He was surprised—butkeptittohimself—thatJackieseemed to be enjoying thebabyasmuchas shedid.Herecalled how brittle she hadbeen as a newmother and itwasinterestingtoseethatshewassorelaxedwithPriscilla’sbaby. Maybe, because Jackiewas a little older now, andexperienced. Jackie’s friend,

Plain Jane, seemed to beenjoying the baby, too, atleast judging from Jackie’scomments.Hehadhisdoubtsabout weird old Mrs. BaileyWhite, but from everythinghe’d heard, the old womanhad paid her debt to societyand was settling back into anormal life. If Jackie andPlain Jane were, in a sense,helping with Mrs. Bailey

White’s rehabilitation, thatseemedlikeagoodcause,too.

Obviously, this was notthe life Jackie expectedwhenshe’dmarriedhim.Ofcourse,itwasn’twhathehadplannedon, either. If only there’dbeen a way to climb thecorporate ladder withoutbeingontheroadsomuchofthe time, or relocating thewhole family to a place that

seemedasfarfromBostonasTimbuktu.

ThirteenDolores Simpson did nothavearadioortelevision,nordid she care to. Even ifowningoneorbothhadbeenherheart’sdesire, theelectricgrid didn’t come anywherenear her little fishing shack.

She had considered buyingone of those newfangledtransistor radios, but it costtoomuch.Asforatelephone,thethoughtwaslaughable.Itwould be “a hundred yearsshy of never,” as the sayingwent, before anyone putphonelinesthere.

Robbie-Lee had been hergrapevine to the outsideworld.Hewouldcomehomefromschool—and later, from

his jobatSears—andtellherthe big news of the day (theCuban Missile Crisis, forexample) along with localnews (who had gottenmarried, who had up anddied) and, best of all, littletidbits from Hollywood thatheheardon the radioduringhis lunch hour. If he hadsomething new to tell herabout Elizabeth Taylor, itmadeherday.

But thosedaysweregone.She didn’t miss people ingeneral. She just missedRobbie-Lee. And withchanges coming to the river,she needed the informationthatherson,hadhestillbeenliving at home, would haveprovided. Walking to townwas tiring, but she’d done itwhen necessary, for example,when she’d sent the telegramto Dora Witherspoon in

Mississippi. Fortunately, herneighbors, Billy and Marco,aware that Robbie-Lee hadgone away, had starteddropping off the Naples Starat her fishing shack on theirway back from—well, fromsomewhere. She never reallyknew what they were up tobut followed the unofficialrule of Gun Rack Village:Don’taskquestions.

The gift of a newspapermiraculously landing on hernarrowdock,courtesyofBillyandMarco,didn’toccureveryday but it was often enoughtosuither.Shenolongerhadtokeeptrackofthepassageofdays by marking a scrap ofpaper each morning. Shedidn’tcarethatthenewspaperwas secondhand; there weresigns, like cigarette ashessmudged into the newsprint,

that the brothers had read italready. That was fine; itmeant shedidn’thave topaythem.

On this particular dayDolores heard the truckfollowed by the familiarthump as the paper hit thedock but didn’t bother toretrieve it right away. Not athing was happening of anyimportance. For real news—news that mattered—she’d

have to wait for DoraWitherspoon.

Only when she wentoutsideanhour latertocleanher shotgun did sherememberthenewspaper,sawit sitting there, and picked itup.Shetooktherubberbandoff (she saved them; theywere hard to come by) andsaw this announcement onthefrontpage:

“ReadOurNewColumnbyCollierCounty’sVeryOwn

MISSDREAMSVILLE!”

page11

Like everyone else inNaples, Dolores flippedimmediately to page eleven.Peeringoutatherwasalittlepen-and-ink sketch of agrinning, winking woman

who was clearly supposed tobe Jackie. Next to thedrawing were the words“Chatter Box by MissDreamsville!”

There was a headlinebeneath it that read, THELEGEND OF SEMINOLEJOE.Doloresdidnottakethetimetositdownorgobackinthe house. She read itstanding stock still, not evenbothered by a sliver of

sunlight breaking throughsomebad-weathercloudsandshining in her eyes. Some ofthe words were hard for hersoshereadslowlyandaloud:

Residents have longspoken in hushed tonesabout a dangerousapparition who is said toreside near the MangroveRiverandhasbeenknownto wreak havoc in ourlovelycommunity.

Seminole Joe, as he iscalled, has killed (and,some say, eaten) at leastseventeenpersonssincehehimself was murdered bySpanish Explorers. It isbelieved he only attacksCaucasian men. Mr. Joehas been fairly quiet inrecentyears,butold-timersare concerned this willchange with the proposednew real-estatedevelopment (cheekilycalled Dreamsville Estatesby Mr. Darryl Norwood,

who, it should be statedhere, did not askpermissionofyourstruly).

Since the beginning oftime, one of thepeculiarities of the humanconditionisthatpeoplecanlook at the exact sameevent, or in this case, thesame place, and seeentirely different things.Somelookat theriverandseeNatureinallherglory.Others envision a river ofmoney, created withasphalt, timber, and glass.

It is not hard to imaginewhich side Seminole Joewill take as it is widelyknown that he abhorschangeandwantonwaste.

A model citizen whohaslivedinCollierCountyfor all of her eighty yearswas willing to speak butnot for attribution. “I’mvery worried that Joe willget all stirred up again,”she remarked. “Anyoneworkingonthatproject,orliving there after it’s built,will never again have a

soundnight’ssleep.IknowIwon’t.”

WillNeapolitansbesafefrom the wrath of theghostly Indian? WillSeminole Joe rise again?Onlytimewilltell.

Dolores crumpled thenewspaper in her hands andtossed it as far as she could,onlytohaveawindgustpick

itupandtossitstraightback,mocking her.Whatwas thatcrazy Boston gal up to now?Having her involvedwas nothelpful. The woman made amess of everything shetouched. Why was shebringingupSeminoleJoe?

Old-timersknew itwasn’twise to talk about SeminoleJoeunless youabsolutelyhadto, and then, only in quiet,funeral-parlor voices. You

surelydidn’twrite abouthiminthenewspaper.

The fact that Darryl wasplanning to call hisdevelopment DreamsvilleEstates was a shock. Awickedly clever business ideaon Darryl’s part. But whatkind of fool would provokeJackieHartandSeminoleJoeatthesametime?

Over the years, Doloreshadoccasionallyheardachild

being disciplined by athoughtless parent saying,“You’d better behave orSeminole Joe will get youtonight.” Well, first of all,Dolores thought that wasmean. Why would anyonescare a child like that? She’dnever talked to Robbie-Leelike that. Second, SeminoleJoewouldn’tbebotheredwithsome poor skeerty-cat childwho hadn’t done his

homework or his chores.Hehad far more worthwhilewrongs to right. Besides, noone could summonSeminoleJoe for selfish reasons. Somespirits could be conjured forspecific reasons, but not Joe.Hehadamindofhisown.

Jackie was the type ofYankeewho,nodoubt,wouldlaughattheideaofSeminoleJoe, like thewomanmanagerwho came down from

Chicago to trainRobbie-LeetoruntheSearscatalogstore.Miss High and Mighty hadinterrupted a conversationbetween Robbie-Lee and acustomer by announcing,“Whatareyoutalkingabout?!Surely you know there is nosuch thing as ghosts!” And,according to Robbie-Lee, itwas said in a way thatmadeboth him and the customerfeelignorant.

Dolores knew the type.Whattheladymanagerdidn’tsay, but might as well have,was,“Idon’tbelieveinthem,therefore, they cannotpossibly exist.”Dolores knewdifferently. The truth was, ifyoudidn’tencounterspiritsitwas because you refused tosee them—possibly, to yourowndetriment.

Why were Yankees socertain they understood the

world better than anyoneelse? You’d think life wassome kind of big joke, andtheyweretheonlyonessmartenough to know what wasfunny and what was not.Folks like that weren’t opento mystery or magic. Theythought they had everythingfigured out, so their mindswereclosedlikeasteeltrap.Itwaskindofsad,whenyougotrightdowntoit.

Maybe the problem wasthat Yankee folks, even onvacation, were always inmotion, running from oneactivity to the next. If theyweren’t swimming, theyweregolfing. If they weren’tgolfing, they were boating.That was fine—they werewelcome to it—but Doloreswaspuzzledthatpeoplecouldclaimto love theoutdoor lifeandyetseemsofarawayfrom

nature.Theypreferredhousesbuilt like bunkers withcement floors and walls,barriers to the swamplandwhere,God forbid, bugs andother scary things lurked.Dolores imagined them intheir nice houses, some withair-conditioning, all of themwith plumbing. They put onshoesthatlookedlikecombatboots, just to walk to their

mailboxes. She’d seen themandtriednottolaugh.

Didtheyeverspendhourslooking at the stars, asDolores did? There wasnothing quite like starwatchingon a clearnight, orwitnessing the fight forsurvivalamongtheplantsandcritters in the swamps, tomakeapersonrememberthatshewasjustaspeckofdust.

Seminole Joe was morethanastory.Hewasaspirit,andspiritsliveon,indifferentways and for differentreasons.

What most folks didn’tseem to understand was thatSeminoleJoewasthespiritofinjustice. He represented allthe wrongs that had beendone in the ’Glades. Folkswere scared of Seminole Joebut in her opinion, it was

Darryltheyshouldhavebeenskeert of. Darryl was like anoverseer with a whip, a manwith no soul. Darryl was aman who had choices, andhe’dchosenmeanovergood.

From time to time,Dolores actually understood—just a little—what it musthave been like to be coloredor Indian. It didn’t take agenius to see that whitepeoplewereattherootofjust

about every mess you couldthinkof, andDarrylwas justthelatestversion.Whitefolkshad aknack for finding theirwaytothetopofthepeckingorder and ruling the roost.Dolores could see this, andyet it created a problem forherbecauseshewaswhite,sowhat was wrong with her?What was she lacking?Whywasn’t sherichandpowerful,and sitting at the top of the

henhouse looking down oneveryone else? Maybe shewasn’t quite mean enough.Orambitiousenough.

She uncrumpled thenewspaper and reread thecolumn. Jackie Hart’sbringingupSeminoleJoewasbound to complicate analready-tricky situation.Jackieseemedto thrivewhenshe created chaos. ButDolores had lived long

enough to know that a wisepersondidn’tletabobcatoutof its cage and assume itwouldeatonlyvarmints.No,sir,itmighteatyouinstead.

She looked over at thenight heron. “Let’s hopeDora Witherspoon talkssomesenseintoherman,”shecalled out, and the birdstretched its wings inresponse. To herself, sheadded, “Otherwise, I’m

afeared we be in for a wildride.”

FourteenWhat do you supposeSeminole Joe looks like?”Juddasked,wiping the sweatfrom his browwith the hemofhisT-shirt.Hehadfledtomy little cottage to get awayfrom the craziness that had

been going on all day, eversince the Naples Star landedin people’s driveways orhedges. Judd said the phonehadnotstoppedringingwithexcitedpeoplewantingtotalkto his mother about hercolumnonSeminole Joe.Nowonderhewantedtohideoutfor a while at my cottage.And I put him to work,helping me dig some new

holesfortheturtlestowallowaroundin.

“Haven’tyoueverseenthelocal Indians?” I asked,surprised.

“You mean sellingbaskets?” he said. “No oneeversaidtheywereIndians.Ididn’t know who they were.My teacher said we shouldstay away from them, that’sallIknow.”

“Well,didyoueverseethemovieKeyLargo?”Iasked.

He looked like he wasrackinghisbrain.“No,Idon’tthink so,”he said. “Thatwasbeforemytime.”

Judd cracked me up.Sometimeshesounded likeathirteen-year-old boy, andsometimes he sounded like asixty-year-oldman.

“Well,” I said, slurpingonmy iced tea, “Lauren Bacall

was in it. And HumphreyBogart.”

“Seminole Joe lookslike...HumphreyBogart?”

I tried not to laugh. “No,no,HumphreyBogartplaysamanwhowasintheArmyinthe war and visits his deadfriend’s father and widowwho live down yon in KeyLargo. There’s a bunch ofgangstersinthemovie,too—

Edward G. Robinson playsoneofthem.”

The word “gangster” gotJudd’s attention. He wasbehavinglikeathirteen-year-oldagain.“Sowhathappens?”hesaid,completelyfocused.Inoticed, once again, that hehad Jackie’s blue eyes—theexact shade. And yet helooked like his dad, TedHart,too.

“Well, the real star of themovie is a storm,” I said. “Ahurricane. But maybe Ishouldn’t tell you more.Sometime maybe you’ll seethe movie and I wouldn’twanttoruinitforyou.”

“But—wait—what’s thisgottodowithSeminoleJoe?”

“There are characters inthe movie who are supposedto be Seminole Indians,” Isaid, “and I think some of

them really are. So Joeprobably lookedmore or lessliketheIndiansinKeyLargo.”

Judd looked disappointed.“But how am I going to seethemovie?”hesaid.“ItcouldbefiveyearsbeforetheyshowitonTV.”

“You could go to thelibrary and see if they haveanybooksontheSeminoles,”I said, and his facebrightened. “They must at

least have a book aboutAndrew Jackson and theSeminoleWars,”Iadded.

Well, that was the last IsawofJuddthatday.Hewasoff on his bicycle like PaulReverewarningfolksthattheBritish were coming, animage that fit mighty nice,considering that he’d spentthe first eleven years of hislifeinBoston.

Judd’s energy wasinspiring. After fixingmyselfafriedbolognasandwich,halfofwhichIfedtomyturtles,Idecided to go for a stroll onthe beach to look for shellsand clear my mind. To mysurprise, every little shell orpebble seemed to hurt mybare feet. In my year awayfrom home, it seems I’dbecome a tenderfoot onaccount of wearing shoes all

the time. But the surf wasgentle and soothing asbathwater, and I realized,splashingalonginankle-deepwater, that Iwashappy.Nothappy about Darryl’sdevelopment plans or hisremarriage to someNortherngal,ofcourse,buthappywiththe general direction of mylife.IhadlearnedagreatdealduringmyyearinMississippi—some of it hard to take—

but I was more independentthan I’d ever been. I wasgoing back to Jackson, notforever, but for a little whilelonger.Iwasnotgoingtorunaway from the city of mymother’s birth and the storythat was unfolding thereaboutherpast.Mypast.

There was still plenty ofdaylight, so I went home,found my old Keds, andwalked slowly downtown. I

toldmyselfIwasgoingtogetarootbeerfloatattheRexallcounter but truth be told, Iwantedtoseeifanythingwasgoing on. Sometimes, folkswould gather downtownwhen something importantwashappening.I’dbeabletojudge how big a reactionJackie’s story was getting bythe number of people—usually at home on a hotnight in Naples—milling

around and looking for anexcusetotalk.

Sure enough, there werepeoplegatheredbythebenchin front of the post office,outsidetheRexall,andbytheWinn-Dixie. I recognized afew people from high schoolbut wasn’t eager to talk tothem, especially Betty JanePomeroy, who was holdingcourt over by the GreenStamp Redemption Center.

Betty Jane had a way ofinserting the topic of herhappy marriage, brilliantchildren, and fabulous houseinto every conversation.Fortunately, I sawPlain Janewalkingalongbyherselffromthe direction of the DairyQueen.Wesaweachotheratthe samemoment, andIwasreminded, once again, howmuch my old book clubmeant to me. Before them,

especially since I’d gottendivorced, I’d felt like astranger in my ownhometown.

Plain Jane and I perchedon the top step of theEvergladesSavingsandLoan,agoodlocationforspyingonpeople ever since it wasrebuiltateightfeetabovesealevel after being trounced byHurricane Donna. “Youknow what they’re talking

about, don’t you?”Plain Janesaid, between bites of an icecream cone that wasmeltingfasterthanshecouldeatit.

“Icanguess,”Isaid.“Someone said Darryl is

going to have a pressconference tomorrow,” shesaid. “Apparently she reallystirred things up. You know,people don’t talk aboutspirits, much less SeminoleJoe. Everyone around here

knows the storiesbutnoonehas ever written about it inthenewspaper.”

This was true. Somehow,justthefactthatSeminoleJoehad made the pages of theNaplesStarmadeascarystoryseem real. Official. Or, asMamawouldhavesaid,bonafide.

Hardtosaywherethiswasheaded, though. Were theyupset about Seminole Joe, or

mad at Jackie for writingabout him?Would their fearbecome anger at Darryl forpossibly disturbing SeminoleJoe?

That night I didn’t sleepwell and I bet the same wastrueforhalfthepopulationofCollier County. I couldn’tdecide which was worse: tosleep with the windows shutand die of the heat or leavethem open and possibly be

ax-murdered by SeminoleJoe.WhenIfinallyfellasleep,my eyes were closed but myearswerewideopen,andanylittle sound had me leapingoutofthebed.

The next day, the NaplesStar carried this story on thefrontpage:

STRONGRESPONSETO‘MISS

DREAMSVILLE’DEBUT

bytheEditors

CollierCountyresidentsreacted with unusualanimosity yesterday to anopinion piece by our newcolumnist, Mrs. Jackie

Hart, also known as MissDreamsville, after herfamous radio show of thatname. Our phone rang offthe hook yesterday fromcalls by readers incensedbyMissDreamsville’s(andthis newspaper’s) decisiontopublishanaccountofthelegendofSeminole Joe.Alogbook kept by our staffshowed that eighty-sevencallers complained thatSeminole Joe did not likeattention and that MissDreamsville’s column

could cause him to risefromhisghostlygraveandcommitnewatrocities.Wefind this highly unlikely,although we are flatteredthat so many residentsassume that Seminole Joeis a faithful reader of theNaples Star. CollierCounty residents, let usremember that “Joe” is alegend! This is 1964, theModernAge,andassuchitis time we put thesesuperstitions to rest, or atleast keep them in check,

orourfinecommunitywillremain stuck in the putridfog of backward thinking.We will be running aspecialLetterstotheEditorsection on Friday toaddress readers’ concerns.In a related development,Mr. Darryl Norwood hasannounced that he willhold a press conferencetodayat7:00PMtoanswerquestionsabouthisproject.

Well, I had the answer tomy question. So far, at least,peopleweremore upsetwithJackie and the newspaperthan they were with Darryl.As I tried to decide what todonext,Juddcamebyonhisbicycle.He saidhe’d tried tocall his father, who was inTallahassee, but hadn’t beenabletoreachhim.

“Mom was on the phonewith a lawyer in New York

City,thenshegotsomadsheleft the house,” he confided.“I tried to call Dad but thelong-distance operatorwouldn’t make the callbecauseI’makid.”

Judd left, but not beforeagreeingtogowithmetothepressconferenceincaseJackieshowedupandmadeascene.I would rather have a toothpulledwithoutnovocainebut

I knew inmy heart I had togo—forJudd’ssake,atleast.

About two o’clock in theafternoon,whileIwaswritinga letter to Mrs. Conroy, mylandlady back inMississippi,I heard Jackie’s car pull up.Tomy surprise, shemarchedright in—right past NormaJean, Myrtle, and Castro.Thiswasnotagoodsign.Shewas somad she forgot to be

afraid of “those dreadfulthings.”

“That odious,reprehensible,sonofalobsterboat!”shehollered,bywayofa greeting. I’d never heardanyone utter that particularstring of words before but,considering thecircumstances, I figured thiswas some kind of exotic,Northern insult. I wasrelieved somewhat by the

realization that I was notlikely the intended recipientofheranger.

She remained in thedoorway,herhandstillontheknob of my front door, andyelled again. “He’s going toget away with it!He can usemyname!”

“Jackie,” I said, my voiceshaking, “come sit down.” Iapproached her gingerly, likeshewasawildcritterthathad

escaped from Jungle Larry’sAfrican Safari, a tourist trapon the Tamiami Trail.Carefully,Itookherarmandled her toMama’s old chair,where she collapsed in atheatricalheap.Ilefthersidelong enough to retrieve a tallglassofsweetteaandcarryitback to her on a little traywith a napkin. After a fewsips, shewas calmenough totell me what had happened.

She spoke in short, littlesentences, like shewas goingto blow a fuse if she tried tosayawholesentenceatonce.

“Italkedtothelawyer.Onthe phone. I called him longdistance.”

I waited. “Well,” I said.“Whatdidhesay?”

She swallowed hard.“Darryl can call hisdevelopment Dreamsville ifhe wants. He just can’t use

my picture on any of theadvertisements. He can’t saythat I endorsed it, since thatwouldbealie.Buthedoesn’thave togetmypermissiontocall it Dreamsville, orDreamsvilleEstates.”

“I see.” Actually, I didn’tunderstanditatall.

“I don’t ‘own’ the nameMiss Dreamsville,” sheadded,sensingmyconfusion.“Notinalegalsense.”

“So you can’t sue him?” Iaskedquietly.

“Well, I could sue him.ButIwouldn’twin.”

“And that’s what thelawyer told you? On thephone?”

Jackielitacigarette.“Yes,”shesaid.“That’sthewayitis.Unfortunately.”

“And this was the lawyerinNewYork?”

“Icalledtwo—oneinNewYork, the other in Boston.They both said the samething.”

I let this sink in. Jackieseemed more relaxed, likeshe’d used up all her anger,but I was becoming madderbythesecond.Whattheheckwas wrong with Darryl thathe would steal my friend’sname? Was this anotherswipeatme?Ihadtoadmitit

was, in a sickening way, aningenious move on his part.JackiehadputNapleson themap with her radio show.Even Walter Cronkite, themosttrustedmaninAmerica,had done a little segment onCBS Evening News aboutMiss Dreamsville. It wouldbe easy for Darryl to markethis new development toYankees by calling itDreamsvilleEstates.

I hoped Mama wasn’tlistening in on my thoughts.She never had approved ofcussin’ in any way, shape, orform.ButallIcouldthinkofwas,Thatodious,reprehensible,sonofalobsterboat.

FifteenThe challenge at the pressconferencewould be keepingJackie from speaking hermind. Judd and I made herpromise six ways to Sundaythatshewouldn’tsayasingle

word,whatwithhertalentformakingbadthingsworse.

“Jackie, tonight we aregoingtobefliesonthewall,”Ikeptadmonishingheraswewalked downtown from mycottage.

“Yes,allwe’regoingtodois collect intelligence,” Juddadded.

“Judd Hart, you’ve beenwatching too much of that

spystuffontelevision,”Jackiescolded.

“Mom,what I’m saying isthat we should lay low andobserve what happens. Thenwe can reconvene and planournextmove.”

Jackie sighed and ruffledJudd’shair.“Doyouthinkthegirlswillshowup?”sheasked,referring to her twindaughters—Judd’s oldersisters.

“Notachance,”Juddsaid.“Well, that’sgoodbecause

I wouldn’t want to embarrassthem,” Jackie said. “TheythinkI’membarrassingenoughalready.”

“They’re girls, Mom,”Juddsaidsoothingly.“They’reweird.”

Jackie looked at Judd as ifshe were going to saysomething more but didn’t.

Instead, she ruffled his hairagain.

“You’re not going toembarrass anyone,” I saidfirmly, trying to get back tothe point. “You will bedignified, like ElizabethTaylorinCleopatra.”

Jackie had insisted we goearly and stand directly infront of the stage set up bythe Chamber of Commerceon the grass next to City

Hall.Iwouldratherwestoodin back but I soon realizedwhat she hoped toaccomplish. She wantedeveryonetoseeher.Shestoodwithherarmscrossed,staringtragically into the distance.Judd put one hand on hershoulder protectively. IcopiedJackie’sstanceexceptIplanned to look eyeball-to-eyeball with Darryl once hestartedspeaking.

Just as I began to thinkeveryone was staying home,folks starting showing up inlittlegroupsoftwoandthree.By the time the pressconference started, fiveminuteslate,therewerecloseto twohundredpeople there,all itching to hear whatDarrylhadtosay.Ofcourse,this being a small Southerntown, we had to be patient.First,themayorledusinthe

PledgeofAllegiancefollowedby the Sons of theConfederate Veteransperformanceof“Dixie.”Afterthat, Little Miss SwampBuggy 1964 sang “CollierCounty, I LoveThee” and arousing rendition of “Yay!Rah!forNaples.”

Yay!Rah!forNaples,Yay!Rah!forNaples,

Someone in the crowd’ssinging,

“Yay!Rah!forNaples.”One,two,three,four,Naples,that’sus!Rah,rah,

rah...

Andthencameastringofannouncements: TheGardenClub needed volunteers towater the flower boxes nearthetrainstation(eventhoughmostpeoplearrivedbycaror

bus and hardly any trainscamethroughanymore).Andsomeone from the NaplesPlayers announced that thenew season would start thefollowing week with Stop theWorld—I Want to Get Off,starring Bucky Holmes fromtheEssostation.

By the time Darryl wasabout to speak, I had theembarrassingimageofmyselfcrumpling to the ground and

being placed on a cot andresuscitatedby theeagerBoyScouts who were manningthe first-aid squad. Juddlooked flushed and Jackie, abit glassy-eyed, was havingtroublemaintainingherpose.

The mayor spoke briefly.“I’m surewe all knowDarrylNorwood,whogrewuprighthereinCollierCounty,andismakingithispersonalgoaltobringusintoanewera.”Iwas

relieved to hear grumbles inthe crowd, and there was noapplause when Darryl tookthemicrophone.

“I know why you all arehere, andI’mgrateful for it,”he began. “I’m glad for theopportunity to straighten outany misunderstandings. It’svery important that you allunderstand that DreamsvilleEstateswillbe thebest thingthateverhappenedtoCollier

County.AndIwanttoassureall of you that all of thisneedless fear about SeminoleJoe is not helpful. Frankly,I’msurprised that in thisdayand age, y’all would getyourselves worked up into alather over the idea that wecould be disturbing a haint.”He paused, and laugheddismissively. “There is nosuch thing as Seminole Joe.Thereneverwas.”

I had to hide a grin thatwas creeping up the cornersof my mouth. Darryl washandling this all wrong. Iknewitbeforehedid;Icouldfeelitinthecrowd.

An old-timer with skinlikecowhideelbowedhiswaytothe frontandstruggledupto the platform. “Don’t yougo talking down to us,” heshoutedintothemicrophone.“We gonna believe what we

wanttobelieve.You’readog-gone fool. You’re playinggameswith the devil andwearen’tgoingtoallowit!”

The crowd cheered liketheir team had just scored atouchdown against PuntaGorda High. Clearly, Darrylwas losing. If everyonecontinued on this path, thepeopleofNapleswereturningtheir anger from Jackie and

the newspaper to Darryl,whereitbelonged.

I peeked at Jackie andcould see she was biting herlower lip. Poor gal, it waskillin’hernot toget into thefray.

Just when it seemed thesheriff might need to telleveryone to settle down, themayorstoodupandprevaileduponus to behave in amoreChristian manner. “We are

civilized people,” he scolded,holding the microphone soclose that it screeched andhurt our ears. “Sorry aboutthat,” he said. Then, “Wemust remain calm and listentoourspeaker.Theseare theleaders of our community,andweshouldberespectful.”

“Darryl Norwood ain’t aleader!” a youthful voicecalled from deep within the

crowd. “We never electedhimtonothin’!”

The Reverend WesleyWhitmorefromSweetSaviorBaptist Church took themicrophone from themayor,who didn’t look at all sorryand retreated quickly to theback of the stage. “I havesomething I would like tosay,” the reverend said in avoice deep as a bullfrog’s inmating season. “Talking

about haints and conjuringandblackmagicandwhatnotis not worthy of thiscommunity.” He received apolite round of applausemostly, I noticed, from hisparishioners.

Darryl tried to takeadvantage of the preacher’scomments. “Thank you,” hesaid, leaning into themicrophone, still in theclutches of the preacher.

“Y’all should listen toReverendWhitmorehere.”

But the good reverendsnapped back. “Now just amoment,” he said to Darryl,“don’t presume to pretendthat I’m endorsing yourproject. I’m just saying thatfolks should stop thisnonsense about . . . well,about an Indian spirit. Andanother thing,” he added, “Idon’t think it’s nice that

you’re planning to call theplace Dreamsville Estateswhen Mrs. Jackie Hartdoesn’t approve. She’s ourMiss Dreamsville, and it’sdisrespectful to use a lady’snameagainstherwishes,andtoprofitfromit.”

This was a surprise. Ofcourse, Reverend Whitmorewas new here. He’d neverheard Jackie’s at-times risqué

radio show and had missedtheuproarshehadcaused.

Defending a lady’s goodname was a surefire way tostir up a crowd anywheresouth of the Mason-Dixonline, and it most definitelyhad that effect in good oldNaples.Thecrowdapplaudedwarmly. Jackie, seizing themoment, waved andmouthed,“Thankyou.”

Then another preacherstood up and the ReverendWhitmore handed over themicrophone. “My name isReverend John McDaniel,”he saidpolitely, “andI’m thenewinterimpastoratAirportRoad Methodist. I am fromNorth Florida and I waseducatedinChicago.IaminfullagreementwithReverendWhitmore here, but I’d liketo add something else, if I

may. Last month, as Itraveled nearly the length ofourgreatstatewithmyfamilyto arrive here at my newappointment, I was alarmedatthepaceofdevelopmentinsomanyplaces.Whyisthis?Iaskedmyself.Is itprogress,assome would say, or is itworship of that false God,money? And, what are theconsequences? Theseundeveloped areas are a gift

from God, my friends.Remember your scripture—we are stewards of God’searth.”

The mayor jumped upfromhisseatandgrabbedthemicrophone a little roughlyfrom Reverend McDaniel.“Now let’s get back on trackhere,”hesaid.“Thisprojectisa mighty good thing forNaples. Dreamsville Estateswill attract people from all

over the United States. TheChamber of Commerce hasalready agreed to sponsorWelcome to Dreamsvillesigns at every entrance toNaples. Our airport needswork, and we are fortunatethatoneofourmosteminentcitizens, Mr. Toomb, hasagreed to oversee someimprovements there.Neapolitans, we must thinkofthebigpicture!Wealready

have two major assets—thefishing pier and the swampbuggy races. Three of theworld’s great religions—Baptists, Methodists, andPresbyterians—arerepresented right here in ourlittle town. We are awelcoming place and it’sabout timewemove forwardintothenineteenthcentury.”

“What? Don’t you meantwentieth century?” someone

holleredfromthebackofthecrowd, which exploded intolaughter, the kind with amean edge to it.Emboldened, the heckleradded, “Justwhat century doyou think we be livin’ in,Mayor? I thought this was1964. Are you saying this is1864?”

The mayor looked upsetand ruffled like a hen that’sbeing bothered by a rooster.

“Aw,heck, you knowwhat Imean!” he said. Now thateven themayor had been setback on his heels, it was fairto say that Jackie, theNaplesStar, and Seminole Joe hadwontheday,withDarryltheloser.Sofar,sogood.

•••

JUDDTOOKOFFFORCIVILAir Patrol, and Jackie and I,feeling a little triumphant,

went to Mrs. Bailey White’shouse. Our good moodsoured immediately, though,because, of all things, Mrs.BaileyWhitewaspeevedthatJackie had mentioned her inthenewspapercolumn.Jackieadmitted that the line aboutthe “model citizen who haslivedinCollierCountyforallof her eighty years” andwhofearedthereturnofSeminoleJoewas indeedareference to

Mrs. Bailey White. What Ididn’t get—and I could seethatJackiewaspuzzled,too—was thatMrs.BaileyWhite’sname had not even beenmentioned.

“I do not like the wholeworld thinking of me aseighty years old,” she said,brushing a piece of lint offherskirt.

“Butnoonewillknowit’syou,” Jackie said, trying to

soundreassuring.“Well,Iknowit’sme,and

that’s enough,” Mrs. BaileyWhite sulked. “A womanshould never reveal her trueage.Doyouknowwhat theysay about a womanwhowillreveal her age? That she’llreveal everything else, too!AndIwasn’traisedlikethat.”

Plain Jane, who had beenreading the final pages ofTothe Lighthouse, set down her

book.“Mrs. Bailey White, Idon’tseewhy—”

“And I’ll tell yousomething else,” Mrs. BaileyWhite interrupted. “Awomanshouldonlybeinthepaper two times inher life—when she gets married andwhenshedies.”

“ButMrs.BaileyWhite,”Istarted but stopped short.What I wanted to say was,But youmust have been in the

newspapers plenty of timeswhen you were arrested, tried,and convicted for shooting yourhusbandbackintheday.

“Please believe me, Mrs.BaileyWhite,Iamvery,verysorry,”Jackiesaid,asIprayedsilently for an end to thisuncomfortable conversation.“Itwasstupidofme.Ishouldhave thought of it. And itwon’thappenagain.”

“Well,”Mrs.BaileyWhitesaidslowly,“Iguessmaybeitdoesn’t matter. Maybe I’mbeing too thin-skinned. Allthis talk about Seminole Joeis getting on my last goodnerve. And, yes, I know it’smy fault because I’m theonewhobroughthimup—”

“Oh, no,” Jackie saidquickly.“Thisismyfault.”

“No, it’s not,” I said,wondering why women were

always quick to blameourselves. “It’s that no-good,good-for-nothin’ formerhusband of mine. That’swhose fault it is. He startedallthismessandeveryone’sinan uproar because of it.Andyouknowwhat?The louse isgettingmarriedagain.”

There were sighs andgroans enough to fill agraveyard on Halloween.“Oh, Dora,” Plain Jane said,

speaking for the rest. “That’stoobad.Or,atleastIthinkitmustbe...Ohdear,howdoyoufeelaboutit?”

“Not great, especiallybecauseshe’saNortherngal,”Isaidmiserably.

“Whydoes thatmake youfeelworse?”Jackieasked.

“Oh,Idon’tknow.Maybebecause I just assume shemust be smarter and prettierthanme,”Isaid.

“She’s probably meanerthan awet hen,”Mrs.BaileyWhite said. “Where’s shefrom?”

“SometowninNewJerseycalled Basking Ridge. That’swhatDarrylsaid.”

“Oh!” Jackie said. Welooked at her in alarm.“Basking Ridge—that’s theplacewhereDarryl’sinvestorslive!That’swhatTedsaid.”

Wewerepuzzlingthroughthe implications of this untilPlain Jane finally put it intowords. “So maybe Darryl ismarrying into the family thatis paying for his real estatedevelopment?”shesaidaloud.

That was a disgustingthought. The possibility ofDarryl marrying for moneycouldmeanhewasevenmoreof a low-level creep than Ithought.

I hadn’t even thought ofbringing up the topic ofDarrylandhisremarriagebutIwasgladthatIhad.Sharingmy distress about Darryl’sremarriage remindedme thatI loved my friends. I neededmy friends. And, despite thedepressing reason for myreturn, at thismoment Iwasthrilledtobeback.Iwasstilla member of the CollierCounty Women’s Literary

Society, and it felt awfullygood.

SixteenTheairlinebusinesswasfarmorecomplexthanTedHarthad anticipated. First of all,there were the unions, themost obstinate being thepilots’ organization whichmade it difficult for Ted to

create schedules that madeany kind of sense from afinancialpointof view.Thenthere was the government(pronounced guv-mint up inTallahassee,Ted’snewhomeaway from home). The statedidn’t have many regulationswhen it came to commercialairlines but at the federallevel, administrators keptclosetabs.

To Ted it seemed likeinterference until one of thepilots, who had flown somanymissionsduringthewarthat it was a miracle hesurvived,gavehimawake-upcall on the tarmac inOrlando. “All you talk aboutisprofitmargin!Whatdoyouwant us to do, kill thepassengers?” the pilot yelled.And for a moment, Tedthought he was about to get

shoved straight into apropeller of a DC-3.Afterward, he realized thepilot had been right. He—TedHart,ablue-collarsonofFall River, Massachusetts—had put money ahead ofpeople. It was one of theworstmomentsofhislife.

Hewalked away from therunway and lit his new pipe,which he’d purchased afterbreaking the old one. He

hadn’t been able to give upsmokingbutatleasthequitacigarette habit. If only Jackiewould do the same. Thewoman smoked like achimney. The kidscomplained about it all thetime. The SurgeonGeneral’sannouncement earlier thatyear about a strong linkbetweencigarettesandcancerhad an impact on him, butnotJackie.

Maybe, Ted thought, heshouldthrowinthetowel.Allhe really wanted was to gohome, not that Naples was“home,” exactly, but that’swhere Jackie and the kidswere living and waiting forhim. Waiting, waiting,waiting. He’d done so muchof that in the Army. He’dthought that once the warended he would no longerhave the feeling that the

present was to be endured.The future was when lifewould really start. But itdidn’tfeelthatwayforaNewEnglandboy livingmostly ina hotel in Tallahassee,Florida.

Things were not goingwellforJackie.Shewasupset,andhedidn’tblameher.

Darn that guy DarrylNorwood. Ted was furious,not so much about the

possible destruction of theriver but the fact that somelowliferedneckwasexploitinghis wife by calling the newdevelopment DreamsvilleEstates.Thatwasnerve,evenby Yankee standards. Somuch for Southern honor!Ted had a strong desire tosettle the dispute the way itwas done in the Army—bypresenting Darryl Norwood

withaknucklesandwichrighttothejawbone.

On Jackie’s behalf, Tedhad swallowed his pride andtalked to his boss Mr.Toomb. Unfortunately, butnot surprisingly, the oldgeezer refused to interferewith Darryl Norwood,shrewdly pointing out that ifDarryl’s development wassuccessful, the airline wouldbe,too.

Mr. Toomb, however,agreedthatTedcouldusehisconnections and time on thejob to try to find out moreabout Darryl’s backers. SoTed figured that on hismonthly trip up north, hewould make the short drivefromNewYork to thisplacecalled Basking Ridge, NewJersey,andseeifhecouldgetsome background and,ideally,maybe evenmeet the

investors—information thatJackiewantedaswell.

Tedwonderedwhatitwasabout Jackie that made herget in over her head. Hewanted to help her, and hewantedtobeonherteam,buthe’dcometorealizethatpartof being married to her wascoping with her impulsiveside.HadshebeenlikethisinBoston? He couldn’t evenrememberanymore.Thepast

two years in Collier Countyovershadowed all the yearsthatcamebefore.

Meanwhile, the kids weregetting older. His daughterswere in a perpetual state ofwarfare with Jackie, andalthough this was worrisomeJackie assured him it wasnormalforteenagegirls.Juddspent much of his timesteering clear of his sistersandJackiewhenhecould,but

the result was that the boywas basically raising himself.He’d joinedCivilAirPatrol,and he’d been looking afterDora Witherspoon’s turtles,so he was busy. But heneededafather’sguidance.Afatherwhowashome.

Tedhad hoped his familywould adjust, and until thisnew problem with DarrylNorwood there’d been someprogress. When they arrived

inthesummerof ’62,heandJackie had the worst fightthey’d ever had. If only shehadn’t encountered thatpalmetto bug sitting on thetoilet seat on the very firstnight in their new home.After the screamingwasovershe’d said, “Ted, we need totalk about this palace you’vebrought us to here in thisculturalmecca.”

Judd had settled in fairlyquickly.ButforJackieandhisdaughters, it was a struggle.At least, Ted reasoned, thegirlshadeachother.Afterall,they were twins. But theywerenothappy;anyonecouldsee that. As for Jackie, she’dhad some spectacularly badmoments but at least she’dmade some friends with thatbook club. And ever sinceshe’dputNapleson themap

with her Miss Dreamsvilleradio show—which, thankGod she wasn’t doinganymore—the local peopleseemed more tolerant. For awhile, she’d even beensomethingofahero.

Thefact thatTedwasoldMr.Toomb’sright-handmanhad given the family a littleextraleeway.Nooneintownwanted to provoke Mr.Toomb, one of the richest

andmostpowerfulmensouthof the Mason-Dixon line,with money invested incotton, orange groves,tobacco,sugarcane,and—thatold Southern favorite—land.Mr.ToombwouldstrayfromTed’s carefully constructedbusinessplanandbuyapieceof land, and Ted would askwhy. There was never areason beyond, “Well, it wasfor sale.” The last time it

happened, though, Mr.Toomb put Ted in his placebysaying,“Ihiredyoutogiveme the know-how into theway business works in theNorth,nottotellmewhattodo.”

So Ted had learned towalk a thin line.Hewas stilltrying to figure out whatworked and what didn’t. Upnorth, the best way to staygainfully employed was to

play the game. Generallyspeaking, this meant givingyour boss all the creditpublicly and then you’d berewardedlater.TedhadtriedthatwithMr.Toomb,and ithadn’t worked. He wasbaffled until he began tonotice that in the South anemployee seemed to fall intoone of two categories: Youwereeitheraservantwithnorights or say whatsoever or

youwere“family.”Youdidn’thave to be related. In fact,youcouldbeanycoloroftherainbow and possibly bereferred to as “family” by awhiteperson(althoughnever,Ted observed, the other wayaround). To Ted’s Northernears, there was somethingpatronizing about a whiteperson referring to a blackperson (usually a longtime

servant) as “part of thefamily.”

Then the day came whenMr. Toomb said to him,“Ted,you’relikeasontome.You’re a part of the family.”AndTedfeltveryspecialandvery honored, until herememberedthatMr.Toombsaid the same thing to hislongtime, long-sufferingchauffeur,whowasblack.

He had discussed it thatnight with Jackie, who wasjustasconfusedanddisturbedas he was. She relayed aconversation she’d overheardtwo women having at theBook Nook. In loud voicesthey’d said, “You know,Yankees have their raceproblem, too.They shouldn’tbecomingdownsouthtellingus what to do about ourNegroes.” Jackie was pretty

sure she was meant tooverhearthisremark,andwasabouttosaysomethingwhenJudd and the twins enteredthestore.Shehadplannedtomeet them there and buyeach one a book of theirchoosing.

“So you didn’t sayanything?”Tedwassurprised.

Jackie had sighed. “I’mlearning to choose mybattles,” she’d said, “and I

didn’t want to embarrass thetwins.ButItalkedtoallthreekidsabout it laterathome. Iasked them to think about itand I’mproud to say that allthree of them had the samereaction. The phrase ‘ourNegroes’madethemnuts.”

OurNegroes.Yes,Tedhadheard it many times, too.Another common sayingwhich jarred his Yankeesensibility was “Here in the

South, Negroes know theirplace.”Andthepeoplesayingit didn’t seem to realize howthey sounded. What wasbrazen and insulting to hisears was normal chitchat tothem.

Itwasahugerelieftohimthat Jackie was being morecareful about what she saidand did. Three civil rightsworkers—two of them white—had been murdered three

months ago in Mississippi.Evenwith Jackie beingmoreprudent,hewishedhewasathomemore,notthathecouldcontrol Jackie but at least tokeepacloseeyeonher.

Jackie complained oftenthat she hated howmuch hewasontheroad.Ifshewasina particularly bad mood, hewould get the “it’s not easybeingawoman”rant.Clearly,she was restless being a

housewife andmother.Well,it wasn’t so great being aman, either. That’s what hewanted to say but didn’tbecausestartingathirdworldwarwas not in anyone’s bestinterests.Butwas it really sobad for women? It was menwho were sent off to war. Itwasmenwhodiedinbattleorcame home and had to livewith what they’d seen ordone.Andthenwhat?Aman

had to get training or aneducation, find a job, earnmoney to support a family.SometimesheactuallyenviedJackie.Whenthekidswereatschool she had time on herhands. When was the lasttimehehad that luxury?Sheloved that book, TheFeminine Mystique, but heblamed it for leading to herbreakdown in early ’63. Hewould never forget how she

tookoff in the family stationwagon only to return hourslater in that 1960 BuickLeSabre convertible. Heunderstood that it was herpersonal declaration ofindependence, a way ofdefying the “drudgery” (herword) of her boring life as awifeandmother.Whatabouthim?Whatifhetradedinhisdull sedan for a sports car?That would be the day!

Frankly he didn’t feel sofulfilled, either. She wasn’ttheonewhohad toputonasuiteverydayanddukeitoutinthewhite-collartrenches.

Tedwassurprisedthattheworld of business felt sosimilar to the Army. Mr.Toomb could be asinsufferable as any general,and Ted was a lowly footsoldier being sent to do thehard part, or so it seemed.

And who knew the airlineindustry would be so awful?People thought it wasglamorous, but it was likerunning a bus company,except thesebuseshadwingsand flew in the sky and,therefore, presented a lotmore risk. The pilots wereproud and stubborn, andcompletely unwilling to havetheir authority challenged.They had survived the war.

Surely they didn’t need“babysitting,”astheycalledit.

Butthepilotsprovedtobea little too casual for Ted’s(and the guv-mint’s) taste.They didn’t worry aboutrunning low on fuel. Crash-landing? Oh, not to worry.Did that all the time duringthewar.

Worstofallwastheshell-shocked former bomber pilotwho forgot to put down the

landinggearandslidtoastop—with a plane full ofpassengers—near the airportterminal (as these buildingswere unfortunately called, inTed’sopinion)atJacksonville.The pilot’s only commentwas,“Oops.Crappylanding.”

Ted was beginning tothink the airline wouldn’tmakeittotheendoftheyear.It was now early September1964. The incorporation

papers hadn’t even beensigned—a “detail” (Mr.Toomb’s word) that madeTed sick with anxiety. Theyshouldn’t even have beenflying. And yet Mr. Toombwas concocting ridiculousplans for expansion. Tohimself, Ted wondered if itwas time to get his résuméready,justincase.

SeventeenI didn’t have my phoneturnedbackoninmycottagebecause I thought I’d beturning right around andheading back to Mississippi.At least, that’s what I toldJackie and the rest, but the

truth was a little morecomplicated. First, I couldn’treally afford it. Second, Ididn’t necessarily want to bereached.Itseemedtomethatifpeople reallywanted to seeme, theywould comeand siton my porch. People whocalled generally justcomplicated my life. Theywantedsomething.AsMamaused to say, “Sometimes a

phone is more trouble thanit’sworth.”

Still,I’dencounterfolksatthe Winn-Dixie. My oldSunday School teacher,Mrs.Stanley, always seemed to bein the baking aisle when Imade my erratic excursionsfor the few necessities Ineeded. Maybe she justcamped out there, every dayforhours,soshecouldstartaconversation with someone.

Of course, being a dutifulmember of Olde CypressMethodist Church, Mrs.Stanley was a prolific baker.AllMethodists love to bake.Mama used to say therewasn’t aMethodist alive thatdidn’t have a big ol’ sweettooth. At Olde Cypress, itwas said there was never ameeting—and they lovedmeetings—without somehomemade goody and a pot

ofcoffee.MaybeMrs.Stanleytruly did need to be there inthebakingaisleeleventimesaweek, responding to anemergency request from thepreacher’s wife for apineapple upside-down cakeor some Collier Countycheese grits. And she wouldhave done it, too, becauseMrs.Stanleywasoneofthosechurch ladies who respondswhendutycalls.

So there she was,moseying around the flourand sugar aisle. I made aquickdashbehindadisplayofcannedgreenbeansbut, alas,Mrs.StanleywasfasterthanaChihuahua that smells achicken bone. Mama wouldhavebeenashamedofmefortrying to duck from Mrs.Stanley, but my life wasmessyand small talkwasnotmyforte.

“Oh, Miss Dora!” sheshrieked.“Iputanoteinyourmailbox not more than anhour ago.We just got anewshipmentofAdventcalendarsfor the children and I needsomeone to open the boxesand get them ready.And it’stime to plan Christmasdinnerfortheneedy.”

Advent calendars?Christmas dinner? It wasmid-September. I’d been

homeforthreeweeks.Tome,Christmas was far off in thedistance, somewhere on thehorizon.Ididn’tevenwanttothink about Christmas. Butto Mrs. Stanley, bless herheart, this meant she wasrunning far behind. She wasthe type who started gettingEasterlinensoutofmothballsbefore some folks had eventaken down their Christmaslights. I spluttered, trying to

buy time, but failed to comeup with an excuse. I hadhelped her with many littletasks over the years and itseemed that in Naples, ifyou’d ever agreed to dosomething charitable, it waspretty much guaranteed thatyou’dbedoing it for the restof your life. You’d be in theboneyard before they let youoffthehook.

These thoughts were sounkind that I felt instantremorse. I hopedMamawasbusydoing something else inheaven—maybe having teawith our former neighbor,Miss Pettigrew—and notlistening in on my thoughtsand deeds or, sure enough,wouldn’t she be ashamed ofme? That was the problemwithhaving a guardian angelsittingonyourshoulder.Yes,

you were protected much ofthe time. But it did put acertain kind of pressure onthe way you behaved. Tomake amends to the SpiritWorld, I smiled at Mrs.Stanley and asked her whattimeIshouldshowup.

And that is why I endedup the next day at my oldSunday School classroom,perched, with my kneeshalfway up tomy chin, on a

chair meant for a five-year-old, making lists andcalculating the amount offood the church would needfor Christmas donations.WhenIwasdonewiththat,Iopened boxes filled withAdvent calendars, removingthem one by one from theelaborate wrapping andorganizing them—as Mrs.Stanley liked—in batches offive. Mindless, yes, and yet

freeing. Focusing on thesimple tasks at hand, I wasable to take a break fromthinking about Darryl, thepossibility of DreamsvilleEstates, the money I wouldowe my landlady inMississippi, and theimportant news I haddiscovered while I was inJackson. News that I hadn’tcompletelydigestedyet.

Going to Mississippi, allby my lonesome, had givenme a new way of looking atNaples and all the folks I’dspent my life around. Sure,I’d lived in St. PetersburgwhenIwenttojuniorcollege,and when I married Darrylwe lived in Ocala. But thatwas all Florida. There wassomethingaboutcrossingthestate line for the first timethatmademe feel like Iwas

trulyinchargeofmyownlife.IcouldnowsaythatI’dbeenin three states—Florida,Alabama,andMississippi.

NowthatIwashomeforaspell I realized that it’s onething to be stuck in yourhometown and quite anotherto come back for a visit. Itdoesn’tseemhalfasbadonceyou’vebeenaway.Infact,thefamiliarity of it—which hadbeen suffocating—was now

kindofpleasant.Imentionedthis to Mrs. Stanley as weworked,sidebyside.Shehadsmiled gently and said,“Sometimes you have to goaway to understand theimportance of what you’veleftbehind.”

After finishing my workforMrs. Stanley, I started tohead home but decided towait an hour to hear a talkhostedbyaformidablegroup

calling itself MethodistLadies in Action. The titlewas “Change Is Coming toNaples, Too!” There it was,onthebulletinboard,ingreatbigblockletters.

Well, thiswas interesting.LivinginJacksonforthepastyear,Iwasnearthefrontlinesof the civil rights movementbut I’d had the feeling sincecoming home that time wasstill passing by Naples. If

there’d been protests here,they’d been small ones. Thedrugstore counter was still“whites only” and schoolsweresegregatedbyrace.

I didn’t have any plans.Jackie was doing somethingwith her kids. I had no easyway to go to Mrs. BaileyWhite’s house and spendtime with her or Plain Janeand the baby. I figured,whynot?

The speaker was a petitelady wearing a gray suit andsensible shoes. Her hair wascropped short. No prettybouffantandnomakeup,anda smile that showed perfectteeth, a rarity in CollierCounty. She was introducedasamemberofachurchinasuburb of Cleveland with aquaintname,ShakerHeights.

She didn’t waste any timegettingto thepoint. “Letme

be blunt,” she said. “Yourblackpopulation isnotmuchbetter off than they wereduring the days of slaverymore than a hundred yearsago, and there’s not muchmomentum here. When itcomestoracerelations,you’reat least ten years behindMississippi, Alabama, andGeorgia.”

I glanced around theroom, expecting an exodus,

buttherewasnone.“Youalsohave a migrant-workerproblem inland inImmokalee,” our speakeradded. “Some of yourseasonal farm workers arewhite, but many are black.Andthelifetheyareliving—that includes children—isworse than anyone shouldbelivinginthiscountry.”

This was not news,especially since “Harvest of

Shame,” the Edwin R.Murrow special report, wasbroadcast by CBS the dayafter Thanksgiving 1960.That was nearly four yearsago, and fromwhat I’d read,the broadcast had a bigimpact nationally. It was awake-up call to manyAmericans. Unfortunately, itwas dismissed in CollierCounty as Northern liberalpropaganda.Infact,I’dnever

heard anyone say anythingpositive about the broadcasthere. What had changed inthe past year was thatinequality was no longer ataboo subject—at least insomecircles.

The women in theaudience were noddingthoughtfully. Something washappening here. I could feelit, sitting right there in thefellowshiphallofthechurchI

attendedwhilegrowingup. Iknew several of the women.One had been on acommittee with Mama thatcollected funds for back-to-school clothing for poorchildren.Withtherest,Ihadwhat was called a “nodding”acquaintance.

Itwashardtoknowwhicheventhadbroken the camel’sback and galvanized thesewomentobecomesomething

morethanspectators,but ifIhadtoguess,I’dsayitwasthechurchbombing thepreviousyear in Birmingham,Alabama, inwhich four littleblack girls were killed. Theidea that a bunch of grownmen would murder childreninside a church building on aSunday morning would beintolerable to these women,nodoubtaboutit.

Naples still had plenty ofmean folks, including anactive Klan. They were stilllurking, much like SeminoleJoe. The Klansmen were outthere in the swamps, fields,and tidal rivers. Mama hadno patience whatsoever forthe Klan. As a nurse, shebelieved all people were thesameandshouldbetreatedassuch. When I was in highschool, I had a long

conversation with Mamaabout the way the worldworked. “The Klanmembersthink they’re settling somekindofscorefromlongago,”she had said. “That’s justmalarkey. They’re just abunch of bullies picking oncolored folks for one reason:They can! They can murdercolored folks, burn theirchurches,dowhattheypleaseandnoonehasstoppedthem.

That’s just wrong,” she said.“You remember that, Dora.It’s just plain wrong. Ifanything, thoseother folks—thecoloredsandtheInjuns—they’retheoneswhooughttobe settling scores, ’cause somuchbeendonetothemoverthe years. The Klan—theygotitallbackward.”

Myeyesstartedtotearup,as always happened when Ithought about Mama. She

wassowise,andImissedhersomuch.

“CollierCountyisrightinthe crosshairs of someof thegreatest stressors in ourcountry,” the lady fromOhiowassaying.Thatjerkedmetoattention. “Besides the racialproblem, and the farm-worker issue, youhaveanewgroup of immigrants, theCubans.Youdon’thavea lotof them, mostly spillover

fromMiami,buttheytendtofind the transition toAmerican life very difficult,especially those who werewell-off in their homecountry andareovereducatedfor the jobs they can gethere.”

Cubans? I hadn’t beenaware. No one I knew hadmentionedit.

“You are also perfectlypositioned for explosive

growth,”thespeakerwenton.“With the growingavailability of air-conditioning, you will see alarge influx of people fromtheNorth.”

GoodLord,Ithought.NowI’mreallyawake.

“You have beautifulbeaches, great fishing,” shecontinued. “Your challengewillbemanagingyourgrowthin a way that doesn’t ruin

what you have. And doesn’tleaveanyonebehind.”

Ha! I thought. Ain’t thatthetruth.

I looked around the roomagain.Wouldn’t it havebeengreat if the mayor had beenhere? Or someone from thenewspaper? I wish I’dthoughttocallJackie.

“I’dliketofinishbysayingthat I wish it weren’t justwomen in this room,” our

speakersaid,asifreadingmymind.“Forsomereason,menwon’tcometohearawomangivingatalk,”sheaddedwithaslightsmile.

“Well, they don’t come tonothin’ that’s been organizedbyMethodistwomen,”oneofthe organizers said, trying tosound playful. I recognizedher as thewife of one of thedeputy sheriffs. “I wish theywould, ’causewetalkabouta

lot of important topics here.When we have a specialguest, we always let themknowtheyarewelcome!”

I thought to myself,Thatwill be the day. This led toanotherthought.Andwemayfix all the other problemsmentioned here tonight beforeanyone faces the fact thatwomenaren’ttakenseriously.

“Well,wecanallgohomeand tell our men what we

learned tonight,” ourorganizer added. “If theywon’t come, we can alwaysbringittothem.”

What if you don’t have aman? I thought. I raised myhand. The speaker nodded,and I asked my question.“Hello,” I heard myselfsaying. “I am divorced. Ifyou’re saying we need to gohome and serve our mansome newfangled ideas with

his breakfast grits and eggs,howdoIfitin?Imean,Iamjust wondering. What elsecanwomendo?”

Idon’tknowwhatgotintome.I’dnevercalledattentiontothefactIwasdivorced,andnowIwaspointingitoutinavery public way. In a roomfull ofMethodistwomen,noless. I was horrified. Did Isound bitter? Sassy? Maybe

even sarcastic? What washappeningtome?

Lawdhavemercy,Imighthave learned it from Jackie!Wasn’tthisaYankeething—not to speak up, necessarily,buttospeakupinaway thatmade others uncomfortable? Isurely hadn’t learned this inMississippi.

Irealizedallofthewomenin the room were staring at

me.“I’msorry,”Isaid.“Iwastryingtobefunny,Iguess.”

“Well, actually you raise avalid point,” the speaker saidsoothingly. I was so gratefulthatshecametomyaidthatInearly cried. “What womencan do—married or not—isto speak up. Speak up athome,inchurch,inyourcivicgroups, anywhere you have achance. We are morepowerful than we know, if

only we make our feelingsandwishesknown.”

Later, having retreated tomyhomeandmy turtles andtheir blessed unconditionallove, I realized that Iwas, infact, following the speaker’sadvice already. Theunvarnished truth was thatlittle Dora Witherspoon hadchanged. I was less worriedaboutwhatothersthoughtofmeandmorewillingtospeak

my mind. Jackie may havehad some influence, but sohadtheothermembersofthebook club. Mama’s death—and, no doubt,my divorce—played a role, too. I was notthe same person I had been.Plus, having gone toMississippi on my own, andhaving faced some truthsthere, gave me a certaincockiness. Heck, I was bornin a small town, and I loved

it, but it didn’t define me.Notentirely.Notanymore.

•••

JACKIEKEPTWRITINGHERCOLUMN, and everyone intown kept reading it.“Chatter Box” was supposedto run twice a week butJackie, true to her nature,found it hard to be sopredictable. And she didn’twant to write only about

Darryl. “I don’t want it toseem like a vendetta,” shesaid, so her second columnwas called “MourningPresidentKennedy.”Thiswasa tearjerker; even those whodisliked Kennedy—and thereweremanyinNaples—hadtoagree that she’d reallycaptured our nation’slingering sadness. Then shewrote one called “WhyAmerican Schoolchildren

Should Learn ForeignLanguages,” which got noreaction whatsoever. Afterthat, she wrote about herbelovedBuickconvertibleandwhat it meant to her, whichreestablishedherasabitofaloony. (Men could waxeloquent about a cherishedautomobile, but it was weirdfor a woman to do so. Thefact that it was a Buick andnotaFordorChevymade it

evenmorepeculiar.)Shetoldus that she wanted to writeabout racial hatred in theSouth but that her editorshad asked her to wait untilshe was “a more seasonedcolumnist,” which, in myestimation, was their way ofsaying “When hell freezesover.”Finally,shegotbacktoDarryl Norwood andSeminole Joe with a column

she called “Is Dreamsville aNightmare?”

I’d been home for almostsix weeks, and while Jackiewas doing some damage toDarryl, and maybe slowinghimdown, the sad truthwasthat she hadn’t stopped him.Unless something totallyunexpected happened, I wasbeginning to think thatnothingcould.

EighteenJust when you think youhave enough grit in youroysters,thedevilhasawayofupping the ante, allowingthings to happen to distractor confound us mortals.Mama used to call these

incidents“diversionsmeanttoknock you off your path ofrighteousness.” Mama surelydid have a way with words,tending toward the Biblical,ofcourse.

First, there was a littleincidentinvolvingJuddHart.He’d been one of those kidswho was infatuated with theSpace Race and inspired bytheastronautswhowere,after

all, just across the state atCapeKennedy.

Jackie got an inkling thatsomethingwasamisscourtesyof the town librarian, amiddle-aged woman fromSarasota with a polishedappearance who had beenhired to replace MissLansbury, who had been sohelpful with Jackie’s bookclub. One day, the newlibrarian called Jackie out of

the blue. “I thought youshould know that your sonhas checked out a book onexplosives,” she said in acrisp, yet not accusing voice.Jackie, squelching an urge totell her that it was no one’sbusiness what anyonechecked out of a library,thanked her for theinformation. Jackie frettedand fumed, and when Juddwalked in a half hour later,

she met him at the doordemanding an explanation.Judd assuredher that hewasworking on a scienceexperiment for school andthathewastryingforanA.

Later, she said she shouldhave known better becauseJudd had said, “They’re justsmall rockets, not like theones on TV.” And then thetime-honoredredflag,“Don’tworry,Mom.”

Thefirstcallstothesheriffcame from Mr. Cuthbert“Birdie” Gertleson whothought Communists fromCuba were making a landassault on Collier County.Birdiewas—thank you, Jesus—unharmed but his franticphone call and the words“missile attack!” sent thepolice into combat mode.Within minutes every able-bodied man in Naples was

unlocking his gun cabinet,loading a shotgun, andheading for old Birdie’smodesthomestead.

Instead of Commies,however, all they found wasJuddHart lookingguiltyasaSunday School teachersipping moonshine. Twootherboyswerehightailingitintotheswamp.

Everything had goneperfectly, Judd explained,

untiltherockettippedoveratthe last second. Instead ofgoing up into the sky in ablaze of glory it racedhorizontally across a grassypiece of tidal marsh.Incredibly, itmanaged to hitthe only house within a halfmile in any direction, thesimple structure owned byBirdie Gertleson. Worse,whenithittheoutsidewall,itkept going. And going. Not

until after itwas all over didthe police learn that Judd’srocket,whichfeaturedasolidbrassnosecone,hadcareeredaround Birdie’s living room,rippingthenewspaperhewasreadingrightoutofhishandswhile he sat in his favoritechair, terrorizing his cat, andfinally bursting through theroof.

The fact that Old Birdiewasn’t dead surprised

everyone, himself especially.He was so glad he wasn’tdead, and that it wasn’tCommies that had beenattacking his humble abode,that he forgot to be angry.The cat, which is all thatBirdie cared about anyway,was retrieved from its hidingplace underneath Birdie’srusted 1929 Ford. Birdie’srelief did not appease thesheriff, however. Judd was

two inches away from beingarrested.

Ted Hart had beenenjoying a rare day workingclosetohomewhenaFloridaHighway Patrol officer,wearing the familiarConfederate pink uniform,marched intoCollierCountySavings & Loan where TedandhisbossMr.Toombweremeeting with the trustees.Without time even to call

Jackie, Ted was escorted to“the scene of the crime,” asthe officer called it, withoutelaboration other thansomehowitinvolvedJudd.

The sheriff was alreadythere.OnceTedrealizedthatno one, including Judd, hadbeeninjured,hefeltawaveofrelief he’d experienced onlyone other time in his life—when Japan surrendered andthewarwasfinallyover.He’d

gottendrunkwithhisfriendsand whooped and hollereduntil they all passed out,exhausted.

This time, however,although hewanted to shoutwith joy, he hid his truefeelings. He was scared ofwhat the law would do toJudd.

So Ted did what a fatherwas expected to do: Heturned and yelled at his son.

He made Judd apologize toBirdieandpromisehewouldpay for repairs. And then hethreatened to send Judd tomilitaryschool,aplacecalledAdmiral Farragut Academyin St. Petersburg, which waswidely believed by Judd andother boys his age to be areform school for kids fromfamilies with financialresources.

Satisfied that Judd hadbeen properly shamed, thetrooper and the sheriffdecidedtoletthematterrest.Justice would be served athomebytheboy’sfather.Thesheriffaskedthedispatchertosend Harry Donahue fromHarry’sHandymanServicetosecurethehouseandmakeanestimate for repairs for Ted;thenhe tookOldBirdie andhis cat to the Naples Beach

Club Hotel, where theywould stay, atTed’s expense,until the house was livableagain. Meanwhile, thetrooper agreed to drop TedandJuddoffathome.

“You are going to bemowing lawns for the restofyour life,” Ted told Judd onthe way home, “and everypennywillpaymebackforalltheseexpenses.”

“Do I reallyhave to go tomilitary school?” Judd asked,wide-eyed.

Aware that the trooperwas listening, Ted said yes.But he knew that Jackiewould never let that happen.Judd figured the same.Considering that he couldhavefoundhimselfinjuvenilejail, Judd was rather pleasedoverall with the outcome ofthe day’s events. Mowing

lawns would be no problem.In fact, he already had alawn-mowing service withmore than a dozen regularcustomers.Sowhat ifhewasessentially working for hisdad for awhile?He’d gottenoffeasy.

•••

THE SECOND UNNERVINGEVENTCAMEintheformofa letter hand-delivered to

Mrs. Bailey White’s. Jackiehad just finished telling usabout Judd’s “misadventure,”as she phrased it. She hadmissed all the excitementinvolving the rocket fiasco,having driven the twins tovoice lessons with a Mrs.Pendergast in Punta Gorda.“Here I was trying to be agoodmothertomygirls,andwhen we come home I findoutmysonhas turned intoa

mad scientist!” she groaned,blotting her eyes with atissue. “I had my childrenwhenIwastooyoung!Iamacomplete catastrophe as amother!”

“Oh, now, stop being aMiss Melodrama,” Mrs.Bailey White said. “Have aDrPepperandcalmdown.”

“Ugh,” Jackie said withdisgust. “I hate that DrPepper stuff. Do you have

any tonic water? Better yet,somegintogowithit?”

“Too early in the day,”PlainJanescolded.“Withthisheatyou’llendupwithahugeheadache.”

“TedwenttoNewOrleansand he said all the peoplethere drink even in the latemorning,” Jackie saiddefensively.

“Honeychild,thisain’tnoNew Orleans,” Mrs. Bailey

Whitesaid,shakingherhead.“That’supnorthcomparedtohere. We’re in the tropics.Besides, those folks arepartygoers. They got picklejuice in their veins. But theydon’tliveaslongaswedo.Bythe way, did you know theydon’tburytheirpeopleintheground?”

“Well, what do they dowiththem?”Jackieasked.

“They bury ’em aboveground. They call them‘mausoleums.’ ”

“Oh,yes,”Jackiesaid.“I’veseen photographs of that. Ithink it’s because the watertablethereissohigh.”

Aknockatthedoormadeus jump nearly out of ourskins.InawayIwasgratefulbecause the conversationwasgiving me the creepy-crawlies.

“I’ll get it,” I said, but bythetimeIreachedthedoorIwished I’d let someone elseanswer it. Through thescalloped lace curtain on thewindowpane beside the frontdoor, I could see a silhouetteofthedistinctivehatwornbya police officer in uniform. Icracked open the door, andhe thrust a letter into myhandwithoutsayingaword.

“Wait,” he said, as Istarted to close the door.“Someonehas to sign for it.”This made me even moreuneasy, but I did as I wastold.

“Dora?” Mrs. BaileyWhitecalledout.“Whois it,dear?”

I returned to the parlor.“Oh, it’s nothing, probably.Justaletterfromthetown.”

“Mrs. Bailey White, didyou pay your taxes?” PlainJanesaid,alarmed.

“CourseIdid!Don’tknowwhat this nonsense could be.Dora, dear, you open it andreaditaloud,okay?”

I was beginning to thinkthat Jackie’s gin and tonicsuggestion might be a goodone. “All right,” I said, myvoicesqueaky.“Well,let’ssee.It’s addressed to you and

date-stamped today—October10,1964.Itsays”:

DearMatildaLouiseBaileyWhite:Ithascometoourattentionthatyouhaveexceededthenumberofunrelatedpersonslivinginthishouse,andthatoneoftheresidentsisachildunrelatedtoanyoftheresidents.Youare,

therefore,runningaroominghouseand/orchildcareinstitutionwithoutproperpermit.

“What else does it say?”Jackie asked, after sherecovered enough to speak.“Isthereacourtdate?Dowepayafine?”

“It’sawarning,”PlainJanesaid.

“Canwe ignore it?” Jackieasked.“InBostonifyougetaletterlikethat,youjustignoreit. Nine times out of ten,that’stheendofit.”

“I don’t think we can dothat,”PlainJanesaid.“Ithinkwe’ll have to address it insomeway.”Shethoughtforamoment and added, “Well, Isuppose it’s not surprising.Theyalwaysfindawaytogettoyou.”

“Who?”Jackieasked.“YoumeanDarryl?”

“Yes, Darryl. And maybehis backers, too. Thosepeople from that place inNewJersey.”

Mrs. Bailey Whitenodded.“He’sfightingdirty,”shesaid.

“We don’t know that forsure,” I said, but the secondthe words left my lips Irealized it was probably true.

Plain Jane, Jackie, and Mrs.Bailey White had beenlookingafterDreamformorethan a year. There had beencomplaints but nothing hadreallycomeofit.Thisfeltlikeretribution.

We discussed what weshould do. As Mama wouldhave said, we talked that ol’topic to death and right intothe next world. Finally, weagreed to face it head-on by

going to the municipaloffices. The plan was thatwe’d go together. By now itwas late in the day so wedecidedtomeetat8:30sharpthenextmorningoutside thetown-owned trailer, adjacenttothepolicestation.

Thefirstaccusationintheletter to Mrs. Bailey Whiteturned out to be easy todisprove. Jackie, Plain Jane,and I were able to

demonstrate that we wereonly “visitors” at the houseownedbyMrs.BaileyWhite.For Jackie, it was as easy ashanding them her driver’slicensewithherhomeaddresson it. Plain Jane and I, whodidn’t drive, brought ourpropertytaxbillswithus.

“Butwhatabout thegirl?”Theclerk,aplumpgalwithabeehive hairdo, posed the

questionasifshewassurewewerehidingsomething.

“What girl?” Plain Janeasked.

“The colored girl,” theclerk said, snapping gum inher mouth. “The one whocomes to stay there.Andhercoloredbaby.”

Clearly,theclerkhadbeenapprised of every detail.“What, are you guys spyingon us?” Jackie said, in her

usual “anything but subtle”way.

“No one’s spying onanyone,” the clerk snapped.“But we have become awarethat a colored girl about agetwenty stays in that housefrom time to time. And herbabyisthereallthetime.Isittheirlegalresidence?”

The question caught usoff-guard. “The girl’s legaladdress is at her

grandmother’s,” Mrs. BaileyWhite said. “And the baby’s,too.”Whetherornotthiswastrue,Ididn’tknow,butitwasagoodanswer.

The clerk sighed. “Allright,” she said. “Looks likeyou’ve satisfied the first partofthecomplaint.Butnotthesecond. If that baby isn’trelatedtoanyofyou,andyouhave no legal status in herlife, then she shouldn’t be

living there.Unless you havea license for some kind ofschool or maybe a home forunwed mothers and theirbabies,somethinglikethat.”

A smile that I recognizedas mischievous suddenlyappeared on Jackie’s face.“Well, thank you so verymuch!” Jackie gushed to theclerk. “You’ve been so veryhelpful!”

Jackie practically skippedoutthedoor.

“What are you so happyabout?” Plain Jane askedwarily.

“That gal in there justhanded us the solution!” shesaid. “All we have to do isopen a house for unwedmothers and babies. It’s thatsimple!We can keepDreamand maybe help some otheryoungwomen,too.”

“Whoa, wait a minute,”PlainJanesaid.

“Whatdoyouthink,Mrs.Bailey White?” Jackie asked,adding, “Of course, this isentirelyuptoyou.”

Mrs. BaileyWhite lookedoverwhelmed but smiled. “Idon’t know how much goodI’ll be to y’all,” she saidslowly, “but you’re welcometousemyhouse.”

“I admit that it’s afascinating idea,” Plain Janesaid cautiously, “but Jackie,aren’t you getting ahead ofyourself? You always have usrushingintothings!”

“Dora, what do youthink?”Jackieasked,ignoringPlainJane.

“Well, I won’t be here. Istill plan to go back toMississippi,” I said. “But ify’all think you can do it, I

don’tseewhynot.Ofcourse,there’s something you’reforgetting.WeneedtotalktoPriscilla first. She should betold what’s going on. Shewould need to be on boardwiththis.”

Itwasagreed.Jackiewouldtry to reach Priscilla bytelephone and report back tousthenextday.

As I nodded off to sleepthat night, I marveled at

Jackie’s enthusiasm and herabilitytofindanswerswhileIwasstillbusymullingoverthequestion.Shewaspersuasive,andmadethingssoundeasierthan they were—like talkingme into going toMississippito find out aboutMama andher people. Once you’veknown someone like Jackie,however, you can’t easily gobacktoa life inwhichyou’resitting on the sidelines,

waiting for something tohappen.BeforeIknewher, Ithoughtthebestwaytotravelthrough life was to take themostcomfortingandfamiliarroutes.WhileIstilllongedtodo this at times—itwas partof my nature—I could seenow that playing it too safemight mean never reallyliving at all. From Jackie, Ihad learned to take theplunge into the deep end of

the pond, not just stick mytoein,orwadearoundintheshallows.

NineteenAs the Trailways busrambled toward Naples,Priscilla yawned politely andstretched, taking care not tobump into the older womansitting next to her. Shereminded Priscilla a little of

her grandma—tiny andhunched over, with handsswollenanddisfiguredfromalifetime of working in thefields.

Priscillahadbeentryingtoread on the long bus ridefrom Daytona, with somesuccess on the Sanford toTampa stretch, but thenbegan dozing off, tired fromworking late in the collegelaundry.One employee went

home sick, so she’d beendoing the job of two peoplebut complaining wasunthinkable. Working untilmidnight—even inahotandhumid laundry—was easycompared to what hergrandmadid,dayafterday.

The older womansuddenly elbowed her andcried out, pointing tosomething outside the buswindow.Evenwedgedasthey

were in the far-back seat ofthe colored section, it washard to miss: a brand-new,oversizedbillboardwithlime-greenlettering.

Welcome to Dreamsville!thesignhollered.

Whatintheworld?Priscillathought.

And then they passedanother, identicaltothefirst.This time,Priscilla gotmorethan a glimpse.

Accompanying theastonishing words was astylized illustration of anidealizedAmericancouple.Awhite gal was tastefullyreclined in a lounge chairwith a long cigarette in onehand and a cute little mixeddrink—the kind with anumbrella init—besideheronasmalltable.Awhitefellow,presumably her husband,loomed in the foreground

with an expensive-lookingfishingpole inonehandanda golf club in the other,grinning so broadly it wasscary.Lord,Priscilla thought,you’dthinkGodhimselfhadjusthanded him the keys to theKingdom of Heaven. Imaginegoing through life with thatamount of self-assurance. Thecouple, to Priscilla’s eyes,lookedvaguelyNorthern.Forone thing, they were tan.

With the exception of menwho worked outdoors—afarmerwithhisredneckfromdriving a tractor, or afisherman with deep crows’-feet wrinkles acquired fromsquinting at thewater—localwhite folks protected theirskin from the sun. In fact, itwas said among black folksthattheCaucasiansofCollierCounty were so white thatlooking at them hurt your

eyes.Priscillatriednottojoinin when others joked likethat. White folks couldn’thelp being white any morethan she could help the factthat she was not. Besides,she’d been treatedexceptionally well by whitefolks.Mostofthem,anyway.

The other indication thatthe folksdepicted in thesignweresupposedtobeYankeeswas, in a word, jewelry. The

galontheloungechairhadaringononehand thatwouldhave made Elizabeth Taylorpass out, plus ropes of gold,pearls, and who-knows-whathanging heavily around herneck.All this, andwearing abathing suit, too. The man,who wore a polo shirt withsome kind of insignia like afamily crest or college logo,sportedanoversizedwatchononewrist.

Insociologyclass,Priscillahad learned that these folkswere called “the NorthernLeisure Class.” But whywould they come to Naples?Who was putting out thewelcomemat?

And why were there somany? Unlike the South,wheretherewereahandfulofrichfolksineverysmalltown—with everyone else poor asdirt—there seemed to be a

surplusofpeoplewithmoneyto burn in Yankeeland. Shecouldn’timaginebeingabletoafford one house, let aloneone up north and a secondone in Florida just forvacations. Vacations! Thatwas a concept she couldn’tgrasp, either. Life was not acakewalk for anyone, hergranny used to counsel, butsometimesitsureseemedthat

wayfromtheoutsidelookingin.

When the bus passed athird, identicalbillboard, thistime Priscilla noticed thewords “Coming Soon!” on abanner that stretched acrossthe lower right corner.Well,whatever was going on, itprobably wasn’t good, andPriscillafeltacoolchillmovedownher spine like someone

had just walked over anunsettledgrave.

Jackiehadnotsaidawordonthetelephoneaboutanyofthis. Did she not know? Ordid she not care? No, Jackiewould care. She would beangry,unlessshewasinvolvedin it in some way. But whywouldshebeinvolved?Jackiewouldn’t like the idea ofsomeone using “Dreamsville”without her permission, and

Priscilla couldn’t imagineJackie accepting payment forit, or endorsing adevelopment of some sort,either. That didn’t seem likeJackie’sstyle.

Of course, maybe Jackiehadn’t mentioned it becauselong-distance calls cost aprettypenny.Morethanthat,though,wasa lackofprivacyonPriscilla’send.Withmorethan fifteen girls sharing one

phone at the rooming housethat was Priscilla’s home-away-from-homeatBethune-Cookman College, someonealways seemed to be lurkingin the hallway awaiting herturn.Opportunitieswereripefor eavesdropping.The othercomplication was thatPriscilla, working in thelaundryandattendingclasses,often missed Jackie’s calls. Itwas remarkable how much

informationanosyfloor-matecould glean from a simplephone message, so Jackiequickly learnedtoavoidchit-chat and to leave a messagesaying only that Priscillaneededtocallhome.

Whenever Priscilla foundone of these messages stuckin the doorjamb of her littleroom, she felt a little faint.Without fail, shewas at firstconvincedthatsomethinghad

happenedtoherbaby.MaybeDream was sick anddesperatelyneededhermama.A negligent, selfish, fool-heartedmamawhowas clearacrossthestate,andalmostasfar north as the Georgiaborder, studyingEnglish andsociology at a black collegewhere no one knew hersecret.

The hallway was silent,thanks to the late hour, so

Priscilla dropped her bookbag and purse and dashed tothephonetocallJackieback.Asalwayssheaskedthelong-distance operator to reversecharges,whichmadeher feelwretched until she forcedherselftorememberherbabydaughter.Shewasdoing thisfor her child. She would doanything for her child. Thatwas why she was away, to

build a better life for herselfand,inturn,forDream.

She felt the sameway thenextmorningwhenshesatinthebackoftheTrailwaysbus.She was doing that forDream, too.Nine years afterMrs. Parks refused to movefrom the white section of abus in Birmingham, thecolored section was businessas usual in Florida. Here itwas 1964, the Civil Rights

Act had just been signed byPresident Johnson, and theyellow line that designatedthe “back of the bus” was asbright andmenacing as ever.There were times whenPriscilla could sit wherevershe wanted, especially if thebuswasnearlyempty.Butifabus driver was a bigot, he’dtell you to go to the back ofthe bus. Or, if there weremean-looking white

passengers—and you couldnever tell, really, just from aglance—itwasbettertogositinthebackofthebusandlivetotalkaboutit.ThisstuckinPriscilla’s craw and she feltthat familiar flash of soul-crushing shame, but again,just like those collect calls,theycouldbe tolerated if shewasdoingitforherchild.

Jackie had declared thatPriscilla should sit wherever

shewantedwhensherodethebus, but Jackie was aNortherner. More to thepoint,Jackiewaswhite.Whatdidsheknowofsuchthings?It was Plain Jane, the poetwhopaidherbills bywritingfor strange magazines, whomade Priscilla promise to becautious. Plain Jane, aprogressive-mindedSoutherner although shedidn’t look it with her

conservativeclothesandsteel-gray hair that matched hereyes. “Don’t listen to Jackieonthis,”shehadtoldPriscillain a hushed voice on one ofher visits home. “You dowhatyouhaveto.”

Old Mrs. Bailey Whitehad overheard and quicklyagreed.“Getyourselfthroughcollege,” she counseled.“That’s your job right now.

Keep your focus, and don’tgetinnofusses.”

These words of advicemadeallthedifference.Itwasstill hard. Hard to accepttheir charity for those bustickets home and for takingcare of Dream. But Priscillawas what her granny called“an old soul,” meaning thatfromthedayofherbirthsheseemed wise beyond heryears, as if she’d lived one

long life already. She didn’thave all the answers, and shemademistakes, butGodhadgiven her the gift ofresilience. That, and a veryunyouthful tendency to be agoodlistenerwhenitcametoadvice,made her seemmucholder thanher nineteen-and-a-halfyears.

This was an oddarrangement. Unheard of, asa matter of fact, and yet it

seemed to be working.There’dbeenaroughpatchafew months earlier whenPriscilla learned that herfriends had endured someabusive remarks when theywere out and about withDream. At that point,Priscilla was prepared tocome home for good. Shewould livewith her grandmaand do her best to raiseDream.

PlainJaneandMrs.BaileyWhite had straightened outthe situation, however. Theyunderstood that mostSoutherners would look theother way unless provoked.Privacy and minding yourown business trumpedspeaking up and interfering.TheproblemwasJackie,whowas in the habit of drivingaround town with Dream inthat crazy convertible. She

would take Dream with herinto the Winn-Dixie andwhenpeoplestaredshe’dsay,“What’s the matter, haven’tyour ever seen a black childwith a white nanny before?”And then she’d laugh outloud.

Naturally, that got folksstirred up. And it wasn’tnecessary. So on one ofPriscilla’s trips home, theremnants of the little book

club had a discussion. Therewas a whole lot of finger-pointing,withPlainJaneandMrs. Bailey White takingsides against Jackie. PoorJackie had this harebrainedidea that she was somehowhelping the civil rightsmovement. Finally, afterhearing them out, Priscillaspoke her mind. It was hardto think of the right words.

She prayed to God to helpherfindthem.

“Jackie,” shebegan slowly.Havingbeeninthebookclubtogether, they all knew whatitmeantwhenPriscillaspokecautiously. It meant she wastryingtothinkofawaytosaysomething powerful withouthurting too many feelings.“Jackie,” she began again,“youknowIloveyouandthatI am indebted to you for

making it possible for me togo to college. And I knowthatyourheartisintherightplace when it comes tohelping my people. But youareendangeringmychild.”

There itwas, like a bombhad gone off. You areendangering my child. Thosewerewordsharshbuttrue.

Of course, Jackie hadreacted like someone haddumped a bucket of wet

collard greens over her head.Priscillacouldn’tevenbeartolookather.But shehad saidwhatneededtobesaid.

Plain Jane, who quarreledwithJackieonafairlyregularbasis, could not resist addinghertwocents.“Itoldyouso,”she said to Jackie. “Youwereflaunting that baby aroundlikethat,justtomakeapoint—”

“Ladies, please,” Mrs.Bailey White interrupted.“Let’s all calm down andrememberwearefriends.Weareall inthistogether.Jackiedidn’t mean any harm. Shejust don’t understandsometimes,that’sall.”

Jackiesaidnothingforthenexthour,maybelonger,andavoided eye contact with allofthem.Priscilla,meanwhile,had been consumed with

despair, thinking she hadbeenrudeandungrateful,andhadpushedtoofar.

PlainJaneandMrs.BaileyWhitetalkedaboutthebaby,how much she had grown,about her sleep habits, andhowcuteshewas,infarmoredepth than was necessary.Finally, Plain Jane addressedJackie. “Didn’t you say thatDreamwasthesmartestlittle

thing you ever saw?” sheprompted.

Jackie cleared her throat.“Yes, I think she is veryadvanced. And since I’m theonly one here—other thanPriscilla, of course—who is amother, I do think I knowwhatI’mtalkingabout.”

“Of course you do,”Priscillahadsaidquickly.

“No one is questioningyour instincts or experience,”

Plain Jane said. “It’s just thatyou’re a foreigner here, youdon’t understand how tobehave—”

“Aforeigner!Why,excuseme,butIthoughtwewereallcitizens of the United StatesofAmerica. I didn’t realize Ineeded a passport to live inthe Confederate State ofFlorida.”

Thiswasgettingnastybutat least itsignaledtoPriscilla

that Jackie was not upset orangrywithher.JusttheentireSouth.

No one, even Jackie,wanted to take thisconversation any further.“Priscilla,”shesaidbluntly,“Iwill reign in my boorishYankeebehaviorbutIwilldoit for your sake, and forDream’s. Not for any otherreason. And not because I’mwrong.”

Six or seven months hadpassedandJackiehadheldtoherpromise.Nomoredrivingaround town with Dream.The baby was transported,and takenout inpublic, onlywhen necessary. And, nomore comments about beingawhitenanny.AsPlain Janeand Mrs. Bailey Whitepredicted, the rumor millground to a halt. Peopledidn’t really care as long as

they didn’t have their nosesrubbed in it. Their attentionwas focused elsewhere, onsomeotherunluckytarget.

But now the problemhadsuddenly flared up again.That was the gist of theconversation when Jackiemade the latest phone call.When Priscilla got themessage and called back,Jackie seemed to be waitingby the telephone. “There is a

new problem with us takingcare of Dream,” shewhispered into the phone.Specifically,shesaid,thatthebaby was “residing” at Mrs.BaileyWhite’shouse.

AndsoPriscillahadaskedthe college’s dean of womenstudents for an emergencyleave. Eyebrows were raised,but Priscilla managed toconveyinthevaguestoftermsthat there was a family

emergencywithout providingdetails that would get herexpelled.

As the bus pulled awayfromDaytonaBeach,Priscillasaid her silent good-bye tothe little city on theAtlanticcoastwherepeopledrovecarson the beach, and to thecollegewhereallthestudentslooked like her, and no onethought it delusional todream of becoming an

English teacher oranthropologist.Eachtimesheleft, she wrestled with thefeeling that perhaps shemightneverbeback.

TwentyBlast those old war pilots,Ted Hart thought withdisgust. He knew it waswrong to think that wayabouthis fellowveterans,butthey were still making it

awfully hard to bringcivilizationtoFlorida.

He was beginning tosuspect that some of themenjoyedroughlandings.Morethan once, he’d heard themlaughing and boasting aboutcuttingthingsalittleclose.

“This is a business andthese are passengers,” Tedimplored after anothercomplaint.

The pilots responded innearly identical ways. “Well,that’s thewaywe flew in thewarandwesurvived,sodon’ttellushowtofly,”they’dsay.“Especially since you were afoot soldier, fella. Your kinddoesn’t know the first thingaboutflying.”

The latter part was true.Teddidn’tevenknowhowtofly a kite. But he was incharge and he figured these

guys should listen to him.He’d have fired them all butthey were the only qualifiedpilotswhohadapplied.Afewcropdustershadansweredtheads and while they didn’tmake the grade,Ted secretlywondered if they might nothavedoneabetterjobfromacustomer-serviceperspective.

On one particularly awfulday, a pilot failed to securethe nose hatch on a plane

flying south from Tampa.Unfortunately, the hatchsprang open in midflight,sending airbags belonging tothe U.S. Postal Servicestraight into the right enginepropeller. The result was ashower of shredded maildispersed over Fort Myers,followed by an engine firewhich resulted in anoteworthy emergencylandingonagolfcourse.

Meanwhile, Mr. ToombwasstartingtoleanharderonTed. None of the routes,which now crisscrossed thestate, were making a profitand were not likely to formonths.Mostof theairportswere not up to par, andseveral lacked hangar spaceforplanesbigger thana two-seaterBeechcraft.TedneededtopersuadelocalofficialsthatWild Blue Yonder Airways

would be a boon to theircommunities.Hetraveledthestate with mixed results. Attimes, officials wouldn’t evenmeet with him unless Mr.Toomb called first on hisbehalf.Finally,Tedfoundhisniche. When the mayor ofDaytonaBeachmentionedhewasgoingonafishingtriptoCrescent City, the “BassCapital,” Ted remarked thathe’d spent several summers

on a fishing boat out ofGloucester, Massachusetts.NextthingTedknew,hewasinvited not only to fish forbass by the Daytona Beachmayor but to go deep-seafishing with the mayor ofFortLauderdale.AswordgotoutthatTednotonlylikedtofishbutwasquitegoodat it,hefounddoorsopeningtohissales pitch. His wardrobe of

navybluesuitswaspushedtothebackofthecloset.

Jackie wasn’t thrilled withthisdevelopment.Infact,shewasfurious.“Oh,Ted,whereareyougoingthisweek?”shewould ask on Sunday nights.“Shall we pack your newBrooks Brothers suit, orwouldyouprefer your fishingregalia?”

Tryashemight,hewasn’table to convince her that he

was,infact,working.“ThisisthewayIhavetodobusinesshere,” hewould say. But shewould give him what hethought of as “the look,” asideways glance of hersuddenly chilly blue eyes.Whathehesitated to tellherwas that he ought to beworking on his golf game,too.

He tried to interest Jackiewithstories fromhis timeon

the road.Sometimes shewassoresentfulofhisbeingawaythat she didn’t want to hearthem. But there were othertimes—thebesttimes—whenheandJackie talked late intothe night about thissurprising place calledFlorida. The biggest shockhad been learning that thestatewas,infact,apartoftheSouth.

From a Bostonian’s pointofview,AmericaconsistedofNorthern and Southernstates, the Great Plains andthe West Coast. Of course,there were subcategories:New England was one, butalsoborderstates(peoplewhocouldnotmakeuptheirmindwhich side of the Civil Warthey were on), the DeepSouth (a place where cottonwasgrownandpeoplewalked

barefoot all the time), Texas(cowboys, the Alamo, oilrigs), the Rockies (extremelytall mountains), Chicago (anotable area of civilization inthevastandconfusinglylaid-out Midwest), California(Hollywood people), andSeattle (so far away that itwas exotic). Hawaii? Thatwasahoneymoondestinationfor the well-heeled. AndAlaska?Aplacethatgotmore

snowthanBostonandhadanunusual variety of wildanimals.

That pretty much leftFlorida,aplacethatdidn’tfitinto any category except itsown. More than thirteenhundred miles of coastlinegave the impression that thewhole state was a tropicalparadise. Many inlandcommunities, however, wereafflicted by the type ofDeep

South poverty Ted hadthoughtexistedonly instatessuch as Alabama orMississippi, or in theAppalachian Mountains ofKentucky. This inlandpoverty affected both whitesand blacks. It was the onething the two races had incommon.

Ted felt badly for blacksliving in Florida—especiallythose living inland. They

often had a sort of downcastlook, like they were trappedand knew it was hopeless.The sorrow in their eyesreminded him of thedisplacedpersonshehadseeninEurope, civilianswho hadlosteverythinginthewarandhadnowheretogo.

At least the black peopleseemedtobelivinginreality,Ted thought.Hewas not sosureaboutthewhites.Likean

episode of theTV showTheTwilight Zone, many whitepeople acted as if someonehad set their clocks back ahundred years and theyhadn’t noticed. Again andagain,TedwouldbetoldthatUnion troops had “invaded”theSouth, ending aperfectlydecent way of life, and thatcoloredfolkswere“happierintheolddays.”Tedconcludedthat white Southerners,

generally speaking, werelookingbackward,clingingtothe past with increasingdesperation at the very sametime that Northerners werefixated on the future. InApril, New York City hadopenedthe1964World’sFairwith a hopeful theme called“Peace ThroughUnderstanding.” From whatTed had read in Timemagazine,thefairfocusedon

marvelous inventions thatwould make life better. Butwhat good was any of it, hethought, if we didn’t fix thebig problems first, like raceandpoverty?

In the last year, he notedthat it seemed to havebecomemoredifficultbeingaYankee, unless you were atypical beach tourist.Commentsweremade.Lookswere exchanged. Previously,

his Boston accent had beentolerated or even met withfriendly curiosity; now itseemed an invitation to beharassed. There was, forexample,therestaurantownerin Hardee County who satdownuninvitedoppositeTedand grinned menacingly. AllTed had wanted was a lousycupofcoffeeandadoughnutbut insteadhewas treated toa disgusting lecture about

“the inferiority of the Negrorace” and how Yankeesneeded to mind their ownbusiness. Ted had not takenthebait.Hewasexpected,heknew,togetupandwalkoutor throw a punch but he didneither. While the oldredneck droned on and on,Ted had simply pulled out arecentcopyoftheWallStreetJournal and began to read it.He munched slowly on the

doughnut and, after hefinishedhiscoffee,heleft.

In his free time he visitedlibraries and historicalsocieties, especially whenworktookhimtolargercities.The territory ofFlorida,Tedlearned, had been in Spanishhands, then English, andback to Spanish again, untilSpain ceded the territory tothe United States in 1821.Slavery of blacks (and also

Indians)was fullyentrenchedlongbeforeFloridabecameastate in 1845. WhenSouthernslavestatesbegantosecede from the Union,starting with South Carolinain December 1860, Floridawas third in line.More than15,000 Florida troops foughtfortheConfederacy.

Now, this was the partTed really wanted to knowabout: What happened after

the Civil War? To hissurprise, he found that blackFloridiansendureddecadesofintimidation and violence bywhites that rivaled—andevensurpassed—other Southernstates.Tedwas appalled thatin one particularly heinousact, an NAACP leadernamed Harry T. Moore andhis wife were murdered onChristmasDay 1951 in their

home in the small town ofMimsinBrevardCounty.

One thingTedwas tryingto figure outwaswhether heshould use the term colored,Negro, Afro-American, orblack. After thinking itthrough,hestartedhabituallyusing the latter since itseemedtohavebeenthetermpreferred by theMassachusetts-born Dr. W.E.B.DuBois,ablackscholar

and one of the founders ofthe NAACP who had diedthepreviousyear.

Angerandanxietywasnotabout race only, Ted wasdiscovering. LongtimeFloridians both black andwhite were increasingly atodds with the touristindustry. How could OldFlorida hang onto its proudpast as part of theConfederacy and remain a

place that tolerated theKKKwhile attracting Northerntourists? By downplaying thetrue identity of the state andpainting a lovely portrait ofendless beaches, golf, andfishing. That was the truththat Ted was beginning tounderstand.

Meanwhile, his children,most unfortunately, werestartingtospeaklikethelocalrednecks. This was

worrisome. How would theyever get ahead in life? Thetwins insisted that if theyspoke in their native tongue—that is, a Northern dialect—they would never beaccepted, never get a date,and simply die of boredom.Theypickedupthefar-southaccent almost immediately,probably, Ted thought,because they were so young.Judd, too, sounded like he

belonged on that TV showThe Beverly Hillbillies. ButJuddandthetwinscouldturnit on and off with a naturalease, dependingonwho theywere talking to. To Ted, itwas the darndest thing. Hecouldn’t even say “y’all”without the word soundinglike a chicken bone werestuckinhisthroat.

On one hurtful day, allthree kids announced that

they felt humiliated by theirparents,whosoundedliketheKennedys. Those Bostonaccents,thekidsinsisted,hadbecome grating to their ears.The kids pointed out thatJackie, when she’d had herradioshow,hadlearnedfromthe station manager that byspeaking very slowly, anddraggingoutthesyllables,shecouldhide it.Shewasaghastthattheywouldaskhertotry

to adapt her radio techniqueto everyday speech. No way,shesaid.AsforTed,hewasahopelesscase.Hedidn’tseemtobe able todrop the accentevenwhenhetried.

Jackie ended the familyquarrel with a linguistictriumph: A Boston accent,she noted, was not thatdissimilar from a Charlestonaccent.“And,heck,”shesaid,“Charleston is in South

Carolina, which, by anyone’sdefinition, is a Rebel state.”(“Tell that to your friendsnext time they make fun ofthe way your mother talks,”sheadded.)

TheseweretheissuesTedhadn’t foreseen when theymovedhere.WhenhewasintheArmytwentyyearsearlier,therewassometeasingaboutaccents but mostly it wasgood-natured.Then again, it

waswartimeandtheywereallfacing a common enemy. Itdidn’tmatter if youwere theson of a factoryworker fromMassachusettsorthesonofawealthy landowner fromTennessee. You could be aranch hand from Texas or acollege boy fromMilwaukee,but when each of you waswearingaU.S.Armyuniformfighting side by side against

the Axis forces, you wereAmerican,that’sall.

Now, for the first time inhis life, Ted was self-consciousabouthisNorthernbackground. In the tightsmileofawaitressorthecool,perfunctory nod of a gasstation attendant, he felt awall descend the second hespoke. Sometimes hewondered if he was relivingthe exact dynamics of the

Civil War era, a deeplytroubling thought for a manwho had lived with theassumption that he wouldalways be welcome anywherein theUSA.He had noticedmoreandmorepeoplecallinghim “Yankee,” and not in aplayfulway.SomeoneleavingabarinTallahasseehadevencalled him “carpetbagger,”which shocked him. Hetrudged back to his hotel,

thinking,They’drather live inthepastandbeleftbehind.Buthe was an interloper, aharbinger of change in thesamewaythatamackerelskyindicates rain. If there wasone thing that Southernersfound disturbing, it waschange. Especially, Ted hadlearned, when it wasn’t theiridea.

Twenty-OneYouknow,youandme,wegot a lot in common,”Dolores said in the directionof the heron’s nest. “Say, areyou even in there? Can’t seeyou.”

A small tuft of yellowfeathersslowlyroseintoview.

“Oh,nowIseeyouthere,”Dolores said. “Out late lastnight, huh? I used to be likethat,too.”

The small head slowlysankbackoutofsight.

“So what I was saying,”Dolores continued, “was thatwehavealotincommon.Foronething,Idon’tbelieveyouhave the slightest idea what

you’re doing. You shouldahadthembabiesearlierintheyear,notnow.Hmmm,maybeit’s a second clutch of eggs.Or maybe you’re just out ofkilterwitheveryoneelse.

“But I have to tell you,girl,” Dolores added. “I ain’tseen no man around yournest. Where’d he go? Sawhim here for the first fewdays,wheny’allwerebuildingit,buthe’sgonescarceonyou

now.Ha!WhatdidItellyou!Ineverhadnoluckwithmen,neither!Ha!

“I hope you don’t mind,but I’ve decided to call youPeggy Sue. You know why?Because it reminds me of asong my son used to singwhen he’d come home fromschool.Yes,thatson.Robbie-Lee.Theonewhoupandleftme.Went toNewYorkCityandall.Well,whenhewasa

teenager therewas this song,and it was sung by a fellanamed Buddy Holly. PoorBuddyHollygothisselfkilledin a plane crash.Anyway, hehad this song called ‘PeggySue,’ and my son loved tosing it. I’d hear him comingdown the path singing thatsong. It was kind of a sillysong but awful fun to sing.Anyway, that right there isthe best memory of my life.

The one I turn to when I’mfeeling bad. Robbie-Lee,singing that song. Alwaysmademelaugh.

“I’ll tell youwhat, if you’dtoldmetwentyyearsagothatI’dbesittingheretalkingtoanight heron, I wouldn’t havebelieved you. No sir. I onlywish you could talk back. I’dbe mighty curious to hearwhatyouhadtosay.”

Peggy Sue stretched herwings either by coincidenceor inresponse. “Yousureputup with a lot from me.”Dolores laughed. “Crazy oldwoman, worn out by theworld,talkingtoabird.Ain’tthat something. And I’dswearonastackofBiblesthatyouarelisteningtome.

“Ihatetobetheonetotellyou this, but we havesomething else in common

besidesmenwho loveusandleave us,”Dolores said. “Youandme,webeaverage.That’sright, average. I ain’t nothin’special andneitherareyou. Iwas nice lookin’ in my daybutneverspectacular.Girl, ifyoudon’tmindmesayingso,you got the same problem.You’re not one of themspecialbirds, likeaspoonbill.Nope, ain’t nobody gonnacome down here from the

Audubon Society and try totake yer picture. Mine,neither. Fact is, we’re justaverage folk in a world thatdon’t care none for average.This world only cares aboutspecial. But you just go onsittin’ on your eggs.Do yourjob.Isurelyhopethingsworkout better for you than theyhasforme.”

Twenty-TwoSixweekshadpassedsinceIleft Mississippi and I wasnow so broke that Iconsidered raiding mychildhood piggy bank thatstill satonabookshelf inmyoldroomatthecottage.

IguessIcouldhaveaskedfor a loan from Mrs. BaileyWhite, who wasindependently wealthy;Jackie,whowasmarried to aman who had a good salary;orPlain Jane,whosework asa writer probably didn’t payespeciallywellbutsheseemedto be a good saver. I knewthey were helping Priscilla,however, so I was veryreluctant to ask. I wanted

them to keep their focus onher and the baby. Somehow,I’dmanage.

But it did make menervous. Money was alwaysan issue forme.The hardestpart of going to Mississippihad been taking my hard-timemoney out of the bank.It just about killedme to doit. The way I was raised,spending your savings was aguaranteed way to provoke

the devil. If youwasted youremergency funds onsomething frivolous thensomethingterriblewasboundto happen. Appendicitis, forexample. That’s whathappened to Miss Caraway,who wanted a betterhandheld mixer than shecould buy in Naples, so shetookmoneyoutofhersavingsandwentuptoFortMyerstobuy a special editionGeneral

Electric four-speed deluxecake mixer. Next thing weknew, her appendix burst—right there in the appliancestore in Fort Myers! Shesurvived,butshehadtohavea big operation, and afterthat, all of us who knew herstorywereafraidtospendanymoneyatall.

Jackie,beingaYankee,didnot believe in any of thatstuff. She called this “swamp

logic.”ShegavemeapeptalkabouthowIshouldbe“livingmylifetothefullest”andthatI was “limiting myself” withmy various fears andsuperstitions.Itoldher,heck,that was easy for her to say.She grew up inMassachusetts,aplacethat istidy and civilized. I grew upin a place where oneminuteyoucouldbewashedawaybya hurricane and the next you

could be eaten by swampcritters.

Iwasmanagingprettywellin Mississippi, but theunexpected trip home toNaples was costing me. Icouldn’timagineleavingnow,butwhatcouldIdo?Ineededtogetbacktomyjobshelvingbooksat theJacksonLibrary.Itwas nowmid-October. I’dwritten several letters to mylandlady, the ever-anxious

Mrs. Conroy, and the headlibrarian, a woman namedGeneva LaCroix who waskind of like the MotherSuperior of the library. Bothwere quite graciousconsidering that I didn’tprovide anydetails, only thatthere had been a familyemergency in Naples thatneededmyattention.There’sa point, though, when evennicepeoplegrowweary,andI

sensed that day was close. Ihad maybe two or threeweeks left, and that wasdefinitelypushingmyluck.

I tried to settle myrestlessness bydigging anewpondtogivemyturtlesalittlechangeofscenery.Iwasuptomy thighs in “mush,” thewordMamaused todescribethewet,sandyCollierCountysoil that comprised our yard,when Judd appeared on his

bicycle atmybackyard fence,haulinganothermelonhehadabsconded from his mother’skitchen to feed Norma Jeanandtheothers.

“Whatcha doing, MissWitherspoon?” he called tome,alittlealarmed.Juddhadgrown a little proprietaryaboutmyyardandmyturtles.I couldn’t blame him. Thatcan happen when you leavesomeoneincharge.

“I’m just digging a newplaceforthemtoplay,”Isaid,adding,“Youwanttohelp?”

Nowhewasallsmiles,andInoticedthegapbetweenhisfront teethhadgrown larger.Jackie had said somethingaboutJuddgettingbracesbutithadn’thappenedyet.

“BeforeIforget,Momsaidto tell you thatPriscilla’s buscame in last night,” he saidcheerfully.

This was a surprise.Priscilla surely had comehomeinahurry.

“The bus came in aroundseven o’clock,” Juddcontinued,“andshe—Mom,Imean—is going to pick youup later to take you over toMrs. Bailey White’s to seeher.ToseePriscilla,Imean.”

Judd had away of talkingthat made it seem like hethought he had to translate

himself. Not beingaccustomedtoboyshisage,Iwasn’tsureiftheyalldidthatorifitwasjustJudd’shabit.

“What did she mean by‘later’?”Iasked,lookingdownatmycrud-encrustedclothes.AtleastIhadrememberedtowearworkglovessomyhandswouldcleanupeasy.

“Well, she didn’t say,”Judd said, frowning. “But Iknow she has to take my

sisters somewhere reallystupid, maybe the beautyparlor. And then they weregoingtotakesomeoldbooksand drop them off at thelibraryforthebooksale.Andthenthey’resupposedtogotoWinn-Dixie. But I betchatheyhaveafightatthebeautyparlor andMomwill end uptaking them directly home.AndthenMomwillhaveoneofherheadaches,soshewon’t

endupgoingtothelibraryorWinn-Dixie, either. Whichmeansshe’llprobablybehereinaboutanhour.”

Itriednottosmile.Inevercould get a short answer outofthatboy,buthisreasoningwassound.

An hour was just enoughtimeformetogetcleanedup.Judd happily took over thedigging project while I wentinside. I had never gone

throughMama’s closet and Itookapeekinthere,thinkingitwould be nice towear oneof her dresses. But I wasn’treadytodothatyet.

MaybeIneverwouldbe.

•••

PRISCILLA WAS SITTINGOUTSIDE ON Mrs. BaileyWhite’s porch swing withDream sitting on her lap,waitingforme.

She hopped up and gavemeaone-armedhugwiththebaby being sort of squashedbetweenus. Iwas afraid thatmaybe Dream would cry, orat least protest, but shegiggledinstead.

“Dream doesn’t know metoo well,” I said, steppingbackalittle.

“Shedoesn’tknowmethatwell, either,” Priscillaremarked.

“Aw, now, I can see thatain’t true!” I saidwithall thecheerfulness I could muster,tryingtosoothetheheavinessinmyheartandhers.Priscillawas one of my favoritepersons in theworld. I reallywantedhertobehappy.

Jackie was unloading bagsfrom the trunk of theBuick.She left the car radioonand“Do Wah Diddy Diddy”driftedcheerfullythroughthe

air. “Hey, doesn’t Priscillalookgood?”shecalledout.

“She always looks good!She is the cat’s meow,” Iholleredback. I sounded likea hillbilly, even to myself.Conversing with Jackie wasthe only time I noticed howcountryIsounded.

Priscilla smiled modestly.She looked so prim in herlight-blue dress. I wonderedif she’d made it herself and

was about to ask when shesaid, “There’s a sewingmachine at my roominghouse.Wetaketurnsusingit.Took me two months tomake this because of all thepleats. And ’cause I didn’twant to hog the machine.Jackie,doyouneedhelpwithyourpackages?”

“No,I’mfine,”Jackiesaid.“Ijustpickedupafewthingsat Winn-Dixie before I

picked up Dora, nothingterriblyperishable.Youknowwhat?”shesaid,asshepassedby us and went into thehouse.“Ikeepbuyingmelonsand they just seem todisappear. It’s the strangestthing.”

I pretended to bedistracted. Thankfully, PlainJane poked her head out thedoor.“Y’allcomeonin!Mrs.BaileyWhiteandIbeenbusy

makingBostonCoolers.Andwe’vegotsometalkingtodo.”

There was nothing quitelike ginger ale in a tall glasswith a scoop of vanilla icecreamtomakegatheringatatable for a difficultconversation a tad easier.While the unfortunatelynamed (from a Southernperspective) Boston Coolerhad been the rage in theVictorian era even in the

South, the drink had fallenfromfavor inrecentyears.Infact, itwas considered a relicfromdaysgoneby.ButMrs.Bailey White, who hailedfrom way-back-when herself,always seemed to have theingredientsonhand.

Priscilla spooned a littleout of her glass and letDreamtasteit.

“Ha ha ha, look at that,”Mrs. Bailey White shrieked.

“Shelovesit!”“Sheshouldnotbegetting

so many sweets,” announcedPlain Jane. “Of course, hermama can give her whatevershe wants. And today is aspecial day. I’m just sayingthat in general she shouldn’thavethem.”PlainJaneturnedand glowered at Mrs. BaileyWhite.

“Uh-oh, here we goagain,” Jackie said. “Priscilla,

we need to review Dream’sdiet with you while you’rehere. We were going to askyour grandma but now thatyou’re here, you can set usstraight. There have beensome—shall we say—disagreements. Especiallynow that Plain Jane hasbecomeanexpert.”

“What?” Plain Jane said,setting down her spoon.

“What is that supposed tomean?”

“I didn’tmean for that tosound as mean as it did,”Jackie said. “It was supposedtobeajoke.”

“A joke?” Plain Janelooked like she’d beenstabbedwithafork.

“Well, now that you’vegiven up writing for SexySecretary magazine andstartedcontributingtoPerfect

MotherWeekly, you’ve startedto believe you actually are anexpert.Andit’skindoffunny.Andcharming.”

“It’s not Perfect MotherWeekly.” Plain Jane almostspatthewordsout.“It’sPiousMotherWeekly andyouknowit.”

“Whatever you say, dear,”Jackie said. “I just miss thedays when I had a friend

writing incognito for sexymagazines,that’sall.”

PlainJanerelaxedabit. Itwas a trait I’d always likedabouther.Shecouldlaughatherself. “Well, that’s true,”she said. “Those were thedays!”

“Have you given upwriting poetry?” I asked, andimmediately regretted thequestion.

“Ofcoursenot,”PlainJanesaid.“Myfirstvolumewillbepublishednext year. It seemstobetakingforeverbutthat’sthe way academic publisherswork, or so I’m told. In themeantime, I’m paying thebillswithstoriesaboutbabiesand child rearing.” Sheblushed. “I admit it’sbecomesomethingof anobsession tome.”

“It’smy fault,” Jackie saidwith a wink. “Ever since Iloaned you my copy of Dr.Spock, you turned into anauthority.”

IpeeredatPriscillaoutofthe corner of my eye,wondering what effect thisconversation was having onher. She looked like she wastrying to suppress a smile.Whenshesawmelookingather, she spoke up. “I

appreciate how much y’allcareaboutmybaby,”shesaid.

“Youprobablydidn’tthinkthey would go off the deepend,though,”Isaidteasingly.

“No,” Priscilla said, “Isurely did not. But I’mawfully glad they have. Iknow Dream is in goodhands. And I do appreciateyou callingmewhen there isaproblemoraquestion,”sheadded, looking directly at

Jackie.“Now,whatwasitthatweneededtotalkabout?”

“Oh,”Jackiesaid.“Ohyes,that.” She sighed heavily.“Well, you know I’ve beenliving up to my promise ofstaying under the radar withDream.Weallhave.Butoutof the blue, Mrs. BaileyWhite received a letter.Seems they thoughtwewerebreaking some kind of rulethat limits the number of

unrelatedpeoplelivinginonehouse.Well,wewere able toshow them that for PlainJane, Dora, and me, Mrs.Bailey White’s house is notour legal residence. But theyalso raised a question aboutone of the residents being achildwho isunrelatedtoanyof the residents. Theyconcluded that we need apermitforrunningahomeorschoolforchildren.”

“Who’s they?” Priscillaaskedquietly.

“Well, the letter camefrom the zoning department.Wewent down there to talkto them and at least westraightenedoutthefirstpart.But, they don’t want Dreamliving here. And theymentionedyou,too.”

Priscillajerkedbackinherchair. “Me? Theymentionedme?”

“Well, not by name. Butthey knew you stay hereoccasionally.”

“Isee,”Priscillasaidsoftly.“So they’ve been watchingus.”

“Apparently,” Mrs. BaileyWhitesaid.

“But y’all have beenlookingafterDreamformorethan a year. We had thattroublelastspringanditdieddown.Whythis?Whynow?”

“We think it hassomethingtodowithDarryl’splans,” Plain Jane said,lookingatme.

Priscilla turned to me.“Darryl?” she asked. “Youmeanyourformerhusband?”

I felt red, the color ofshame, move up my cheekslike a brushfire. “Well, I’mnotmarriedtohimanymore,”I said, exasperated.WhywasI always having to explain

Darryl? “Look, to make along story short, he’s raisin’Cain around here with plansto fill in the swamp and theriverandbuildadevelopment—a golf course, houses, andshops.”

“He wants to call itDreamsville,” Jackie added.“If you can imagine thenerve.”

“Oh!”Priscillasaid.“Isawthebillboardsonmywayinto

town.”“What billboards?” Jackie

asked,sittingstraightup.“They said,Coming Soon

—Welcome to Dreamsville,orsomethinglikethat.”

Jackie, inhaling hercigarette,begantocough.

“Good Lord. They musthavejustputthoseup,”PlainJanemuttered.“Priscilla,theydidn’t have a photo of Jackieonthem,didthey?”

“No,”shereplied.“NottheonesIsaw.”

“Well,that’sgoodnews,atleast,” Jackie said, chokingthrough her words. “Butnothingwouldsurprisemeatthispoint.Canyoubelieveit?He can call it DreamsvilleEstates and the lawyers say Ican’tstophim.”

“This is terrible,” Priscillasaid. “But what does it haveto do with me or Dream

staying here at Mrs. BaileyWhite’s home? I don’tunderstand.”

There was a noticeablepause. Finally, Jackie spoke.“We think it’s retaliation,”she said. “We’ve beenfightingDarryl to try to stophim. His plans areoutrageous.Hewants to teardown Dolores Simpson’shouse and—oh, Priscilla!—itlooks like his development

might include where yourgrandmalives.”

Priscilla looked likesomeonehadslappedher.“Atthesettlement?”shecriedout.“I wonder if they know!Probably not. They’dprobably be the last ones tofindout.”

“They might not know,”Plain Jane agreed. “It hadbeen hush-hush for a while,

and it’s happening veryquickly.”

“Is there anything we cando?” Priscilla said, her voicerising.

“We’re working on it,”Mrs. Bailey White saidgrimly. “But by fightingDarryl, we’ve stirred up ahornet’s nest. That’s whatJackie meant by retaliation.We think it’s the reason thetown is suddenly asking

questions about you andDream. Darryl has thebacking of themayor and alltheotherbigwigs in town. Itwouldn’t take but one phonecall from Darryl to get thetowntostartharassingus.”

“I suppose it could be acomplete coincidence,” Jackieadded. “We can’t rule thatout. Either way we have todealwithit.”

“Thereain’tnosuchthingascoincidencewhenitcomestosomething like this,”Mrs.Bailey White scoffed. “Justfollowthetrailanditleadstooneplace:money.”

Priscilla began chewinghernails,somethingI’dneverseen her do before. “Oh,sweet Jesus, what a mess wehavehere,”shesaid,hervoicelow, like her sorrow wasbetween her and the Lord

himself, or maybe it was“graveyard talk,” the thingsyou say to a loved one whohascrossedtotheOtherSide.

“I told them that yourlegal address, and the baby’s,too, is at your grandmother’shouse,” Mrs. Bailey WhitesaidtoPriscilla.“IhopeIdidright.”

“Why, of course you didright,” Priscilla said. “You’veall done right. More than

right.ButIdon’tknowwhatweshoulddonow.”

“Well, before you get anymore upset, let me tell youabout my idea!” Jackie said.She didn’t quite grasp thather ideas were not alwaysjoyfully met, but we weredesperate for any kind ofhope, so we latched onto it.“The clerk said that Dreamshouldn’t be living here,right? But she also said,

‘unlessyouhavealicenseforaschool or a home for unwedmothers and their babies,’ orsomething along those lines.So you see, that’s thesolution!”

“What’s the solution?”Priscillasaid.

“We open a house forunwed mothers and theirbabies!” Jackie saidtriumphantly.“See,wecangothrough the state and

circumvent those idiotsdowntown. I’ve already hadTedlookintoitwhilehe’sinTallahassee. He said itshouldn’tbeaproblem.Thatway it would be okay forDream to stay here and foryou to visit! And maybe wecouldexpand—”

“Imagine that,” Mrs.Bailey White interrupted.“My old house, empty for solong, and it could be a place

full of life. We could call ittheCollierCountyHomeforUnwedMothers.”Icouldseethat Mrs. Bailey White washooked.

“What do you say,Priscilla?” Jackie asked,anxiously. “This way we cankeep Dream and maybe, atsome point, help some otheryoungwomen,too.”

Priscilla smiled. “Jackie, Iadmire your faith,” she said

slowly.“Ifyouallwanttotrytomake thishappen, Iwon’tstand in your way. It soundsliketheLord’sworktome.”

“I’monboard,”PlainJanesaid. “It may not work out,though.Itmightmakethingsworse, at least in the shortterm—”

“Thenwe’lldealwith thatif it happens,” Jackie said,cuttingheroff.Therestofusexchanged glances, and I

guessed that we were all onthesamepage.Thereweren’tnouse in arguing.AsMamausedtosay,“Youcan’treasonwithcrazy.”

Twenty-ThreePriscilla stayed foronlyonemoreday;Jackiedrovehertosee her grandma for a briefvisit.Jackiewaitedinthecar,as she usually did to givePriscillasomeprivacy,butsheasked Priscilla ahead of time

tocheckwithhergrandmatosee if she was aware thatDarryl’s plans might includepaving over the Negrosettlement.

Well,theydidn’tknow,orat least that’swhat they said.Maybe they knewmore thanthey were saying but didn’twanttobecomeatarget.Sadtosay,but itwouldn’thelp iftheygotinvolved.Itwouldn’t

bring any sympathy to oursideofthefight.

Meanwhile, Jackie wasmomentarily distracted bysomething that occurred onthe home front. Judd wasbusymakingamendswithhislawn-mowing business andgot the bright idea that thefamily could reallyuse anewmower.Theonetheybroughtdown from Boston was hardto push through South

Florida grass. Judd had theblades sharpened but thatwasn’t enough. He figuredhe’dmakeadealwithhisdad:Maybe theycouldgo inonanewmowerfifty-fifty.

Before he had the chancetomakehiscasewithTed,hetried a trial run with Jackie.OnethingthatJackiedidnotwant tospendmoneyonwasa lawn mower. She insistedon demonstrating that the

currentmowerwas adequate.The problemwas that Jackiehad never pushed a lawnmower in her life. Shepretended itwas easy, all thewhile struggling to makeprogress,while Judd stood tothesidesulkinganddrinkingaCoke.

At this exact moment,Judd’s classmates rode by ontheir bicycles. The image ofMrs.JackieHartmowingher

own lawn in a muumuu andtennis shoes while her able-bodied son stood to the sidecaused them to stop, stare—and laugh. They took offbefore Judd could sayanything,butthedamagewasdone.Atschoolthenextday,Juddwasteasedmercilessly.

A particularly nasty boy,Calvin Treadwell, saw hisopportunity to take Judddownapegortwo.Juddwas

astarinCivilAirPatrol;thiswas the root of the jealousythat now expressed itselfopenly. “Is thatwhat y’all doup north?” Calvin hissed.“Youletyourmamamowthelawnforyou?”

“That’s not whathappened;mymomwas justtryingtoproveapoint,”Juddhad replied, but no onewanted to hear the truth

whenCalvin’s versionwas somuchbetter.

Calvin used theopportunity to remindeveryoneinearshotthatJuddwas the same “dumb Yankeekid” who ate fried chickenandwatermelonwith a knifeand fork. “He thinks he’sbetter than us,” Calvinsneered.

Itwas a cruel reminder toJudd that he was still very

muchanoutsider.“Whydoesit matter?” he asked mewistfully.Juddhadabscondedwith another melon fromhome and was helping meslice it for the turtles. “Imean,itwaskindoffunny,Iguess,butwhydotheyalwaysbring up the fact about mybeingNorthern?”

“I guess it’s just ’causeyou’redifferent.I’mdifferent,too.”

“How are you different?You mean because of theturtles?”

I thought for a minute.“Well,theturtles,yes,”Isaidslowly.“Butalso,becauseI’mdivorced. Or, especiallybecauseI’mdivorced.”

“Oh,”Juddsaid.“Sotherearesomethingsthatareokay.BeingtheTurtleLadyisfine.Being divorced isn’t. Likebeingfromupnorth.”

“Yes,Iguesssomesinsareworse than others,” I said,meaningitasajokebutitfellflat. “Look, Judd, they’re justpicking on you, that’s all.There’salways folkswhowilldo that. Not just kids.Through your whole lifethere will be people who tryto make you look small, anyway they can, just to makethemselves feel big. It’spathetic, really. But you can

decide if they’re going tomake you unhappy or not.Ignore it. Laugh about it.You’ll see—it will pass.They’llmoveontosomethingelse.”

Sure enough, somethingdid happen. Someonevandalized the Welcome toDreamsville billboards. Oneach one, a crude-lookingtomahawk had been paintedover the head of the smiling

man in the illustration. Thiswas so exciting that no one,even Judd’s mean classmates,couldtalkofanythingelse.

Of course, speculationbegan immediately. Therewereallkindsof theoriesbutthemost popular notion wasthatSeminoleJoehaddoneithimself. It was a warningfrom the ol’ haint that wewereplayingwithfire.

As for myself, I didn’tknowwhat to believe. In thelight of day it was easy todismiss the idea. Late atnight, alone in my cottage,wasanotherstory.

Jackie’s reaction waspredictable. “Oh, herewe goagain,” shesaid. “Newsflash!It’snotSeminoleJoe.ThereisnoSeminoleJoe.It’ssomeonewho is taking advantage ofthe situation. Or maybe it

was just some kids beingfoolish—after all, it’s gettingclosetoHalloween.”

“Is it you?” Mrs. BaileyWhiteasked.

“Of course not! Don’t beridiculous. Those billboardsare set back at least fifteenfeet from the edge of theroad. Do you really think Iwould walk back there? Andthen what—climb up the

billboard?Withacanofpaintandabrush?”

Shehadapoint.“Well, then, who did it?”

Mrs.BaileyWhitepersisted.“It wasn’t me,” I said,

surprised at how defensive Isounded. “Do you think itcouldhavebeenJudd?”

“What?!” Jackie snapped.“He would never do that.Besides, I asked him this

morning, and he said hedidn’t.”

“I’m telling you, it’s notnice to make fun of thepeople around here,” PlainJane said to Jackie. “Theyhave their ways. You haveyours.”

Jackiesniffed.“You don’t understand it

here and maybe you neverwill,”Mrs.BaileyWhitesaid,sounding more than a little

cranky. “People have a rightto be spooked around here.All kinds of nasty thingshappen.”

“Like what?” Jackie wasnothingifnotcurious.

“Well,didyouknowthatacorpse turns to bones intwelvehours?”

“Ew!”“Imean,thewholecycleof

life—and death—is sped uphere. You got to understand

that,Jackie.That’swhyit’ssoeasy for folks to believe inSeminole Joe. Things aredifferent than they seem.This is not a place wherefolksgetsecondchances.Youget lost in the swamp, you’redead.Yougetbitbyasnake,you’re dead. You go outfishing in the Gulf, getcaught in a storm, you’redead.”

“Howcheery.”

“Sarcasmishardlyhelpful,Jackie,”PlainJanesaid.

“Dora,dear,areyougoingto pick on me, too?” Jackiesaid to me, but I could tellshe didn’t really expect ananswer.Shelookedawayand,with surprising force, groundhercigaretteintoanashtray.

Twenty-FourTwo days later, Jackie wasin a far better mood. Thebillboardvandalismhadupsetfolks in a way that nothingelse had. Jackie reported aflurry of letters to the editorcoming into the newspaper’s

office. Not all of them wereprinted,butJackie,onthesly,had been reading each oneandwaskeepingasecrettally—for, against, andwhy.Thebillboardvandalismwasabigboostinourfavor.

Ultimately, she hoped togo to Tallahassee with apetition asking the state tointervenewithDarryl’splans.With enough oppositionfromlocalcitizens,shehoped

DreamsvilleEstatesmightbedropped altogether. Still,Jackie admitted that it wasunclear ifwecouldturnbackthetide.

Meanwhile, Ted hadreturned from a business tripup north that included a daytrip to check out Darryl’sinvestors. “Ted did someexploring for us,” Jackie said.“Well, actually, of course, hewas doing this on Mr.

Toomb’s behalf, but herented a car and drove toBaskingRidge.”

Myheartlurched.“What did he find out?”

Mrs. Bailey White askedimpatiently.

“He actually got to meetthe main investor,” Jackiereplied. Then she turned tome.“Dora,Idon’tknowhowtotellyouthisexceptjustsayit straight out. The young

womanDarryl is marrying—just as we suspected—is thedaughter of the man whoowns the investing firm.HernameisCeleste.”

“I bet she’s ugly as sin,”Mrs. BaileyWhite said withconviction.

“Well, Ted didn’t actuallymeet the daughter,” Jackiesaid quickly. “He met withher father and his colleaguesfordrinksatacountryclub.It

was all very collegial. AndTedsaid itwasaveryquainttown,BaskingRidge,andjustan hour from Manhattan.Wouldn’t that be lovely?Anyway, that’s all I knowrightnow.”

I realized they werelooking at me. “Can wechange the subject?” I asked,abitabruptly.

“I’msorry,Dora,butIhadtotellyou,”Jackiesaid.

“Well, now what do wedo?” Plain Jane asked. “Thatdoesn’t soundverypromisingin terms of using it againstDarryl. I mean since hisinvestors seem on the up-and-up.”

“Well, itwouldbegreat ifit turnsoutthey’recorrupt insome way,” Jackie saidcheerfully, “but it almostdoesn’tmatter.”

“How can it not matter?”PlainJaneaskeduneasily.

“Because I’m going to useit against themanyway.”Sherefused to say anythingfurther but her column thenext week provided ananswer.

YANKEECASHTO

PAYFORDREAMSVILLEDEVELOPMENT?

Neapolitans, sourcessuggest that Mr. DarrylNorwood’s real-estatedevelopment is beingquietly funded by awealthy investor whoresides far north of theMason-Dixon line—inNewJersey, in fact.Whilethe investor and his

colleagues appear to beaboveboard, should it notraisethequestionaboutthefuture of our belovedNaples?

This angle was bothshameless—since, after all,Jackie was a Yankee herself,through and through—andbrilliant. If there was onething you could count on, it

was folks’ distrust of richNortherners.

“NowI seehowtheywonthe war,”Mrs. BaileyWhitesaid, with grudgingadmiration,toPlainJaneandme.“Yankeeswillthrowtheirown kind off a cliff to getwhattheywant.”

The column raised alarmbells and sparked the ire ofthe Collier County Sons ofthe Confederacy, one more

importantgroupnowsquarelyin our back pocket. Jackie’snewestimateof letterstotheeditorwas50percentinfavorofthedevelopmentcomparedtocloseto90percentjusttwomonthsbefore.

While I was pleased withJackie’s progress, it wasanyone’s guess if her planswould actually work or howlong they would take. ThefactwasIneededtogetback

toMississippi or I’d have nojob at the library and norented room at Mrs.Conroy’s.ItwaslateOctober1964. It was time to fish orcut bait, or, in other words,stoppostponing.

JackieandtheothersknewI had to leave. But someone—and, unfortunately, thatperson was me—needed toinform Dolores Simpson. Icouldhavegoneawaywithout

saying good-bye to her, Isuppose,butIknewI’dneverbe able to live with myself.She deserved to hear thateven if I hadn’t beensuccessful, I had tried.Sometimes, that had to beenough. And, surely, itcountedforsomething.

But I sure wasn’t lookingforward to saying that toDolores. I’d stood up to herandsurvivedbutIwasn’tsure

myluckwouldholdasecondtime.Tobehonest,Iwasstillscaredtodeathofher.

IdecidedI shouldbringapresent—an apology of sorts—so I spent hours makingMama’shomemadebiscuits.ItookabasketthatI’dusedforpicking flowers and filled itwith the biscuits and a smallham I bought at the Winn-Dixie. Even though I wassure that her son, Robbie-

Lee, must be sending hermoney when he could, shewas not likely to spend it onluxurieslikemeat.

When I arrived and shesaw the basket, she knew itwas either a celebration or afarewell gift.A glance at theguilty look on my face, andsheknewwhichoneitwas.

“So, you weren’t able tostop him,” she said gruffly. Iwatched her hands as she

workedwithatoolthesizeofa nail file on a flat piece ofpine.Ittookmeamomenttorealizethatshewasmakingasign.

“I didn’t know you weresuch an expert woodworker,”Isaid.

“Oh, girl, there’s a wholelot of things you don’t knowabout me,” she said, withoutlookingup.

“What’s your new signsay?”Iasked.

She turned it around andheld it up for me to see. Itread Trespassers Will BeShot, except one letter wasoutofplacesoitactuallysaid“Trepsassers.”

“Well,now,”Isaid,“that’swhat I call amighty friendlysign.” I said nothing abouttheerror.

“Just want to warn folksoff, fair and square, if theycome snoopin’ around here.Like your Darryl, forexample. I’m half expectin’him to show up at any time—”

“Like I told you andeveryone else, he’s not myDarryl!” I said. “Notanymore.”

“Well if he comes ’roundherehe’slikelytogethishead

blowed off,” she said with asniff.

“Look, Dolores, I’m hereto say I’m sorry,” I saidwearily. “I’m going back toMississippi.ButIwantedyouto know that I tried. I reallydid.”Isetmypresentofhamandbiscuitsdownbesideher.

“Thank you,” she said.“For that there present. And—thankyoufortrying.”

“Well, I’m a-gonna gonow,” I said. “Next time I’mback, I hope to get to seeRobbie-Lee.Ihopehecomeshome to Collier County bythen.”

She shrugged. “Don’tknow if we’ll ever see thatday.”

“I’mgoingtowritetohimtolethimknowwhat’sgoingon,” I said. “He would be

here helping you if you toldhimthetruth.”

I expected her to say,“Don’tyoudare.”Butinsteadshemuttered,“Suityourself.”

I turned to look at thenight heron and for somereasontearsfilledmyeyes.“Iwish there wasmore I coulddo,” I said sadly. “AboutDarryl, I mean. I wish I’dnever married him.” Shedidn’t say anything so I

added, “Well, good-bye,Dolores,” and I turned andwalkedaway.

I’d gone ten or fifteenyards away when she calledouttome.“Hedon’towntheland.”

Istoppedinmytracks.“He don’t own the land,”

Dolores repeated. “He didn’tbuyitfairandsquare.”

I turned around warily.Was this a ploy to keep me

fromgivingup?Didshewantme topostponemy tripbacktoMississippi, stayhere, andcontinue the fight againstDarryl?

“What do you mean?” Icalled back. “Darryl told thenewspaper that he bought itfrom some folks inKentuckywhohavebeenhangingontoitforyears.”

Dolores drew in a sharpbreath. “That’s a lie,” she

shouted. “He didn’t buy it.Hemust havemade that up,because I’m the one fromKentucky. Imeanmy peoplewere from Kentucky. I ownit. The land. The river. Thewhole thing, lock, stock, andbarrel.”

I couldn’t havebeenmoresurprised if the night heronhad started singing “HowGreat ThouArt.” I thought,Surely I didn’t hear that right.

But if it was true, or partlytrue, it could changeeverything. And somethingabout the expression onDolores’s face made merealize it wasn’t a lie. Shelooked frightened.Vulnerable.

“Well,” I said slowly.“What in the name of oursweet Savior would you betalkingabout?”

“ComeinsideandI’llshowyou.”

“Showmewhat?”“LikeIsaid,you’llhaveto

comeinside.”“Why are you telling me

about this now? I’ve beenhome two months. Why didyouwait?”

She hesitated. “I washoping it could be handledsomeotherway,”shesaid.

We had a standoff forabout three or four minutes,which in the swamp heat offar South Florida feels morelike three or four hours.Finally, I gave in, but I triedto look tough as I did so,althoughIdidn’tfeelit.

She directed me to thesmall table I rememberedfrommypreviousvisit.“Now,sitdownandcloseyoureyes,”shesaid.

This seemed like a stupidthing to do but I did itanyway.Forall IknewIwasabout to get a hatchet overthe top of my head. Butagain, there was somethingnew in the toneofhervoice.There was no edge to it, nobitterness,asifshe’dsetdowna burden too heavy to carryanymore. Her voice actuallysounded younger, like thewoman shemight have been

yearsbefore.Shewalkedawayfrom me in the dim, indoorlight. “Are they closed?” shecalled.

“Oh, all right,” I saidimpatiently. “Yes, they’reclosed.But theywon’t be forlong.”

I heard a board creaking,followed by what seemed tobehershufflingaround.ThenIheardwhatsoundedlikethetopofalargejarorcontainer

being unscrewed. Moreshuffling around. Then thetop being screwed back onagain. I heard a scrapingnoise, followed by a latchclickingintoplace.

“Dolores, I am not goingto sit here forever with myeyes closed,” I said, trying tosound angry and impatientwhen in fact I was terrified.There’s a fine line between

bravery and stupidity, and IthinkI’dcrossedit.

Iheardherfootstepsasshemoved closer to me. I heldmy breath. “Okay,” she said,“you can open your eyesnow.”

She stood less than threefeetfromme,ontheoppositeside of the table, holdingseveralpiecesofpaper inherhands.

“What in the world?” Iasked.

She didn’t reply. She setthemonthe table in frontofme. I picked them upcarefully, but there wasn’tenough light in the fishingshack to read them. Isquinted but still couldn’tdecipherthewords.We’dleftthedoorajar,creatingashaftoflight,andwithoutthinking

Istoodupandwalkedtowardit.

“You ain’t leaving herewith them papers!” Doloresshouted.

“I’m not leaving!” I saidquickly. “I just need somelight so I can read them,that’s all.” I stayed stock-stilluntil she was reassured. Along minute passed, and Islowly handed the papersback toward her. “Here,” I

said,“takethemback.Idon’twantyoutobeupset.”

I thought she might grabthem and—woe is me!—Iwouldnevergettoreadthem.Maybe, the papers werenothing important at all. Ormaybe they could changemylifeandhers,andawholelotofotherpeoplewholovedtheriver. Instead of taking themfromme, though, shemovedcloser to me and took my

arm,agesturewhichtooktenyears off my life. Yet all shedidwasgentlysteermeclosertotherayoflightbythedoor.

“My eyes are not as goodas theyused tobe,” she said.“And the ink has faded. Ihaven’t looked at them in along time. Now, you readthemtome.”

I began to read the firstone. Instantly, I realized itwasadeedofsomesort.The

languagecamefromalawyer,Ihadnodoubt.Lawyershadapeculiarwayofmaking theEnglish language seem a lotmore convoluted than itactuallywas.Therewere lotsof “herebys” and otherhighfalutin words until Ifinally got to the good part:the name of the person whoowned the property and thedate,“theThirdDayofApril1877.”

I recognized the name:General John StuartWilliams, a United StatesSenator from Kentucky whohad been a Confederategeneral. Williams wasgenerally credited as thefounderofNaples.

As for the property, Iknew it immediately. Itdescribed the exact spotwhereIwasstanding,andall

the way past the Negrovillage.

In other words, it wasalmostexactlythesameparcelthat included the river andsurrounding land whereDarrylwas planning to buildhisDreamsville.

•••

AN HOUR LATER I HIKEDback to the main roadcarrying the precious deed,

along with a few othermiscellaneouspiecesofpaperthatmightormightnothavehad anything to do with thedeed.

Dolores had gently rolledthe documents into a scrollwhich she covered with alayerof spatterdock lilies andtied with Florida bear grass.Allthis,tokeeptheelementsfrom attacking our preciousdocuments during my walk

backtotown.Still,Iprayeditwouldn’t rain. The skies hadbeenthreateningallday.

I say “our” documentsbecausethatiswhattheyhadbecome.Once they left theirsecret hiding place insideDolores’s fishing shack, theywere mine, too. Mine toprotect,andminetoshare.Itwasn’t that Dolores trustedme. I was simply her besthopeandlastchance.

I went directly home andput the papers into Mama’sold trunk.Then Iwent backout, locking the door behindme, which, I realized, wasonly the third or fourth timein my life I had bothered. Iwas so energized by myexciting secret that IcommencedtowalkingallthewaytoJackie’shouse.

One of Jackie’s twinsopened the door a crack,

announced that her motherwas not home, and shut thedoor. Never mind thatJackie’s car was in thedriveway. I knocked again,andwaitedanembarrassinglylongtime.WhenJuddswungopenthedoor,Iwashappyasa Cheshire cat with a newcontainerofPy-co-payToothPowder.

“Come on in, Mom’s inthe kitchen,” he said. “Sorry

aboutmysister.”Jackie was trying one of

Mrs. Bailey White’s recipes,Died and Gone to HeavenCake. She was five minutesawayfromtakingitoutoftheoven. She took one look atme—Ihadhardlyeverwalkedallthewaytoherhouse—andknew I had big news. Theproblem was the twindaughterswerelurkingabout,and I didn’t trust them one

bit.EvenJudd—Iwasn’tsurehe should be in on this,either. He had gone out tothecarporttoworkononeofhisscienceexperiments.

Finallythecakewasdone,and Jackie set it out to cool.“Girls,” she shouted, almostknocking out my eardrum.“I’m going out with MissWitherspoon.Themeatloafisstillinthefridge—justtakeitout when you’re ready for

dinner. And be sure to leavesomeforyourbrother,wouldyou please? Don’t be greedy!And—are you listening tome?Don’t any of you touch thiscakeuntilIgetback.”Tome,shesaid,“Mygirlshateme.IwishIknewwhy.”

She started demandinganswersbeforeweevengottothe car. The convertible topwas up; Jackie wasanticipatingthat itwasgoing

to rain. “What’s going on?”she asked. “Where are wegoing?”

“I guess to Mrs. BaileyWhite’s,”Isaidwithashrug.The old Victorian murderhousewas,more thanever, arefuge for the remainingmembers of our old bookclub.

“Are you going to tellmewhat this is about?” Jackiepleaded.

“Ihavesomethingtoshowyou,” I said. “Some oldpapers.”

“Oldpapers?”“Yes, but I didn’t bring

them with me because itlooks like rain.” In fact, thewind was picking up and adelugewas increasingly likely—one of those tropical rainsthatcomesdownsohardthatit feels like someone inheavenopenedaspigot.

“Dora, please tell mewhat’sgoingon,”shesaid.

“Well,” I saidbreathlessly,“you are not going to believeit. I almost don’t know howtosayit.”

“OhforPete’s sake,Dora,justspititout,wouldyou?”

I frowned. Yankees couldbe so rude. What anexpression—“spit it out.”Mercy.

“Allright,allright,”Isaid.“Ithinktheremaybeawaytostop Darryl.” I paused, thenblurtedout,“Doloresgavemesome old papers. One ofthemlookslikeadeed.”

“What?Adeed?Youmeanalanddeed?”

“Yes.And itappears to bea large piece of land thatincludes the river,” I said.“ButIdidn’tlookatitallthatlong.”

“Soyoudon’thave itwithyou—thisdeed?”

“No, it’s hidden in a safeplace, along with the otherpapers.”

“Where?”“Myhouse.”Jackie hit the brakes and

did one of her famouslysloppy three-point turns,right there in the middle ofthe Tamiami Trail with mescreaming the whole time.

HowIwishedIhadmyowncar.

“Where we going?” Ihowled.

“Backtoyourhouse,toseethose papers, of course!”Jackieyelled.Thewomanwascrazy.Plumbjackcrazy.

“Nowwait just aminute!”I shouted, surprising myselfas much as Jackie. “I’m theone who has been entrustedwiththepapers,andIthinkI

shouldhavesomesayinwhatwe’regoingtodo!”

Jackie surrendered.“Okay,” she said, pulling tothesideoftheroad.“Youtellmewhatyouwanttodo.”

“WecangetthepapersbutI’mnotshowingthemtoyouuntil we’re at Mrs. BaileyWhite’s house where we canall look at them at the sametime.”

Jackie started to protestbut I heldmy ground. “Stopyourfussing,Jackie,anddrivethecar.”Andtomysurprise,shedid.

Twenty-FiveI may need my smellingsalts,” Mrs. Bailey Whiteannounced. “Do y’all realizewhatthisis?”

None of us being lawyers,weweren’tsurewhatwewerelooking at, but Mrs. Bailey

White recognized the nameonthedeed,justasIhad.

“This could be our savinggrace,gals,”shesaid,fanningherselfwithherhand.“Oneisdefinitely a land deed, but Idon’tknowabouttherest.”

The only legal papers I’deverseteyesonwereMama’shandwritten will and mydivorcepapers.Jackiewasataloss, too. But Plain Jane hadmoreworldlyexperience.She

had worked for a landsurveyor during thewar, andlater, for an insurancecompany. This was longbeforeher current careerasamagazine writer, but sheremembered the earlier jobswell.

“Ican’tsayforcertain,butI think this second piece ofpaper is a trust document,”Plain Jane said. “And thisthirdpieceofpaper—itlooks

like a birth certificate, filledout by amidwife for ahomebirth. For a newborn by thename of Bunny AnnMcIntyre.”

“Who in the world isthat?”Jackiesaid.

“Well, whoever it is, shecomes from royalty,” PlainJane said. “Not QueenElizabeth kind of royalty.More like Collier Countyroyalty. That is, if she’s a

direct descendant—andmaybe the heir—of the oldgeneral. Now, this lastdocument doesn’t look asauthentic.It justseemslikeacrude family tree thatsomebodyhasdrawnup.Butagain, if you look carefully,”she added, studying thepaper, “you’ll see the nameBunny Ann McIntyre onthere.”

I cleared my throat. “Iknow who she is. DoloresSimpson told me that’s herreal name. She says she’sBunnyAnnMcIntyre.”

“Are you kidding me?”Jackie shrieked, almostdroppingalitcigarette.

“Ha, ha, ha, ain’t thatsomething?” Mrs. BaileyWhite said, clapping herhandstogether.

“DoyouthinkRobbie-Leeknows?”PlainJaneasked.

“I don’t think he knowsany of this,” I said. “I don’tthinksheeverwantedhimtoknow.Atleast,aslongasshewasalive.”

“Well, how do we knowany of it’s true?” Jackie said,bringing us back to earth.“This may be a bunch ofdonkeyexcrement.”

“What?” Plain Jane said,frowning. “What kind ofsayingisthat?”

“Oh, something I used tohear up north,” Jackie said.“It’s just a polite way to say—”

“Never mind,” Iinterrupted. “How are wegoing to find out if it’s true?What if we can use this tostopDarryl?”

We were lost in our ownthoughts. “Whowould nametheir daughter Bunny Ann?”Jackie said suddenly, with asnort.

“Well, you named yourdaughters Bronwyn andHalcyon,” Plain Jane said.“No wonder they’re mad atyouallthetime.”

“But those are familynames,” Jackie saiddefensively.

“Maybe Bunny Ann is afamilyname.”Plain Janehadapoint.

“Ladies! Ladies! Please,”criedMrs.BaileyWhite.“Wehave more important fish tofry.”

“Agreed,” I said hastily.“What we need is a lawyer.Jackie, what about thoselawyers you talked to on thetelephone in New York andBoston? The ones who gave

youadviceaboutDarrylusingyourname—”

“No, no, no,”Mrs. BaileyWhiteinterrupted.“Wedon’tneed some highfalutinYankee lawyer! What weneedisalocalboy.”

Naples was a small townand between us we quicklycame up with a list of everylawyer in town.They all hadties, however, to the mostpowerful folks in town.

Finally,weagreedthatseveralof us shouldmake a day tripuptoFortMyersinsearchofa lawyer.Whether one couldbe found—indeed, whetherone existed—who wouldmeetwithallofourapproval,and who was willing to lookinto our situation, wouldremain to be seen. But asMama used to say, “You’vegot to get out there and try.Sitting at home and doing

nothingbutfrettin’willnevergetyouanywhere.”

•••

IDIDNOTHAVEA dime tocontribute and felt badly forit, but between Jackie, Mrs.BaileyWhite,andPlainJane,therewasenoughtopayforalawyer.

They returned from FortMyers feeling triumphant,having managed to find “a

nice young man who is notconnected,” as Jackieexplained. This made me alittle uneasy. “Young” couldbe good; passion and energymight trump experience.“Unconnected” to Jackie andthe others meant“uncontaminated,” but Iwonderedifitmighttranslateaspowerless.

The lawyer’s name wasJohnEdYonce.Hewasvery

interestedinthecasebutsaidhe’d have to meet Doloresfirst. This, of course, was aproblem.Howwouldwe getDolorestogotoFortMyers?EvenifJackieofferedtodriveherup there,wedidn’t thinkshewouldgo.

Somehow, Jackie hadpersuadedpoorMr.Yoncetocome to Collier County andmeetDolores at her home. Isay poor Mr. Yonce because

thatfellawasinoverhishead.I don’t think there wasanything he learned in lawschool that could havepreparedhimforDolores.OrJackie,forthatmatter.

Jackie offered to transportMr. Yonce from FortMyersto Naples if necessary butannounced that she wouldnot drive him to Dolores’sfishing shack. “It’s horriblefor my car,” she declared. “I

reallydon’twanttodrivebackthere again.”Andwho couldblameher?

NeitherMrs.BaileyWhitenor Plain Jane were in apositiontohelp.Thatleftmeto figure out what to do. Icould escort him by foot orcanoe. Mr. Yonce chose thelatter.

The next morning, Iwaited at the public boatlaunch as agreed. The day

startedbadly.WhenItriedtopay the fee to rent the canoewith a Kennedy fifty-centpiece, the man in chargerefused to accept the coinonaccount of the fact that hewasaKennedyhater.Now,Ifound this disgusting for avariety of reasons. Numberone, Kennedy was dead—assassinated!—and the way Iwas raised, “of the dead saynothing evil.” Secondly, he

had been our president andthereforedeservedourrespectwhetheryouagreedwithhimornot.Lastbutnotleast,thecoin was issued by ourgovernment and wastherefore as legitimate as atwenty-dollarbilloranythingelse.

Well, I won that battlebased on the last point. Hetookmyfifty-centpiece,butIwasleftwithasickfeelingin

my stomach and an angryheadache.

IwasrelievedwhenJackiefinally pulled up. A man Ipresumed to be Mr. Yoncesat beside her in the frontseat. Was it some kind ofmistake? He didn’t lookmucholder thanJudd.Asheclimbed out of the car, myheart sankeven furtherwhenI saw that he was wearing asuitandwing-tipshoes.

Jackietookoffwithawaveofthehand,leavingustoourownintroductions.

“My, isn’t shesomething?!” he said. “Mrs.Hart,Imean.Shetoldmeallabout her radio show, howshe gave that up, and nowshe’s writing a newspapercolumn.”

“Oh, she’s something elseallright,”Isaidwithasmile.Men of all ages were always

impressed with Jackie.WhatIdidn’tsaywas,Ohboy,ifyouthink Jackie is something else,just wait until you meet MissBunny Ann McIntyre, akaDoloresSimpson.

“Thankyou for takingmetoday,”hesaid.

“Mr. Yonce, um, why areyouwearing...thoseclothes?”Iasked.

“Because I’m meeting aclient!”hesaidasifitwasthe

most obvious thing in theworld.

Heputonalifesavingvest—fewofuslocalsworethem,even though theyweremadeavailable at the dock—andclimbeddaintilyinthecanoe.I could see I had a long dayaheadofme.

“Aren’t you going to helpmepaddle?”Iasked.

“I don’t know how,” hesaid.

“I’ll show you how,” Ireplied.“Getinthefront.”

Despite my instructions,Mr. Yonce was not muchhelp, especially after a ten-foot gator splashed into thewater from a riverbank notten feet from us.Mr. Yonceproceeded to do exactly thewrong thing: He panickedandstoodup.

“Sit down, Mr. Yonce!You’llflipusover!”Iyelled.

Hedidashewastold,butafter that he didn’t try topaddle at all. After a fewminutes he asked mypermission to turn aroundandfaceme.Idon’tthinkheeven wanted to look at thewatertherestofthetrip.

“Where the heck did yougrowup?”Iasked.

“Atlanta,” he said.“Downtown. Near PeachtreeStreet.”

Well,thatexplainedafewthings. “Whatcha doing inFlorida?”

“Wanted to startsomewhere new,” he said.“But I didn’t know it wasgoing to be like this,” headdedhastily.

I started to feel sorry forhim. This was always mydownfall. I could not staymad at someone I felt sorryfor.

“See those trees there?” Iasked, trying to distract him.“Those are calledmangroves.They are incredibly adaptive—”

“What is thatover there?”he asked nervously. “Thatthingnearthemangroves.”

I saw the back of amanatee bobbing in thewater. “Oh, that’s just a seacow,” I said reassuringly.“Don’t worry, they don’t eat

people. They only eatvegetation. They are thegentlestcreaturesonearth.”

“Oh,”hesaidwithaweaksmile.“Gladtohearit.”

Withmepaddlingaloneittook a good forty-fiveminutestoarriveatDolores’sdock,and,asluckwouldhaveit,shewasn’tthere.Itossedarope aroundoneof thepostsand secured the canoe, notthat it was going anywhere.

Thetideandthecurrentweregentlypushingusagainst thedock for now. At leastsomething was going in ourfavor.

“Do we have to get out?”mypassengeraskedsomberly.

“What?Outof thecanoe?Why,yes,ofcoursewedo.”

“I’d rather not,” he said,lookingaround.

“Who’s there?” Doloresbellowed from the vicinity of

the outhouse. “What do y’allwant?”

“Dolores,” I called out,“it’s me, Dora Witherspoon,andI’vebroughta...friend.Hewantstomeetyou.”

“Well, I don’t want tomeet him,” she shouted. Butshe was walking toward us,craninghernecktogetalookathim.Anothermomentandshewasonthedock,loomingover us. Then she burst out

laughing. “What’s hewearing?Asuitandtie?Haveyoulostyourmind,Mr.—?”

“—Yonce,” he saidautomatically. “Pleased tomeetyou.”Hewasstillsittingin the canoe, gripping thesides.

“Mr. Yonce is anattorney,” I said. “A lawyer.He’sheretohelpus.”

“I know what an attorneyis,” Dolores said. “You must

think I’m dumb as this posthere,” she said, shoving acallousedhandagainstoneofthe wood pilings, whichshook slightly. The wholestructure,shackandall,couldcomecrashingdown into thewaterforallIknew.Andyetit had survivedmany storms,even Hurricane Donna, soperhaps the underpinningswere sturdier than theyappeared.

“I do not think you’redumb and you know it,” Isaid, a little surprised atmyself for sounding so fresh.“Mr. Yonce came quite adistance to talk to you. Soplease hear what he has tosay.”

“Arey’allgoing togetoutof this here canoe?” Doloresasked, putting her hands onherhips.

“I’m quite comfortablehere,” Mr. Yonce said, “butthankyousomuch.”

Dolores stifled a chuckle.“Youmeanyoudon’twanttocome insideandmaybesit inmy, er, parlor?” She laughedheartily at her own joke,whichstartledPeggySue,thenight heron, who made anunhappysquawk.

“Uh-oh,” I said, “nowwe’veupsetPeggySue.”

“Peggy Sue is a bird,”DoloressaidtoMr.Yoncebyway of explanation. “Overyon, up in a tree. She besittingonhereggslikeagoodmama.”

Mr. Yonce looked fromDolores to me and backagain. “Yes, um, okay,” hesaid, clearing his throat. Hebegan talking very fast,explaining that if Doloresagreed, he could file papers

that would stop Darryl fromproceeding with constructionuntilajudgecouldreviewtherightful ownership of theland.

“I have done somepreliminary work,” he said,“anddidsomeresearchonthedocumentsthat,Iunderstand,belongtoyou.”

Dolores, still standing onthedock,nodded.Iwonderedhow many lawyers had met

with a client like this, sittingina canoeandwearinga lifevest.

“What I learned is thatyourmaindocumentisadeedput in trust, with a largeamount of cash, many yearsago,” he said. “It’s called aperpetualtrust,anditwassetup by General John StuartWilliams—your ancestor.The taxes have been paidautomatically through the

trust. Very clever idea—maybe the old general wasconcerned aboutcarpetbaggers trying to grabproperty when the ownerswere late paying their taxes.Now, in your case, this wassetupatabankinPensacola.Thereweren’tmanybanks inFlorida in those days, andfortunately, the one thegeneral chosewas bought up

byotherbanksovertheyearsandisstillinexistence.”

“So thebank inPensacolahas been taking money fromthe trust to pay the taxes alltheseyears?”Iasked.

“Yes,” the young lawyersaid.Hepausedforamomentto wipe his forehead with amonogrammed handkerchief.“I believe the deed in Mr.Darryl Norwood’s custodymust be a fake,” he added.

“I’mnotsurewherehegotit,andI’mnotsureitmatterstous. If it’s fabricated and heknows it, he could facecriminal charges, but that’sbeyond what I think weshouldbefocusedonhere.”

“Well, then, what are wefocused on here?” Doloresaskedsuspiciously.

“Producing your deed incourt and stopping Darryl

Norwood’sdevelopmentinitstracks.”

Dolores grinned. “Ain’tyou some youngwhippersnapper?” she asked,causing him to blushflamingo pink from the baseof his neck to his forehead.“Well,” she added, “that’swhat I want. It’s only right.ThewayIwasraised, landisthe greatest wealth a person

can have, other than family.There’sjustoneproblem.”

“What’s that?”Mr. Yonceaskednervously.

“Ican’tpayyouforallthiswork you’re doing,” she said.“I’m land rich but cashpoor.UnlessIcangetmyhandsonsome of that money in thetrust.Butsomethingtellsmethatmoney’stiedupinaneatlittleknot.Orelseitwouldn’tbetherenomore.”

“You are correct,” Mr.Yonce said. “We can lookintoitbutIratherdoubtyouhave access to it.Themoneyis there to pay the taxes yearafter year, just to be sure itstaysinthefamily.”

“Dolores,” I interrupted,“yourfriendsaregoingtopayMr.Yonce.”

“Whatfriends?”“Dolores, I thought I told

you before. If we needed to

hire a lawyer, Mrs. BaileyWhite,PlainJane,andJackieHartaregoingtopayforit.IfI had any money, I wouldchipin,too.”

“What about your son?”Mr.YonceaskedDolores.Heshuffled through his notes.“Robbie-Lee Simpson, livesinNewYorkCity.Worksasanusheratatheater.”

“What about him?”Doloressaidicily.

“Canhehelpyou?Imeanfinancially?Have you spokentohim?”

Dolores sighed. “I getletters from him. He’s beengone over a year now, but Idon’t want him to think Ineedhim.”

“But Dolores,” I saidgently, “the fact is you doneedhim.”

“He needs to be broughtintothepictureiffornoother

reason than he is your heir,”Mr.Yoncesaid.

“Ihadn’tthoughtofitlikethat,”DoloressaidsosoftlyIbarelyheardher.“Goahead,”sheadded.“Justdowhatyougottodo.”

Mr. Yonce asked a fewotherquestions.Hadsheeverhad a driver’s license? ASocial Security card? Wasthereabirthcertificate,other

than the one filled out by amidwife?

She said no to theremainder of his questions,but I had a feeling that hermindwasnowfaraway.

Twenty-SixOuryounglawyer,blesshiscity-born heart, was turningouttobearealgo-getter.Hecalled Jackie the followingafternoonwith big news:Hehad persuaded a CollierCounty judge to sign a stop-

workorderonDarryl’sprojectuntilahearingcouldbeheld.

The only downside wasthat the judge wanted thehearing to take place thefollowing Wednesday, whichdid not give us much time,Jackiesaid.

Timeforwhat?Iwonderedtomyself. I’d leftMississippiduring the last week ofAugust. It was now earlyNovember. From my way of

thinking, the sooner thiswhole thing was over, thebetter.But therewereseveraldetails that Mr. Yonceneededtonaildown.

Jackie explained it to usover tea sandwiches preparedby Mrs. Bailey White. “Hesaid he has to hire agenealogist to verify thatDolores—er, Bunny—is infact a descendant of thegeneral,”shesaid.“Heknows

a professional who could dotheworkpronto.”

“What if there are otherdescendants?” Plain Janeasked.

“Good question!” Jackiesaid. “Actually, even if thereare others it only takes onedescendant to step forwardand file a stop-work orderand have a chance to provethatDarryl is not the ownerof the property. If there are

other descendants, well, theycan sort out what they wantto do—or not do—with theproperty later. It’s notrelevantnow.”

“Jackie,youarestartingtosound like a lawyer,” PlainJaneteased.

“Well, I talked to Mr.Yonce on the phone for anhour,andhewasprettygoodabout explaining things tome. You know, I always

wanted to be a lawyer. Imean, if I had a profession,that’swhatI—”

“What else did he say?” Iinterrupted.

“Oh,” Jackie said,flustered. “Let’s see.There isacopyofthedeedatthebankin Pensacola. The fact thatDolores—uh, Bunny—hasthe original deed is veryimportant.Possessionisnine-tenthsofthelaw.”

“There’s something I’mwondering about,” I said.EvenIcouldheartheanxietyin my voice. “I hate to saythis, but even if thegenealogistshowsthatBunnyAnn McIntyre is a directdescendant of the general,howdoweknowforsurethatsheis,infact,therealBunnyAnnMcIntyre?”

“I thought of that, too,”Plain Jane said, speaking

quickly. “She says she’sBunny Ann McIntyre butshe’s been using the nameDolores Simpson for a longtime. Darryl’s lawyers couldclaim she’s not the realBunny. We need someadditionalproof.Dowehaveit?”

We all started talking atonce,justlikeinouroldbookclubdays.“Girls,girls,oneat

a time!” Mrs. Bailey Whitesaid.“Dora,youfirst.”

“Well, when I took Mr.Yonce to meet with her, heasked if she’d ever had adriver’s license or a SocialSecuritycardandshesaidno.He also asked if she had acopy of her birth certificateother than the one we’ve allseenalready—theonewrittenupbyamidwife.Again—no.”

“What about a familyBible?” Mrs. Bailey Whiteasked.

“Yes,” I said, “she saidthere was one and her namewas written in it, but shedoesn’t know where it isnow.”

“Excuseme, could I get aword in edgewise here?”Jackie asked crossly. Shepushedadanglinglockofhairout of her eyes. “I already

talkedtoMr.Yonceaboutallthis!”

“And what did he say?”PlainJanesaid.

“He said this was all fineand good, but that it wouldbe very helpful if we couldprove she’d ever used thenameBunnyAnnMcIntyre.”

“How are we going to dothat?” Mrs. Bailey Whitesaid,dejected.

“Well, ideally, if we hadsome sort of identificationfrom her younger days,especially if there was aphotograph or, even better,fingerprints. Mr. Yonce saidshe could be fingerprintedagain today and if it were amatch, then there would benoquestion.”

“GoodLord,”Mrs.BaileyWhite said. “Webetterhope

she was arrested somewherealongtheline.”

Jackiesmiledinawrysortof way. “Funny,” she said,“that’s exactly what ourlawyersaid.”

“Maybe it’s time wecheckedinwithRobbie-Lee,”Plain Jane said. “He mightknow.”

“Iwonder how he’s doingway up thar in New YorkCity,” Mrs. Bailey White

said,makingitsoundasifhewere on a dangerousexpeditiontotheNorthPole.“Imean,Iwonder ifhe’sgothimselfanyfriends.”

“Hesoundsprettygoodinhisletters,”Isaid.

“Yes, but do you thinkhehas a special friend?” Jackieasked hopefully. Robbie-Leewas what my mama’sgeneration called “a doll”—handsome, charming,

debonair, and absolutelyuseless in the romancedepartment. He wasn’tinterested in women in theBiblical sense, but he waskind and respectful, andawfullyfuntohavearound.

“Ihaveno idea,”I said. “Ijusthopeheisn’tlonely.”

•••

THATEVENING,WITHOURBLESSINGS, Jackie began

trying to reach Robbie-Leeby telephone. I wish we hadincluded him sooner. Afterall, this whole messconcerned his mother. Butnow our lawyer, Mr. Yonce,saiditcouldn’twait.

Jackie had some troublereaching Robbie-Lee. Thelong-distance operator saidtherewasnotelephoneattheaddress of the apartmentwhere he lived—not too

surprising, since having aphone was expensive andRobbie-Lee was pinchingpennies. Jackie finally calledthe Booth Theatre onBroadway where Robbie-Leeworkedasanusherand,afterpersuading one of the box-office ladies that this was afamily emergency, a messagewas left for Robbie-Lee tocallhercollectonhisbreak.

He called back within anhour, Jackie said, and wascompletely frantic. Jackieexplainedwhatwasgoingon,as rapidly as she could. Hewasrelieved,shetoldus,thatnothing terrible hadhappened to his mother—hewassurethat’swhyJackiehadcalled—but he was furiousaboutDarryl’splans, the firsthe’dheardofthem.

When Jackie told himabout the deed, she couldn’tjudge his reaction. If he wassurprised, it wasn’t obvious.Then she told him the courtdate—just one week away—and asked if there was anychancehecouldcome.

“By the way,” she askedbeforetheygotoffthephone,“would you happen to knowif, well, if your mother hasever been arrested? It would

taketoolongtoexplainrightnow but it would help usprovehercase.”

There was a long pause,Jackie said, and then hereplied,“Yes,Ithinkshewas.Alongtimeago,beforeIwasborn.Whenshewasworkingas a, um, dancer in Tampa.”Then he added, “Listen,Jackie, I have to get back toworknow.”

Shesaiditwashardtotellifthatwerereallytrue.

Twenty-SevenWhile Mr. Yonce scouredthe arrest records up inHillsborough County, wetried to keep our mindsoccupied. We tried variousthings to distract us,including a picnic on the

beach, an excursion to thelibrary, and then a cookoutwherewegota littletipsyonaccountofMrs.BaileyWhitemakingJell-Owine.

Then Plain Jane got thisideathatweshouldreviveourbook club, just for the timebeing. I was eager toparticipate. Working at thelibrary in Jackson meant I’dbeen reading all the latestbooksastheycamein.Iread

anything and everything. Iwas impatiently awaitingHemingway’s latest, AMoveable Feast, which wascominginDecember,andI’djust finished an unusualautobiographical novel by ayoung woman withschizophrenia called I NeverPromisedYouaRoseGarden.

“What books have youread lately?” I askedbreathlessly.

“Ha! Funny you shouldask,” Plain Jane replied. Inoticed everyone turned tolookatJackie.

“What?” Jackie asked.“Oh,Iknowwhatyoumean.That book, Tropic of Cancer.Are you familiar with it,Dora? A novel, written byHenry Miller and publishedin France in the ’30s.Apparently, considered toovulgarforAmericans.”

“That’s because it isvulgar!” Mrs. Bailey Whitealmostshouted.

“Well, let’s just say thatsome of it is not in goodtaste,”PlainJanesaid.Bywayof explanation to me, sheadded, “It was finallypublished in the U.S. a fewyearsagoandthenthecourtssaid it was obscene. I thinkit’s available again now.Anyway,Jackiegotherhands

on a copy. Jackie, how didyougetit,anyway?”

Jackie lit a cigarette. “Ididn’t buy it at the BookNook,that’sforsure.”

“We read passages of italoud, and it was shocking!”Mrs.BaileyWhitehowled.

“Oh, I was just trying togetusoutoftherutwewerein.”

“Whatrutwasthat?”PlainJaneasked.

“Reading books that weretoosafe.”

“What elsedid you read?”Iasked.

“Well, just before youcame home we’d beendiscussing Cross Creek byMarjorie Kinnan Rawlings,”PlainJanesaid.

“Oh, I read that in highschool and liked it verymuch,”Isaid,thrilledthatwewerenowonsaferground.If

only Priscilla, Robbie-Lee,and the librarian, MissLansbury,werehere,itmightfeellikeoldtimes.

“Idon’tknowwhywereadthat,” Jackie grumbled. “Ireally didn’t care for it thatmuch.”

“She’s the same authorwho wrote The Yearling,”PlainJanerepliedtestily,“andwealllovedthat.”

“I liked that it was by awoman author and it’s aboutFlorida,” said Mrs. BaileyWhite.

“Irememberitasapioneerstory,” I said, “except thatinsteadofoutwest itwas setinnorth-centralFlorida.It’samemoir,right?Andshe’sveryindependent and endures allkindsofhardships—”

“Hardships?! She was outof her mind!” Jackie

interrupted. “Poison ivy?Snakes?Icouldhardlyreadit.Why put yourself throughsomethinglikethat?”

“Oh,Jackie,you’remissingthe point!” Plain Jane saidcrossly, having stood andretrievedthebookfromMrs.Bailey White’s shelf. “Listento this passage: ‘It is moreimportant to live the lifeonewishes to live, and to godown with it if necessary,

quitecontentedly,thantolivemore profitably but lesshappily.’ ”

“Iagree,thatisabeautifulsentiment,” Jackie saidsnippily, “but I have neverreallyunderstood this typeofadventure memoir—youknow, where some naïveperson goes out into thewilderness and goes throughall kindsofhell of their ownmaking and somehow

supposedly emerges as abetter, fuller human being.Ugh!”

“Jackie, you have no spiritof adventure!” cried PlainJane.

“How can you say that?”Jackie blew a stream ofcigarette smoke toward theceiling.“Ilivehere,don’tI?IcameallthewayfromBostonto Collier County, doesn’tthat count for something?

Why do we always end uptalking about me, anyway?Let’s talk about somethingelse.” She turned tome and,withoutblinkinganeye,said,“Dora,speakingofadventure,whenareyougoingtotelluswhat happened inMississippi?”

NowifthereisonethingIhate, it’s being ambushed. Ihad been planning on tellingtheminmyowngoodtime.

“Jackie, must you alwaysputDoraon the spot?”PlainJanescolded.

“Oh, it’s all right,” I said,sighing. “I guess now’s asgoodatimeasany.Especiallysince—as I keep telling y’all—Ihavetogobacksoon.”

“Well, maybe you couldstart by telling us whatJackson, Mississippi, is like,”Jackie prompted. “They

certainly have been in thenationalnews,lately—”

“Yes,” I said, “that poorman, Medgar Evers! Thatwas two months before Iarrived in Jackson.TheKlaniscrazythere.Imean,killinga leader of the NAACP! Inhisownfrontyard.Rightoutintheopen!”

“Did you see anyprotests,oraltercations,oranythingofthatsort?”PlainJaneasked.

“You can’t help butencounter some of it,” Ireplied.

“But what’s it like to bethere—in the city, I mean?”Jackiepersisted.

“Well,it’shardtodescribe,but there’s a feeling likethere’s not enough air tobreathe,” I said, struggling tofindtherightwords.“Iguessit’slike—well,likewhenabigsummer storm is rolling in

from the Gulf and you cansee the lightning strikes onthehorizon.Theairissoripewith electricity and humiditythat itmakesyoushivereventhough it’s hot. Well, that’swhat Jackson feels like tomethese days. Especially sincethose three civil rightsworkers were murdered inJune in that littlecityover inNeshobaCounty.”

“You mean the city theycall Philadelphia, of allthings,”Jackiesaid.

“Yes,”Isaid.“Well, I guess that’s the

difference betweenMississippi and here,” PlainJane said. “Florida is stillwakingup.”

“Actually,Ithinkweareinthe land ofRip VanWinkle,”Jackie said sarcastically. “Intwenty years’ timewe’llwake

upanddiscover that thecivilrights movement has arrivedhere.”

“Maybe not!” I said. “Imean, maybe sooner thanthat.Ican’tbelieveIforgottotell you about the speaker Iheard over at the Methodistchurch. I wish you all hadbeen there. She was fromsome place in Ohio. Anactivist, I guess. She said wewere ten years behind

Mississippi, Alabama, andGeorgia.”

“No surprise there,” Jackiesaid.

“But don’t you see?” Iasked. “A year ago that ladyactivist from Ohio wouldn’thave been invited to speakhere. She was right here inNaples at one of theMethodistchurches.Isn’tthatprogress?”

“Yes, I suppose it is,” saidJackie. I must have looked

skeptical because she added,“I mean it seriously. I agreewithyou,Dora.”

“I think Florida is moregenteel,” Mrs. Bailey Whitesaid. “Yes,wehave theKlan,but they’re just a bunch ofidiots running around in thebushes setting churches onfire. Things like theMedgarEvers assassination—thatdoesn’thappeninFlorida.”

“Oh, yes it does!” Jackiesaid. “What about that man,Harry Moore, and his wife?TheKlanputdynamiteundertheir house and killed themon Christmas Day back in1951 in some little town inBrevardCounty.”

“Why, Jackie, you’ve beendoingyourhomework,”PlainJanesaidadmiringly.

“Well, there is someinformation at the library,”

Jackie said. “But Ted’s beendoing research when he’sbeen traveling around thestate. He even went to theNAACPofficeinTampaandpicked up some pamphletsthere.”

“Y’all are going to getyourselves shot!”Mrs. BaileyWhitesaid.“Mercy!”

“Well,TedandI feel thatwe should try to understandwhat is happening, and the

onlywayyoucanknowthatistostudythesituation,”Jackiesaid.

“Oh boy,” Plain Janeremarkedunderherbreath.

“What is that supposed tomean, Jane?” Jackie seemedsurprised.

“It means that you’re atypical Yankee,” Mrs. BaileyWhite said. “You think youcan solve every problem by

studying it to death andaskingquestions.Ha,ha,ha.”

“Let’s get back to Doraand her stay in Mississippi,”Jackiesnapped.“Didyoueverfeellikeyouwereindanger?”

“In danger of what?” Iasked, taken aback. “It’s theblack people who are indanger. Plus, the few whitepeoplewhoaretryingtohelpthem.”

“So you didn’t try to helpthe black people?” Jackieasked. She seemeddisappointed.

“How?”Iasked.“I’mfromFlorida. I don’t understandMississippi. I don’t think Ishould presume to tell themhow to fix their problems. Imight have made thingsworse.”

“Butyoumighthavemadethings better,” Jackie said

softly.Mrs. Bailey White spoke

up again. “Now, don’tadmonish Dora. That’s notwhy shewent toMississippi.She is still grieving hermama’sdeathandwentthereto look for her people. Shedid her part. Besides, it ain’tDora’sjobtofixtheworld!”

“Well!” Jackie saidfuriously. “That’s so . . .

Southern! Mind your ownbusiness,passthebuck...”

“Jackie,”Isaidgrimly,“I’mdoing my part in my ownway. For instance, everyTuesday my landlady Mrs.ConroyandIcookdinnerfortheblackleaders.”

“What?” Jackie said.“Whatdoyoumean?”

I wondered how much Ishouldsharewiththem,eventhough they were my closest

friends. I remembered thatold World War Two saying“Loose lips sink ships.”“Well,” I began slowly, “y’allhave to promiseme that thisdoesn’tgobeyond this room.But there is concern thatsomeonemaytryto,er,harmthe leaders, like the Rev.MartinLutherKingwhenhecomestotown.”

Jackiequicklyputtwoandtwo together. “You mean

poison?”sheasked,aghast.“Sure,” I said, “among

other ways. I don’t knowwhat they have in place toprotect him from being shotoranythinglikethat.I’msurethere must be bodyguards.But somebody figured outthatthefoodheandtheotherleaderseatcouldbetamperedwith. So the way it works isthere’s a very small group ofpeople like me and Mrs.

Conroy who volunteer tocook at home usingingredients we buy or grow.Thisisallveryhush-hush,ofcourse.We prepare the foodandpretendwe’retakingittoMrs. Conroy’s church forpotlucknight.ButinsteadthefoodispickedupbyaNegrojanitor at Mrs. Conroy’schurch.Hegivesitthatsameday to his colored preacher,

who takes it directly to thecoloredsideoftownhimself.”

“My goodness!” Jackiesaid,“whodreamedthisup?”

“Ihavenoidea,”Ireplied.“Wait—Mrs. Conroy is

involved? Isn’t that the sameladyyousaidwasnervousasaratterrier?”PlainJaneasked.

“Well, she is,” I said,blushingalittleatmyunkindcharacterization. “She alsohas a heart of gold.And she

belongs to one of the whitechurchesthatistryingtohelptheNegroes.”

“Nevermindallthat,haveyou actually met Dr. King?”Jackieasked,wide-eyed.

“No,”Isaid.“ButIknowIhelpedfeedhimwheneverhewasinJackson.”

“Oh,Dora,Iamsoproudof you,” Mrs. Bailey Whitegushed.

“What else did you do?”PlainJaneasked.

I paused and thoughtaboutit.“InoticedinJacksonthatIhadn’t seenanygroupslike our book club—youknow, white people whowelcomed a black person tojoin,”I said. “Idon’t see thatkind of socializing go onbetweentheracesthereatall.So every time I meet a newperson in Jackson, I find a

waytotellthemallaboutourPriscillaandhowsmartsheis,that we were in a book clubtogether and now she’sstudying at Bethune-CookmanCollege.”

“How is that supposed tochangethings?”Jackieasked.

“Are you kidding? That’sthebestway tomake changehappen!”PlainJanecried.“Bypointing out that she isfriends with a black person,

and that the black person issomeone she likes andadmires!”

“Oh, brother,” Jackie said.“If that’s progress, it’ll onlytakeahundredyears.”

•••

THERE WAS ENOUGHTENSION IN the air to fry arabbit so we went to ourseparate corners.Mrs. BaileyWhite made some kind of

excuse and disappeared intoher kitchen, where sheputteredaboutdoingthisandthat; Plain Jane attended tothe baby (we could hear hercooing, her voice echoing inhigh pitches down thestaircase);Jackiewentoutsidetocleanthewindshieldofhercar and have a smoke; and Iwent into Mrs. BaileyWhite’s paneled library.Studying her books, taking

them down one by one, wassoothing. What is it aboutbooks? They are like oldfriends.

About anhour later,Mrs.Bailey White rounded us uplike she was Mother Gooseand we, her little goslings.She asked that we return tothe parlor. Once there, sheannounced, “Now, girls, let’sfocusonDora, andwhat shelearned about her family, if

anything, on her trip.” Tome, she said kindly, “Takeyourtime,dear.”

I cleared my throat.“Well,” I began slowly, “asyouknow,IalwayswonderedwhyIwasnamedafterawell-known writer fromMississippi, and figuredMamamayhavebeenfriendswithEudoraWelty,ormaybeeven kinfolk. Or maybeMama had just been an

admirer. But I realized thatthe first thing I should do isread all of her books. MissWelty’s, I mean. I read TheRobberBridegroomonthebuson the way to Mississippi.Once I got settled I readeverything I could get myhands on. And frankly itmade me a little uneasy.BecauseMissWelty’swritingisalittleoff-puttingattimes.Intimidating.”

“Well, that one isespecially eerie,” Plain Janeinterjected. “Sorry. I didn’tmeantointerrupt.”

“So anyway I read themall,”Icontinued,“justbecauseI thought it would be rudenot to. I mean, who goes tovisit a famous writer andhasn’t read her books? Iwasn’t even sure I would getto talk to her, but it seemedrespectfultobeprepared.

“All this time I wasworkingupmynerve.Finally,I decided that I was being aninny. What was the worstthing that could happen?That she would turn meaway? Everyone in townknew where she lived, so Iwent over there on the busandwalkedbackandforthonthe sidewalk trying to workupmynerve.ThenIrealizedMamawould not approve of

me, a complete stranger, justknocking on Miss Welty’sdoor.SoIwentbacktoMrs.Conroy’sandwrotealetter.Itold Miss Welty that I wasliving in town temporarily tofind out more about my latemother, whose name wasCallie Francine Atwater ofthe Jackson Atwaters, andthatCalliehadmarriedamannamed MontgomeryWitherspoon,knowntoallas

Monty, and that I was theironly child. And that Iwouldn’t be bothering her—with her being an importantwriter and all—except Ibelievedshemayhaveknownmymother at one time, andthat in fact my name isEudora Welty Witherspoonand while it could be acoincidence it seems highlyunlikely in my most humble

opinion. So Iwrote this in aletter.AndImailedit.

“Of course, I hoped (andtruth be told, prayed) that Iwould hear back from her iffor no other reason than toclear up the mystery of myname. Three days later Ireceived a letter. When Icame home from my job atthe library,Mrs.Conroywasstandingontheporchwaitingforme.Themailmanhadjust

been there. I’m still amazedMrs. Conroy didn’t steam itopenbecauseshecanbenosyas a raccoon and not half assubtle,blessherheart.

“Iwentupstairstoopenit.It was an invitation fromMissWeltytovisitheratherhome the following Sundayafternoon at three o’clock.That was all. Just ahandwritten note, onesentencelong.

“I was relieved and happythat she’d replied but as thedays passed—slow asmolasses, itseemedtome—Istarted dreading what shemight tell me. I’m not surewhy.Iwaspreparedforhertosayalmostanything.

“Finally, Sunday arrived,and after church andSundaydinner with Mrs. Conroy, itwas time to go. I was soscaredI’dbelatethatIgotto

MissWelty’sneighborhoodahalf-hour early. At fiveminutes till three, I knockedon her door. She answeredherself. She’s a plain littlething, but the type of personwhohaspresence.

“ ‘Doyoumindifwesitinthe garden?’ she asked me.‘My mother is upstairs andfeelingverypoorlytoday.’

“AndofcourseIsaidIwassorry to hear that, but the

gardenwould be fine. Sowesatinhergarden—oh,whatagarden!—and—”

“Wait—she has a lovelygarden?” Mrs. Bailey Whiteinterrupted. Mrs. BaileyWhite hadwhatMama usedto call “garden envy.” Somefolkshavekitchenenvy,somehaveporchenvy.Mrs.BaileyWhite salivated over lushflowergardens.

“Let’s not talk about thatnow—”Jackiesaid.

“Does she have climbingroses?” Mrs. Bailey Whitepersisted.“Ijustloveclimbingroses.”

“Why, yes, Mrs. BaileyWhite, she does! She hasLady Banks, AmericanBeauty, Mermaid, and someothersIdidn’trecognize.”

“Oh,IwishIcouldseeit!”Mrs. Bailey White said

plaintively.“Mrs.BaileyWhite,weall

lovegardens,”PlainJanesaidgently, “but let’s letDoragetbacktoherstory.”

“Well,” I continued, “wetalked about her books untilfinally she broached thesubject by saying, ‘I was sadto learn fromyour letter thatyourmotherhasdied.’

“Well,itallcametumblingout of her—this story from

beforeIwasborn.MamaandMissWeltyhadbeen friendsinschool,withbothpledgingthey would remainindependent, unmarried andchildless, and pursue careersaswriters.

“I never saw Mama writeanythingmorethanagrocerylist. But Miss Welty saidMama had been a ‘grandwriter’with‘alotofpromise.’Then she said with a smile

thatMamahadbeen a ‘greatbeauty’who‘hadeverythingapersoncoulddreamof.’

“She went on to say thatMama was ‘the belle of theball,’ from a rich family, andthen one day she turnedeverything upside-down: Sheran away on the day of herweddingin1931.”

“She what?” Mrs. BaileyWhiteshrieked.

“She left her betrothed atthe altar. And she took offwith my daddy instead.” Itwashardtopushthosewordsoutofmymouth.ButIdid.

“How exciting!” Jackiedeclared, and lit anothercigarette.

“Good heavens, Dora,”Plain Jane saidsympathetically. “That’s a lottothinkabout.”

“Well, I had no idea thatMama was ever engaged tosomeone other than Daddy.Shealwaysseemedlikesuchasensible person. I couldn’timagineher leavingamanatthe altar, abandoning herfamily and friends, anddisappearing. That’s not thewoman I knew my wholelife.”

“I’m sorry, Dora,” Jackiesaid, furrowing her brow. “I

didn’tmean tomake light ofit.”

“Did Miss Welty tell youanything else?” Plain Janeaskedgently.

“Well, I asked if she wasthere whenMama . . . well,whenallthathappenedatthechurch, and she said,no, shemissed the whole drama onaccountofithappenedatthesame time her daddy tooksickanddiedfromleukemia.”

“Oh, that’s sad,” Mrs.BaileyWhitesaid.“Whatelsedidshesay?”

“Well, I asked her, ‘AreMama’s parents still living?’and ‘Did Mama have anybrothersorsisters?’

“Heranswer, toboth,wasno.And Ihave to tell you, Iwas very disappointed.Somehow I had picturedMama having a brother orsister. I would have loved

having an aunt or uncle, orcousins.Andanotherthing—MissWelty was surprised tohear that Mama remained anurse.Shesaid,‘Ithoughtshewas doing that just becauseherparents toldhernot to. Ididn’t realize she stayedwithit. Maybe it was her truecalling.’ And then MissWelty looked straight at meand with no warning at all,she said, ‘Well, Miss

Witherspoon, what is yourcalling?’

“And that’s when I toldher about you—the BookClub, Imean—andhowy’allhavetoldmethatyouthinkIhave a knack for storytelling.Andwhile Ididn’tknow if Ihad what it takes to make aliving as awriter, I hadbeentryingmyhandatit.”

“Did she read anythingyou wrote?” Jackie

interrupted.“Why,yes,shedid,”Isaid.

“Sheaskedmetocomebackaweek later and bringsomethingI’dwritten.”

“Wow,” Jackie said, “andthenwhathappened?”

“Oh, let Dora tell thestory!”PlainJanesaid.

“That’sright,”Mrs.BaileyWhite said. “Just let her tellit.”

Theyallstaredatmewithexcitement.

“Well,” I said slowly, “Ibroughtherashortstoryandshereadit.”

“But what did she say?”Jackiepersisted.

“Doyouwantthetruth?”Iasked.

“Of course we want thetruth,”Jackiesaiduneasily.

Ithoughtitbesttoblurtitout. “She said it wasn’t

authentic.”“Authentic?!” Mrs. Bailey

White cried out. “What isthatsupposedtomean?”

My friends lookedwounded, as indeed I hadbeen at the time, until Iadmitted a simple truth tomyself:MissWeltywasright.

“What it means is that Iwas trying too hard to writeabout something I didn’tknowanythingabout.”

“Well,whatdid youwriteabout?”PlainJaneasked.

“Ashort storyaboutagirlwhohasaloveaffairinParis,”Ireplied.

“But you’ve never been toParis,”Jackiesaid,statingtheobvious.

“MissWeltysaidthesamething,” I said. “She said it’spossibletowriteaboutaplaceyou’ve never been but youshouldn’t ‘undervalue’ your

own experiences. She saidsomething about Paris beingoverdone.”

“I don’t see how Pariscouldeverbeoverdone,”Jackiesaid.

“Ithinkshemeant,writtenabouttoooften,whenthereareotherplaces thatnoone everseems towriteabout,” I said.“ShesaidthatifIwroteabouta love affair in Paris,maybe,at least,oneof thecharacters

couldbevisitingfromCollierCounty, just to make itfresh.”

“Ah,Isee,”PlainJanesaidapprovingly.

“Thiswill sound funny,” Iadded. “On my way back tomy landlady’s house a phrasekeptpoppingintomyhead.Idon’t know where it camefrom.Maybe fromMama inthe Spirit World. It was,Listentoyourownstories.”

“Oh,” Jackie said. “I likethat!”

“So you’re going to keepwriting, right, Dora?” PlainJaneasked.“Becausewethinkyou should,don’twe?” Jackieand Mrs. Bailey Whitenoddedinagreement.

“I’ll tell you what, Dora,the part about your motherrunningoffwithanothermanon her wedding day—ooooWEE, that must have

beensomething,”Mrs.BaileyWhitesaid.

“Now there’s a story foryoutotell,”Jackieadded.

I felt something closingaround my heart, like aprotectiveshield,muchlikeaturtle, I thought, as itwithdraws into its shell.Therewasmore to say but Iwasnotreadytotelltherest.

Twenty-EightThis is what I kept tomyself.

After my two meetingswithMissWelty, Idid someresearchonmylunchhouratthe library. I looked throughold copies of the Clarion-

Ledger, looking for storiesaboutMama.

I could have done thiswhenI firstcametoJackson,but I didn’t. I guess I justwasn’treadythen.

Iworkedmyway througheach massive index of thenewspaperforthetimeframeMama lived in Jackson,checking for her name yearafter year until I found threeseparatenewsstoriesinwhich

shewassaidtobementioned.I filled out a microfilmrequest, trying to looknonchalant while the staff atthe research desk went tolook for them. The rolls ofmicrofilm, once they wereretrieved, had to be threadedinto a machine in order toread them, a difficult taskwhen your hands aretrembling.

Iscrolledtoo fastandhadtobackupthemachinetoseethefirstnewsstory.Suddenlythere she was, Miss CallieFrancineAtwater,alongwithMiss Eudora Welty, in anews photograph of the twoof them sharing aprize for aspelling bee. Miss Weltyhadn’t mentioned that.Perhapsitwasn’timportant.

More shockingwas seeingMamainthesocialpagesasa

debutante at a cotillion,looking fancy in a specialgownorderedfromastoreinNew York City calledBergdorf Goodman’s,according to the article. Istaredat thephotograph.Noquestion about it. This wasmy mama. The same personwho never spent money onclothes andhadn’t seemed tocareaboutfashiononebit.

ThenIfoundtheweddingannouncement. MISSATWATER TO MARRY MR.JENKINS TODAY INGREENWOOD, said theheadline. I could scarcelybreathe as I read the story.“Miss Callie FrancineAtwater, daughter of localbank president James T.Atwaterandhiswife,Jane,isto be married at 11 o’clocktoday toMr.Harold Jenkins

of Lake Charles,Louisiana . . .” How strangeto be reading theannouncement of a weddingthat never came to be. Thearticlewentontodescribeherdress and mentioned abridesmaid, Miss Alice B.Johnson.

I felt someone’s presencebehind me, a little shadowovermyrightshoulder.Itwasthe head librarian, Mrs.

LaCroix.“Iseeyou’rediggingupthepast,” shesaid, trying,but failing, to soundlighthearted. She spoke in asoft, hushed tone out ofrespect for the silence-onlyrule which librarians alonewere allowed to break, andonlyinthequietestmurmurs.“Iwonderedhowlongbeforeyou’d start looking in theseold newspapers. Ah,” she

added,“Iseeyou’vefoundthesocietypages.”

“Did you know mymother?”Iaskedpointedly—and a little too loud. WhenI’d been interviewed for myjob, I’d mentioned thatMama grew up in Jackson.WhenIsaidMama’snameatthe time, several of thelibrarians—including Mrs.LaCroix—had acted a little

funny but I wasn’t sure if itmeantanything.

“Everyone knew yourmother,dear,”shewhispered.“She was the star of hergenerationaroundhere.”

“And do you know whathappenedtoher?”

Mrs. LaCroix looked atme,surprised.“Don’tyou?”

“I only know that shedidn’tmarrythisman,”Isaid,trying to keep my voice low

andpointingtothemicrofilmpagewith the account of thewedding. “On that same dayshemarriedmydaddy,whosename was MontgomeryWitherspoon, and they wenttoFlorida,whereDaddywasfrom, and theyhadme.”Mymindwasspinninglikealittlewind-uptoyMamahadgivenmeasachildandwhichIstillhad, despite the fact that itwas broken. “What has

happened to Mr. HaroldJenkins?” I asked. “Do youknow?”

Mrs. LaCroix pulled up achairandsatnexttome.“Hedied in the war,” she said.“After what happened—withyourmamaandall—hehadabroken heart and went backtoLouisiana.That’swhatI’veheard for years. And eventhough hewas a little old toserveinWorldWarTwo,he

enlisted. And he was killed.I’m not sure when or where.Wecouldlookthatupifyouwant to.Or I could write tothe librarian in LakeCharles...”

“It seems like everyone isdead,”Isaidsadly.“Everyonewho could give me realanswers,anyway.”

“Not everyone has passedaway,” Mrs. LaCroix said.

“Thebridesmaid.She’ssittingrightoverthere.”

I jerked my head in thedirection Mrs. LaCroix waspointing. A gray-haired ladysat half hidden behind abroadsheet newspaper. I hadnoticed her before. She waswhatwecalleda“regular.”

The next thing I knew Iwas being introduced, inlibrary-appropriate hushedtones, to my mother’s long-

ago bridesmaid. While Icould not have been moresurprised,sheseemedtohavebeen expecting this momentto occur. Perhaps, I realized,even waiting for the rightmomenttospeaktome,theselastseveralmonths.

•••

MISS ALICE B. JOHNSONWAS a lifelong Jacksonresidentfromaneighborhood

I recognized as a poor whitepart of town. She had nevermarried, she said, and stilllived at home with hermother. To support herself,she worked nights as atelephoneoperator.

“CallmeMissAlice,” shesaid warmly. Aware that wewere creating a smalldisruption, and that we haddefinitely abused the silence-only rule, we agreed to duck

outside for a little stroll.Mylunch hour had elapsed, butMrs. LaCroix nodded herapproval and smiledencouragingly.

The sidewalk was sundappled and welcoming buttoo crowded with childrenwalkinghomefromschooltoholdaprivate conversation. Ididnotwant tomissaword.MissAlicegestured toa sidestreet that was blessedly

emptyofactivityexcept forasmalldogsniffingatthebaseofamagnoliatree.Wefoundalittlebenchwherewecouldtalkquietly.

“Yourmamawantedtobejustlikeus,”MissAlicesaid.

“Likewho?”Iasked.MissAlicesurprisedmeby

chuckling. “Like down-to-earth folks. Ordinary peoplewho didn’t put on airs. Sheand I met over at the

Salvation Army. The onlydifference was, she was avolunteer and I was a client.But we were the same ageand we became friends. Sheconfided in me. When sheasked me to be her onlybridesmaid, I didn’t knowwhat to do. I couldn’t affordthedress.Butshesaid,‘Don’tworryabout it,I’llpayfor it.’Then I startedworrying thatmaybe her parents wouldn’t

want me in the wedding. Itwas during the Depression,but your grandpa was still awealthymanorat leastthat’sthe impression he gave. Andyour grandma was active intheEpiscopalChurch,whichis for upper-class folk, youknow. But your mama said,‘Oh, don’t worry. It’s mywedding, and I want you init.’ ”

“DidyouknowthatMamawas going to run off withsomeone else?” The wordswerepainfultosay.

“I knew she was in lovewith someone else but Iwasn’t privy to her plans,”MissAlicesaid tactfully. “Ormaybe there were no plans.Maybeshejustupanddidit.”

I was having a hard timepicturing Mama being soimpulsive, and Miss Alice

read my mind. “She wasyoung,” she said. “We wereall very young. People dothings they’d never do whenthey’reolder.Andsometimesit’s impossible to look backandunderstand.

“What your mama reallywanted,” she added, “was tobe just plain folk. She didn’twant nothin’ to do with thehighfalutin family she wasborninto.Sheevenlearnedto

talk like me. And she surelydidn’t want to marry thatfellow from Louisiana. Thatwasn’therdream.Herdreamwas tobe anurse among thedowntrodden. Shewas goingto give up all her fancy airs.And then somehow—maybeat the Salvation Army—sheran into your daddy,Montgomery Witherspoon.Oh, he was a bad boy. Hadbeen in jail and everything.

ButIthinkshesawinhimaway for all of her dreams tocome true: A simple life.Helpingothers.”Shethoughtforamomentandadded,“Hewasherwayout.”

“Daddyhadbeeninjail?”Ichokedontheword.

“Yes’m, but I don’t knowwhatfor.Nothingtooterribleor I’d remember that.Whereishe,doyouknow?”

“No,”Isaid,“Idon’tknowwhathappened tohim.All IknowisMamasaidtherewasabigfusswhenIwasababy,and Daddy up and left. Ibelievehe’sdead.WhenIwasgrowingup,Mamagavefolksthe impression she was awidow but come to think ofit, I never actually heard heruse that word. Maybeimplying that he was deadwas her way of keeping up

appearances. It’s a lot easiertobeawidowthanadivorcéein this world, that’s for sure.Anyway, whatever happenedbetween them didn’t endwell. Ialwayshadthe feelingshewas embarrassed by him,orsomethinghe’ddone.”

“Maybe he was prone todrinkin’,” Miss Alice saidsympathetically. “Lots ofmenfolkare.”

“Miss Alice,” I said,desperate to put more piecestogether. “Have you beenwatching me? Or is it acoincidencethatyoucometothe libraryall the time?HowdidyouknowwhoIam?”

She smiled a littlemischievously. “A little birdtold me that a gal callingherself Eudora WeltyWitherspoon was in town,and thathermamahadbeen

Miss Callie Atwater. And Ithought, Now that’s mightypeculiar. I thoughtmaybetheLordhisselfwantsmetofindout what this is all about.Maybe to help you in someway since your mama and Iwerefriendsbackintheday.”

“Buthow—”“Child, Jacksonmay seem

likeabigcitytoyoubutit’sasmall town at heart. Mymother took a Bible study

classwithyourlandlady,Mrs.Conroy. And one day Mrs.Conroymentioned shehadagal stayingwithher, and shesaid your name and that youwere working at the library.My mother told me, andthat’sallIneededtoknow.”

“Well, I am grateful toyou,” I said. “I thankyou fortellingmewhatyouknow.”

Itwas thewrong thing tosay. She looked away, and a

deep uneasiness sweptthroughme.

“There’s something else,”she said finally. When sheglancedbackatme,hersmilewasgoneandherfacesagged,makingher lookmucholder.“What your mama reallywantedmostwasachild,butIwasprettysureshecouldn’thave one.” She looked atmeclosely, as if studying myfeatures, then said, “Maybe I

shouldn’t be telling you allthis, but it seemswrong thatyou don’t know. The fact isyourmamahadsomekindoffever that almost killed herwhen she was, oh, maybesixteen. And after that, shewas told she’d never be abletohavechildren.”

“So you’re saying I was asurprise?” I said, but thesecondthewords leftmylipsI realized she meant

something else entirely. “Doyou think . . . ? Are yousaying—?”

“—that you might havebeen adopted?” Miss Alicesaid softly. “Could be.” Shepaused a moment, thenadded, “Then again, maybeyou’re some kind of miraclebaby.” She tried her best tosmile brightly, but I don’tthinkshewasconvinced.AndneitherwasI.

Finding out that youmight be adopted is onething.Findingoutat theageof thirty-two, and from aperson you’ve known forexactly ten minutes, is atoughrowtohoe.

“Mama always said I wasborn in Naples, at home,” Isaid quietly. “I suppose thatmightnotbetrue.”

“Well, what does yourbirthcertificatesay?”

“Idon’thaveone.”“Everyonehasone.”“No,Mamasaidshenever

gotaroundtoregisteringme.I found that out when I gotmarried.Beforewe couldgetthe marriage license, Mamahad to swear in an affidavitthat she was my mama andthat I was born at home inNaples.”

“Isee,”MissAlicesaid.

Whatshecouldsee,andsocould I,was that itmight allhavebeenlies.AndtheworstpartwasnotbeingabletoaskMamabecause shewasdead.Just ask her; that’s all Iwanted. I would haveaccepted the idea of beingadopted, if only shehad toldmeherself.

I told Miss Alice a littleabout my life, what Napleswas like,andaboutmyfailed

marriagetoDarryl.Sheaskedwhat had ledme to come toJackson to find out aboutMama, and I told her abouttheCollierCountyWomen’sLiterarySocietyandhow thefounder, a newcomer toNaples named Jackie Hart,hadencouragedmetogetoutin the world, ask questions,and experience life. I hadknown immediately that IshouldgotoJackson,ifforno

other reason than to seewhereMamahadcomefrom.And then I told Miss Alicewhat Mama’s life had beenlikeinNaples,andhowshe’dgotten sick. And how shedied.

Miss Alice listenedcarefully. “Well,” she saidfinally,“I’mjustgladshehadyou with her when she gotsick.” Then she turneddirectly to face me. There

weretearsinhereyes,butshesmiled as she added, “I hopeyou realize that you musthavemeant theworld toher,Dora. She was truly blessed.Andsoareyou.”

Twenty-NineWehadfourdaysuntilthehearingattheCollierCountyCourthouse, andMrs. BaileyWhitewasbeginning to fret.“I do believe that we shouldprovide some new clothesand, um, a little assistance

with Bunny’s appearance forthe court date,” she said. “Iknow from my ownexperience,duringmymurdertrial, that it’s important tolookyourbest.”

I’m sure I flinched and Ihave little doubt the othersdid, too. I’d never been ableto come to terms with Mrs.BaileyWhite’spast—notfullyanyway—but at the sametime I was happy for the

diversion. Any topic waspreferable to the possibilitythat they would ask morequestions about mydiscoveriesinMississippi.

“As a matter of fact, I’mglad you brought this up,Mrs. Bailey White,” Jackiesaid, interrupting mythoughts. “I’ve been sittinghere tryingto figureouthowwe’re going to get her intotown for fingerprinting. Mr.

Yonce said itwas imperative.And I agree.We need to fixherupforcourt,ifsheletsus.Maybe we should, um,retrieve her from the, er,swamp,getthesethingsdone,then keep her in town—maybe just foronenight—sothat we can be sure she getstocourt.”

“She could stay here thenight before,” Mrs. Bailey

White said thoughtfully. “Imean,ifshe’swillingto.”

“I have some clothes thatmight fit,” Plain Janeinterjected from across theroom. “Or, at least, we canalter them.Maybeweshouldallransackourclosetsandseewhatwecancomeupwith.”

And so it was agreed, atleast by everyone except, ofcourse, Bunny. Jackie evenofferedtopayforatriptothe

hairsalonandsaidshewouldescort Bunny there if Ipromised to go along formoral support. But someonehadtogetBunnyoutofGunRackVillageandintoNaples.Jackiestill refusedtodrive inGun Rack Village, citingwear and tear on theconvertible, and I balked atcanoeing again. My handswere still sore from paddlingMr. Yonce over there and

back. And I didn’t feel likegoingonfootagain,either.

I took a chance and left anote for her at the Essostation.IknewthatBillyandMarco, the pair of brotherswho lived somewhere alongtheriver,wereinthehabitofstopping by the Esso stationalmost daily. Bucky, whoowned the gas station, waspretty reliable and agreed togive my note to them.

Hopefully, the brotherswouldthendeliverittoher.

The note was hard towrite. How do you tellsomeonethatsheneedstogetgussiedupforcourt?Thatherhair and clothes won’t do?That she needed to befingerprinted at the policedepartment?Thatwewantedher to stay the night beforecourt atMrs. BaileyWhite’shousebecausewedidn’twant

to take any chances that shewouldn’tshowup?

Ikept thenoteveryshort.This was one of those “theless said, the better”moments. If it didn’t work,I’d have to hike back thereand persuade her to returnwithme.

•••

TO MY SURPRISE, ATPRECISELY two o’clock the

day before court, Bunnyarrived at the Edge ofEvergladesHouse of Beauty,just as I’d hoped.Marco andBilly had not only retrievedmy note from Bucky anddelivered it to her, they hadsaved her the long hike intotownbygivingheraride.

This seemed like a minormiracle to Jackie and me.We’d been nervously waitingat the beauty parlor, flipping

randomly through magazinesdevoted to the latesthairstyles, none of which, tobe honest, would look goodon anyone we knew. Thebeauty salon’s owner kept aradio tuned to WNOG,“Wonderful Naples on theGulf.”At one point Jackieturned tome and said, “Oh,forPete’s sake. If I hear thatBeatlessong‘IWanttoHoldYourHand’onemoretime,I

might have a stroke and die.Mykidsplayitdayandnightand I hear it everywhere Igo.”

“I like theBeatles,” I saidlamely.

“Do you know what Juddsaid?” Jackie asked. “He saidthe school principal at thejunior high held an assemblyand said just two words intothe microphone—‘The

Beatles’—and two girlsscreamed.”

“Well, aren’t girlseverywhere screaming overtheBeatles?”Iasked.

“That’sthepoint!ItmeansthattheculturalphenomenonknownastheBeatleshasevenreached the end of the earth—thatis,Naples.”

Wedidn’tevenrealizethatBunny was standing right infront of us, listening. She

must have slipped throughthe door while we werehaving our Beatlemaniadiscussion,which, judgingbythe look on her face, was allnews to her. She sort ofnodded and gruntedsomething that might havebeen“hello.”

ThesightofBunnysentashock wave through thesalon. The other women inthe salon stopped talking

abruptly. Their headsswiveled in unison.Even theladies trapped under hairdryers were trying to get agoodlook.

Jackie was gracious. “Soglad you could join us!”Herwords of welcome werescarcely saidwhen theownerof the beauty parlor scurriedup to us. “What have wehere?”sheasked,withalarm.

“Of course you meantwhom do we have here?”Jackie said sweetly. “This isthewoman Iwas telling youabout.AsImentionedbefore,it’smytreat.”

The hairdresser lookeddoubtful.

“I was thinking maybe abouffantofsomesort,thoughmaybe she needs some colorfirst,” Jackie said, taking

Bunny’s arm and escortinghertothenearestwashbasin.

Bunnyactuallyhalfsmiledat the other customers. “Iwould like a manicure, too,”sheannounced,and,inoneofthose peculiar moments ofperfect timing, a new RoyOrbison song called “Oh,Pretty Woman” startedplayingontheradio.Tosomepeople, itmighthaveseemedlike irony, but to me it was

likealittlemessageofloveortip of thehat,meant just forher.

“Oh, I forgot to makeintroductions!” Jackie criedout. “Miss Bunny Sanders,please meet Miss DoloresSimpson. Actually, Dolores’sname is Bunny, too, but Ikeep forgetting to call herthat.Shameonme—”

“Bunny?!” The proprietortook a step back. “Bunny?”

she repeated. “Her namecannotbeBunny.Apparentlyyou have forgotten, Mrs.Hart,thatIamBunny.”

Jackie looked confused.“Oh,” she said quickly, “twoBunnies! How cute! Youknow,IneverknewanyoneinBoston named Bunny butnowIknowtwoBunnies.”

PoorJackie.Shehadfailedto comprehend that here inthe South it is awell-known

fact that trouble can ensuewhentwogalsinasmalltownhave the same first name.Southern women are like abee colony. They just can’ttolerate two queens in onehive.

I cupped my hand andwhisperedaquickexplanationinto Jackie’s ear. She lookedatmelikeIhadlostmymind.“Whatareyoutalkingabout?”she said a little too loud.

“Why can’t there be twoBunnies?”

Youcouldfaultmenforallkindsofthings,butnoman,Ifelt sure, would have aproblem with having thesame first name as another.Why, I bet you could have awhole room full ofBobs andthey’d probably just callthemselvesBob1,Bob2,Bob3, and so on. Or they’d justcall each other by their last

names.Butyoucouldn’thavetwoBunniesinthelittletownofNaples.

For a moment I thoughtthe hairdresser was going toaskustoleave.Icouldseeshewas mulling it over, butprofessional pride orChristian charity got thebetter of her. “We’ve got ussome work to do!” sheannounced, in what wasundoubtedly the

understatement of the year.With remarkable speed sheshampooedourBunny’shair,slappedsomegooponit,andled our Bunny to the onlyavailable hair dryer, whichhappened to be right smackinthemiddleoftherowofalltheothers.

Bunny enjoyed beingtreatedlikeapamperedswan.She even asked for a copyofScreen Idol magazine. No

doubt, I thought, to look forphotos of Elizabeth Taylor.Only when the manicuristwas ready to do her nails—Bunny chose Petunia Pink—did she let go of themagazine.

As soon as the dryer wasfinished, Bunny thehairdresser rewashed ourBunny’s hair, cut, and styledit. Jackie started to saysomething but did not; she

wasdisappointed,Icouldtell,thatheropiniononwhatshereferred toas the coiffure wasclearly unwelcome. This wasnot going as planned but itwould have to be goodenough.Iwas thankfulwhenJackie paid the bill and wecouldleave.

Bunny’s newhairdowas astunner:amile-hightowerofteased tresses reminiscent ofcotton candy. Holding her

hands so that her newmanicurewouldfinishdrying,ourBunnydidsomethingI’mprettysureshehadn’tdoneinyears: She smiled the type offull-faced grin that remindedme of a teenage girl gettingreadyforprom.

As we left the shop,however, reality returned.“Bunny,” I said, “I hate toruin this Kodak moment,because we’re having great

funhere.Nottoshanghaiyouor anything but there issomething you need toknow.”

The smile vanished. “Goon,” she said, jutting out herchin. Jackie, meanwhile,pretendedtorummageinherpurse for her car keys; byprearrangement, she was tostaysilentduringthispart.

“Well,uh, it looks like it’sgottocomeoutincourtthat

youwere,um,arrestedalongtime ago,” I said. “And it’sactually a good thing becauseit means we have yourfingerprints from when youwere using the name BunnyAnn McIntyre. Now we cancomparethemandprovethatyouarethesameperson.AndMr. Yonce says this will benecessary.” I said this sorapidly even I wasn’t surewhatI’djustsaid.

Bunny simply shrugged.“Okay,”shesaid.“Butdoesn’tthat mean we need to getsomefreshfingerprints?We’dbettergettoit.”

HereIhadworriedmyselfsick about this pendingconversation, and yet Bunnyhadtakenitinstride.Shewasdefinitely a more complexpersonthanIhadthought.

Wewalkedto thesheriff’sdepartment, where our

attorney Mr. Yonce waswaitingforus.Itwashalfpastthreeonthedaybeforecourt.We were cutting things veryclose.

With a desk sergeantacting as a witness, a deputysheriff fingerprinted Bunny.Her only concernwas that ithadmesseduphermanicure.

Assoonastheprintsweredry, Mr. Yonce said theywouldbeexaminedthatnight

by a fingerprint expert. Ouryoung lawyer certainlyseemed to have everythingunder control, but before welefthewhisperedtome,“Webetterhopetheseareaperfectmatch. We might winanyway, but this would sealthedeal.”

•••

THERE WAS ONE MORETASK: figuring out what

Bunny was going to wear incourt.

Onceagain,Bunnyprovedto be a surprisingly goodsport.AtMrs.BaileyWhite’shouse we laid out all thepossible outfits and let herchoose. Jackie had brought afew things from her closet.Plain Jane had purchasedsome items at a churchrummage sale, includingglovesandahat.Mrs.Bailey

White offered costumejewelry and shoes. And mycontribution was a smallmakeupkitIboughtforhalf-price during a sale at theRexall.

There was a risk ofoffending Bunny, of course,but there was anotherproblem as well. None of uswanted to address the factthat Bunny’s artificiallyenhanced bustline made her

figure completely out ofproportion.

Thankfully, Jackieanticipated the problem bycreatingwhatonemightcallamodified muumuu (althoughshe described it as“reminiscent of what LizTaylormightwearwhen sheis entertaining at home”).Essentially,shehadtakenoneofherownhousecoats,addeda little elastichereand there,

alteredthesleeves,andaddeda patent leather belt. Theresult was passably good.Bunnytrieditonandseemedverypleased.

I had been worried aboutBunny’s reaction to the babybutwhenPlain Jane broughtDreamintotheroom,Bunnysort of half smiled andnodded in Dream’s directionin the way women do whentheyseeabeautifulbaby,even

one that was the “wrong”color. For all I knew, Bunnymight have balked at stayingeven one night under thesame roof with a coloredchild, but she said nothing.The only thing left was forBunnytohaveagoodmeal,along hot soak in a bathtub(heavenonlyknowshowlongit had been), and a decentnight’s sleep in one of the

guest rooms of Mrs. BaileyWhite’shouse.

Once Bunny was settledforthenight,andDreamhaddriftedofftosleep,therestofusconvenedforanightcapofrose wine in the parlor. Wetalked over our plans for thenext day when suddenly IblurtedoutthatIhadmoretotell them about my visit toJackson “if,” I said, “y’all areinthemoodtohearit.”

“Of course we are in themood tohear it,” Jackie said.“If you feel like telling usnow,byallmeansgoahead.”

“Should I get us somewarm milk?” Mrs. BaileyWhiteasked.

“Forget the warm milk,”Jackiesaid.

“Agreed,” Plain Jane said,adding, “But thank youanyway.”

“Can I just get this overwith?” I said. Iwas tiredandmy nerves too raggedy to beas polite as I should havebeen. I took a deep breathwhile they focused theirattention onme. “You knowhowItoldyouthatI learnedfromMissWelty thatMamahad run off with Daddy onthe day she was to marrysomeone else?” I said. “Well,there’smore.”

“Be brave, dear, what isit?”PlainJaneaskedgently.

“I learned that I wasalmost certainly adopted,” Isaid in a whisper, “and Idoubt I’ll ever find out whathappened.”

“What’d you say?” askedMrs. Bailey White. “I can’thearyou.”

“She said she found outshe was adopted,” Plain Janesaidloudly.

“Oh!” Mrs. Bailey Whitesaid. “I’m sorry I didn’t hearyou,pleasegoon.”

And so I told them therestofthestory,startingwithwhat Miss Welty had said;about my research at thelibrary; the newspaper storiesonMama;andmeetingMissAlice, Mama’s long-agobridesmaid. I explained howatfirstIfeltlikesomeonehaddied. I was in shock and

grieving like when there’s atragedy. After that I wasangry for a longwhile. Iwasso prickly I could have lostmy job except my boss, thehead librarian, felt sorry forme. For the first time inmylife, I cussed often and overthe littlest things, likedropping a nickel on thesidewalk and having to benddown to get it. That wouldjust infuriate me. Everything

seemed too much, like theworld was out to get me inbigwaysandsmall.ButIalsolaughed a lot, not becauseanything was funny butbecause of the irony of it. Ihad gone to Jackson to findoutaboutMamaand,ohboy,I’d gotten a lot moreinformation than I hadbargainedfor.

Jackie, Plain Jane, andMrs. Bailey White were

listening carefully. After itwasclearIwasalltalkedout,Plain Jane spoke up. “Youseem to be doing prettywellwiththis,”shesaidgently.

“Well,” I said, “I’ve had afewmonthstogetusedtotheidea.”

“Dora,” Jackie saidsympathetically. “If there’sanythinganyofuscando—”

“Jackie,youmakeitsoundlike someone died,” Plain

Janeinterrupted.“Well,Doraherself said it

feltlikesomeonedied,”Jackieprotested. “Oh, Dora, thisreally is terribly unfair, isn’tit? I hopewewill all see theday when people don’t feelthey have to be so secretiveabout adoption. It seems somuch worse not to tell achild!IthinkifIhadadoptedany of my children I would

have told them from thebeginning.”

“Well, that’s notwhat theexperts say,” Plain Jane saidsolemnly. “I was just readingan article about it. It’s betterto wait until they’re oldenough to understand—ormaybe never tell them at all.That’swhatitsaid.”

“That’s crazy,” Jackiesnapped.“LookatpoorDora

here. I think the way shefoundoutistheworstpart.”

“Ladies!” Mrs. BaileyWhite said. “Let us bethoughtful!” She gestured tome.Iwassinkingfurtheranddeeper into the seat cushionsoftheancientsofa.

Plain Jane and Jackierushed to apologize whileMrs.BaileyWhitepouredmeateeny-tinybrandyandmademedrinkit.“Now,youlisten

to me, Miss DoraWitherspoon,” she saidfirmly. “First, I want to saythat you mustn’t spend yourlife trying to find out moreabout the past. Some thingsare just meant to remain amystery. Second, I don’tknow much about adoptionbut the woman you called‘Mama’ loved you. She musthave, because she raised youright.She’syourrealmother.

Thewomanthat’sburiedoveryonintheCemeteryofHopeand Salvation. But since shewon’t have a chance to tellher side of this story—well,not until youmeet her againin the SpiritWorld—I thinkweshouldn’tjudgeher.”

I reached over andsqueezedMrs.BaileyWhite’shand, grateful for herwisdom.

ThirtyThe day of the courthearing dawned early for allof us. As agreed, Jackiepickedmeupatmycottageatsix o’clock and we drovestraight to Mrs. BaileyWhite’s.

Jackie was nervous. Shewasdressedtothenines—stillinmourningblackbutwithafew extra flourishes like aheavy gold brooch andmatching earrings that I’dneverseenbefore.

“My mother’s,” she said,tugging gently on herearlobes when she saw mestaring. “I want to look likeI’m richer than I am,” she

added with a laugh. “Weneedtoimpressthejudge.”

Iwaswearing a light-graysuit with a lavender blouse.At least I had found someshoepolishandimprovedtheappearance of my loafers.Well,ifIcouldneverpullofflooking glamorous, at least Ilooked neat and presentable,but I made a silent promisethat if I ever had anymoneytospareIwouldaskJackieto

take me shopping. Maybeeven go to Miami or PalmBeach,thoughthatwasreallydreamingonmypart.

We arrived at the oldhouse to find Mrs. BaileyWhiteflutteringaroundlikeabirdthatistrappedandtryingto find its way out. Upstairsin her crib, Dream washollering in a certain shrill,hysterical way which meantshe wasn’t calming down

anytime soon. Plain Janecame down the stairs morequicklythanI’deverseenhermove.

Bunny, Plain Jane said,wasnotinherroom.Norwasshe in the bathroom, theparlor,thekitchen...

It was Jackie who foundBunny sound asleep in ahammock on a screened-inporchonthenorthsideofthehouse which no one ever

used. Bunny woke up whenshe sensed that we werestaringather.

“Whaty’alllookin’at?”shebarked. “And what’s all thatracket? Oh . . . the baby.Forgot where I was for amoment.” She stretched.“Nicehammock,” she said toMrs. Bailey White, whocollapsed into an ancientwickerchair.

“Oh, I see,” Bunny said,dragging herself out of thehammock. “Y’all thought Iran off. Thought I let youdown,huh.”Iheardatwingeofresentmentinhervoice.

“Well, we didn’t knowwhat to think,” said Mrs.BaileyWhite.

Iwentupstairs to comfortthe baby while Jackie lookedafterMrs.BaileyWhite,wholookedalittlepeakedfromall

the excitement. Plain Jane,whobelievedintheadage“Ifall else fails, there’s alwaysfood,” announced that shewas going to make pancakesforeveryone.

And,ofcourse, itworked.There are times whenpancakes are not justpancakes, they are problemsolvers.Sittingdowntogetherto share a meal is part of it.The other, asMama used to

say, is that a full belly solvesmost of the troubles of theworld.

Plain Jane dearly wantedto go with us to thecourthouse but agreed thatshewouldstayhomeandtakecare of the baby. That way,Mrs. BaileyWhite could go.Thiswasadeliberatestrategyon our part: Mrs. BaileyWhite represented oldmoney.Peopleknewwhoshe

was—for better or worse—andthatherfatherhadbeenabig somebody way backwhen.

The new courthouse inEastNapleswas a short rideaway,butJackiewantedustobethefirsttoarrive.I’dneverbeen inside and was curious.Until Hurricane Donnaclobbered Collier County in1960, the county seat was inthe town ofEvergladesCity,

not Naples. Going to court(or conducting any countybusiness) meant a long driveto the south.ThecourthouseinEvergladesCitywasoneofthe few buildings thatsurvived,andastheonlytwo-storybuilding in town,manyfolks rode out the stormthere.However, it was badlydamaged, the town was ashambles (evenmore so thanNaples), and thepowers that

berelocatedthewholekitandcaboodle. We now had anewly constructed countygovernment building on theTamiami Trail that was—hang onto your hat—airconditioned.

Silently, I wished Priscillawas with us but that was afoolishthought.Evenifshe’dbeen home from college, shecould hardly have gone withus to the courthouse. She

wouldn’t be allowed to sitwith us, on account of herbeing Negro. Ironic, Ithought,thattheycouldbuildacourthouse with all of themodern amenities but theattitudesaboutracewere stillahundredyearsoutofdate.

Besides—and this mademeflushwithshametothinkit—having Priscilla with uswould hurt our case, despiteher talent formaking a good

impression. There werejudgeswhowouldruleagainstus simply because we wereseenwithablackperson.

Andsoitwasjustthefourof us—Jackie, Mrs. BaileyWhite, me, and also, ofcourse,Bunny.Our attorney,Mr. Yonce, was to meet usthere; hehadborrowed a carandwasstayingattheNaplesBeachClubHotel.

As for Robbie-Lee, wehad no idea where he was.MaybehewouldarriveontheTrailways bus in time to gethimself over to thecourthouse. If not, he wouldmiss all the fireworks.But, Ithought privately, at least hewill be here to help pick up thepiecesifwelose.

When we arrived at thecourthousewediscovered thebuilding wasn’t open.

Fortunately, it wasn’thideouslyhotyet.Jackiekeptthe convertible top up forshade or we would haveroastedevenatthatearlyhouroftheday.

Mrs. Bailey White brokethe silence. “I know this is amodern building and all, butfrankly I’m nostalgic for theolddayswhenthecourthousewas down in EvergladesCity,” she announced. “Now

thatwasagrandoldbuilding,with the columns and all upfront. I havemanymemories—”

“It’s still there,” Iinterrupted, hoping to derailher from talking about hertrial. I’d always wanted tohear all the details, but thiswas not the time. “They’regoing to fix it up and turn itinto offices or some kind ofmuseum,Ithink.”

“Well,that’sgood,becausethat place is filled with richhistory,” Mrs. Bailey Whitesaid. “Includingmy trial.Or,Imightsay,especiallymytrial.I was the most famousdefendant they ever had, youknow. Oh, those were thedays.”

Jackie and I glanced ateach other. We were sittingup front, with Mrs. Bailey

WhiteandBunnysharingthebackseat.

“Oh,yeah,”Bunnysaid toMrs.BaileyWhitecheerfully,as if they were exchanging arecipe for fried catfish. “I doremember hearing aboutthat . . . mess. Back when Iwasachild.”

“Oh,indeed,amessitwas!I can still hear the juryforeman saying, ‘Guilty onone count of murder.’ They

sentmeoff toLowell.Nevermind thatmy lawyer saidwehadagoodchanceofprovingself-defense. But not inFlorida, not in my day. Notforawoman.”

“Nosurprisethere,”Bunnysaidsympathetically.“Itwasaman’sworld.Stillis.”

“Yes-siree,” Mrs. BaileyWhitesaid.

“Can I ask you aquestion?” Bunny asked.

“Howcome theydidn’t hangyou?”

“I suspect it was onaccount of my coming froman affluent family,” Mrs.Bailey White said. “But Idon’thonestlyknow.”

“Why’d they let you outearly?”Bunnypersisted.

“Good behavior,” Mrs.BaileyWhitesaid.

“Thisisfascinating,ladies,but I’m a nervous wreck at

the moment,” Jackie saidirritably. “Let’s focus ontoday, please. I want to goover the particulars again.Now, remember, this is ahearing. If we’re lucky, wewon’t have to go to trial. Imean, if the judgedecides inourfavor.”

“I sure hope I don’t havetotalk,”Bunnysaid.

“I don’t think we’resupposed to say anything,”

Jackie said. “Last night Tedcalledme long distance fromTallahassee to wish us luck,andhe said, ‘Let your lawyerdo the talking,’ and I thinkhe’s right. It fits with whatMr. Yonce advised, too. Hesaid that’s what we’re payinghimfor.”

“Okay,” Bunny said. “Welet the lawyerdo the talking.HowdoIlook?”

“YoulookasgoodasMrs.Astor’spetmule!”Mrs.BaileyWhite said, and at first Ithoughtitwasaninsult.

“Why, thank you!” Bunnyrepliedplayfully.

Jackie and I exchangedglances. Neither of us knewwhattheyweretalkingabout.“WouldanyonemindifIputthe radio on?” Jackie askedsuddenly. Without waitingforananswer,sheswitchedit

on.ThewailingsoundofEricBurdon singing the Animals’rendition of “The House ofthe Rising Sun” waftedthroughtheair.

“Gee!” Jackie exclaimed.“What a depressing song!Howdidthatgettobeahit?”

“Oh, I know that song!”Bunny said, surprising us.“It’s a folk song. Heard it alongtimeago.”

“Me, too,” said Mrs.BaileyWhite.

Thesongfinishedandthenext up was “EverybodyLoves Somebody,” a DeanMartinhitthatJackieseemedtofindmorepalatable. “Nowthat’smore like it,” she said.“Atleastthatmancansing.”

“That’s for sure,” Mrs.Bailey White said. “Soundskindofsexy.”

“What we need aroundhereisanotherradiostation,”I said, trying to be pleasantandconversational.

“You are not kidding!”Jackie snapped. “Even acountry radio station wouldbebetterthanhavingjustoldWNOG!”

“Why, Jackie, you are aYankee snob,” I said, tryingtojoke.

“What—just because Idon’t love country music? Ilike some of it,” she saiddefensively. “I like LorettaLynnandJohnnyCash.”

“Maybe you should gobacktodoingyourownshowonWNOGandthenyoucanpick your own music again,”Mrs. Bailey White said,tryingtobehelpful.

“I’ve told you, itwasn’t asmuch fun once everyone

found out who I am,” Jackiesaid.“Thefunpartwasdoingit incognito.” She started tosay more but the next songdistracted her. “Oh, there’sthat songmy daughtersweretalking about! ‘You Don’tOwnMe.’ ”

“That’s Lesley Gore,” Isaid.

We listened to thewords.“Sounds like that gal isstanding up for herself,”

Bunny said approvingly.“Tellin’hermantobackoff.”

“Now this is the messageyoung girls need to hear!”Jackie exclaimed. “Yourboyfriend or husbanddoesn’t‘own’ you! You are free tomakeyourownchoices!”

A deputy sheriff pulledinto the parking lot, endingour conversation.He openedhis car door with a swift,furious kick of his left foot,

treating us to a flash of spit-polished cowboy bootreflected in themorning sun.Whetherthiswasintendedtoimpress or intimidate, I hadno idea.Ormaybe he was ashow-off all the time. Mynerves were so jittery I wasprobablyreadingintoit.

Without looking at us, hesauntered to the courthousedoor and unlocked it. Justwhen I thought he was

avoiding eye contactwithus,he turned and grinnedmenacinglyandmadeamockbow of welcome. Then hewentinside.

“What in the world wasthat all about,” Jackiecomplained.

“Idon’tknow,”Isaid,“butlet’s get out of this heat andgointothecourthouse.”

Jackie agreed. “Yes, and itwouldbehooveustofigureout

wherewe’re supposed to sit,”shesaid.

“And locate the ladies’room,” Mrs. Bailey Whiteadded.

Jackie smiled despiteherself. “Yes,” she said, “andthat,too.”

“I wish Mr. Yonce washerealready,”Isaid,myvoicebordering on whiny. I couldnolongerdisguisemyanxiety.Unlike Jackie and theothers,

Ialsohadtocontendwiththefact thatDarryl was likely tobe attending.Hemight evenbe testifying. Of course, hemight just send his attorneyson his behalf. But I had nowayofknowinginadvance.

•••

THE COURTROOM WASDIVIDEDINhalfbyanaisle,a bit like a church. Jackieinsistedwesettleintothefirst

row on the left side. Darryland his lawyers could sit onthe front row on the right.“That’sthewaytheydoitonPerryMason,”shesaid.

“Well, where are thelawyersgoingtosit?”Iasked,confused.

“I think they’ll bestanding,” Jackie replied.“There’snodefendant,perse,and no jury. So they’ll bearguingbeforethejudge.”

About twenty minuteslater, Mr. Yonce arrived,nervously mopping his browwith a handkerchief despitethe arctic blast coming fromthe central air conditioner.But when he saw us, hegrinned and gave us athumbs-up.Hedartedovertous and whispered,“Everythingisundercontrol.”Hopefully this meant thefingerprints had been a

match. Then he and Jackiediscussed the seatingarrangements. “I need to siton the aisle,” he said, “andy’all can sit right here. Butsaveaseatortwo.”

Save a seat or two? Iwondered why. Thecourtroom was empty exceptforus.AsifreadingmymindMr. Yonce said, “A hugecrowd has started gatheringoutside.They’remakingthem

waittocomeinuntilafterthejudgearrives.”

Myheart fluttered.Ahugecrowd. This was surprising,considering that there hadbeenlittleinthenewspaper—despite Jackie’s best efforts—about thehearing.But I hadunderestimated the power ofthe grapevine and thedeterminationofbothsides.

This wasn’t a fight aboutone development. It was a

fightoverdreams.Darrylandhis supporters longed forbuildings and roads, for newjobs, and fat bank accounts.People like me wanted justthe opposite; our dream wasfor the land and river to staythesame,thewayGodmadeit. As for Bunny, she wasprotectingsomethingshehadfought for her entire life: aplacewhere she couldbe left

alone, which was the onlydreamshe’deverhad.

AtleastBunnyandIwereon the same side. To us, ithadalwaysbeenDreamsville.

Thirty-OneThejudgewasanold-timernamed Henry “Hang ’EmHarry” Prentiss, a dignifiedno-nonsense kind of fellowwho looked remarkably likeConfederate General RobertE. Lee in the classic Civil

Warportraitthatheldaplaceof honor in many Floridahomes.

Darryl and his threelawyers walked in at the lastsecond, just before JudgePrentisscalled thecourtroomto order. I was expecting toget the evil eye fromDarryl,but he didn’t even glance atour side. Mrs. Bailey Whitesnuck a peek behind us, justto ascertain if there was

indeed a full house, andwhispered a little too loudlythatitwasa“gallowscrowd,”meaning a lot of people,manyofthemspittin’mad.

HadDarrylfilledtheplacewith folks hungry for jobs?Or were they on our side,eager to see thedevelopmenthaltedinitstracks?

Judge Prentiss began theproceedings by banging thegavel and complaining

heartily about themicrophone and the air-conditioning. After we weretreated to his tirade on new-fangled machinery, he madethefollowingstatement:

“I have been brought outof retirement to adjudicatethiscase,andfranklyIwouldrather be fishing, but I amhere and I will fulfill myduties to the court. Both ofthe justices normally serving

this court have a conflict ofinterest in the case and haverecused themselves. JusticeDonald D. Battle owns landadjacent to the disputedproperty. Justice John EdJones has made a financialinvestment in Mr. DarrylNorwood’scompany.

“Remember, this is apreliminary hearing,” hecontinued. “I have read thesupporting materials but I

have not made a decision. Iwish to hear what theattorneys representing eachsidehavetosay.”

Darryl’s lead lawyer andourMr.Yonce stoodup andapproached the bench. Liketwo awkward dancers at acotillion, they faced eachotheruneasily.

Darryl’s lawyerspokefirst.“Your honor, my client isbeing prevented from his

right to develop theproperty,” he said, his toneindignant. “This frivolousclaim is causing needlessdelay. It is causing financialharm to my client, and it isdetrimental to thecommunity.Hundredsofjobsareatstake.”

Now it was Mr. Yonce’sturn. “Your honor, this casehasnothingwhatsoevertodowiththecreationofnewjobs,

or what may—or may not—begood for the community,”hesaid.“Itis,quitesimply,adisputeovertheownershipoflandwhichwecansettlehereeasily today.My client,MissBunny Ann McIntyre, ownsthe land. Mr. DarrylNorwood claims to own theland, having purchased itfrom someone other thanMissMcIntyre.Thefactthathewasmisledordefraudedis

not our concern. The fact ishedoesnotowntheproperty.It’s the oldest story in theworld, when one humanbeing covets that whichbelongstoanother,essentiallysaying,Iwantwhatyouhave.The deed belongs to MissMcIntyre, the eldest livingdirect descendant of theoriginal property owner, andthe papers have beenauthenticated.”

“Andhowhave they beenauthenticated?” the judgeasked. “I have most of thepapershereinfrontofmebutI want it said aloud for thegallery.”

“Well, the first documentis the deed in trust,” Mr.Yonce said. “It has beenauthenticated by a bank inPensacola. The bank is inpossessionofacopy,anditisfromthatbank that the trust

has been administered sinceitsinception.

“Secondly,” Mr. Yoncecontinued, “we have hired agenealogist who has proventhat Miss McIntyre is theeldestlivingdirectdescendantofConfederateGeneral JohnStuart Williams and that,under the trust which hecreated long ago, she is therightfulowneroftheland.”

Darryl’s lawyer burst outlaughing and covered hismouth in a way that seemedrehearsed. “Your honor,excuseme!”hesaid.“Thefactis we don’t know if thiswoman”—he turned andpointedatBunny—“isinfactBunny Ann McIntyre. Shehas been calling herselfDolores Simpson for at leastthe last twenty-four years,according to our research. It

seems rather convenient thatshe has begun calling herselfBunnyAnnMcIntyre just intime to claim an inheritanceunderthatname.Howdoweknowwhosheis?”

“Your honor,” Mr. Yoncecountered, “we have a courtrecord from1939thatprovesshe is BunnyAnnMcIntyre.The document includes hername, photograph, and—mostsignificantly,yourhonor

—her fingerprints. Thosefingerprints match those ofthe woman you see sittinghere today.Here is a report,officially prepared by thefingerprint expert, retiredSarasotadetectiveDexterW.Stone.”With a flourish,Mr.Yonce set the report beforethejudge.

Darryl’s lawyer scoffed.“What is that court record,counselor? Let’s be honest

here!It’sfordisorderlyconduct.Thearrest tookplaceoutsidea so-called nightclubfeaturing nude dancers inTampa,where sheworkedasa stripper. Are we supposedto believe anything thiswomansays?”

Bunny jumped angrily toherfeet.“Iwasnotastripper!Iwasafandancer!”

“Sit down, please,” thejudge scolded. Bunny

complied.“Well, the record shows

youwerea stripper,orexoticdancer,” Darryl’s lawyerreplied, looking remarkablyunfazedbytheoutburst.

“Fandancer!”shehollered.“Silence in the court!” the

judgebellowed.Mr. Yonce waited a beat,

then said pleadingly, “Yourhonor, this is characterassassination.Myclientisnot

on trial here.The only thingthat matters is ownership ofthe land. She owns it. Whatshemayhavedoneinherpasthasnorelevance.”

“But it does haverelevance, your honor!”Darryl’s attorney said. “Thiswoman has a history. She isnot an upstanding citizen.Withallduerespect,Ibelievewe need to examine thisissue.”

JudgePrentiss tooka longsipofwater,thensettheglassdown a little too hard rightnext to themicrophone.“Letmethinkaboutthis,boys,”hesaid. He then removed hisglasses,spitonthelenses,andused the long sleeve of hisrobetocleanthem.

Suddenly,Jackieraisedherhandandbeganwavingitlikea schoolgirl. “Your honor,may I say something?” she

asked.Beforehecouldanswershehadleapttoherfeet.

He squinted at her. “Andyouare...?”

“Mrs. Jacqueline Hart,”shesaid.

“And you wish to speakbecause...?”

“I wish to be a characterwitnessforMissMcIntyre.”

ThejudgepeeredatJackie.“Aren’t you Miss

Dreamsville? The lady whohadthatradioshow?”

“Yes, your honor,” Jackiesaidsweetly.

“Well,Ihavenoobjection.Since Mr. Norwood’sattorneyhasledusdownthispath, I will hear what youhave to say. Come up hereand speak from the witnessstand, though. And keep itshort.”

Jackie sashayed to thechair adjacent to the judge’sbench. “Shouldn’t I swear onaBible?”sheasked.

The judge nodded. Adeputy sauntered over, heldthe Bible, and made Jackierepeat the oath: “I dosolemnly swear . . .” Jackiewas in her glory. I wouldn’thave been surprised if she’dbeen waiting her whole lifefor a chance to testify in a

court of law. Meanwhile,Mrs. Bailey White and Iglanced at each other, and InoticedMr.Yoncebitinghislip.

“I would just like to saythat I think it is entirelyunfair for this man here”—she pointed theatrically atDarryl’s lawyer—“to attackMiss McIntyre and attemptto embarrass her. Since thebeginning of time, women

such as Miss McIntyre havebeen used and abused, andtreated with scorn. She hashad a difficult life, was castout by her parents in heryouth, and treatedwith utterdisregard by unscrupulousmen. It is unconscionable, ina civilized society, to makeherpayagainandagain—”

Darryl’s attorney coughedconspicuously and rolled his

eyes. Jackie noticed and tookadifferenttack.

“Excuseme,butdon’tmostofushere—probablyallofus—consider ourselves to beChristians?” she cried out.“Miss McIntyre has mademistakes, but haven’t we all?Who among us dares to castthe first stone? I thoughtweweren’t supposed to judgeothers! And what aboutforgiveness? Miss McIntyre

left that life of temptationand wickedness. She is anhonorable person. She raiseda son, who is an upstandingcitizen . . .” Jackie’s voicetrailedoffandshedabbedrealtearsfromhereyes.

Mrs. Bailey White and Iwere openmouthed. For amoment our Jackie soundedlike a born-and-bredSouthern lady. “Why, Mrs.Hart, I am greatly moved,”

thejudgesaid.“Whereisthisson?Iwouldliketohearfromhim,ifheispresent.”

A voice from the far backof the room called out, “I’mhere!” The crowd rumbledwith anticipation. Robbie-Lee,carryingasuitcase,madehiswaytothefront.Iwassohappy to see him I almostcried.

“Silence in the court!” thejudge bellowed.He used the

gavel three times toemphasizehispoint.

Robbie-Lee looked justthesameexceptmaybealittlethinner. He’d always been agood-lookingguyandaswelldresser. As he took Jackie’splace on the witness standandwasswornin,heseemedout of breath. The judgecoaxedhimtospeak.

“Well,” Robbie-Lee said,“she has always been a

wonderfulmother.Icouldnotask for a better mom. Shetook such good care of me.I’llneverforgetthetimeIhadthechickenpoxandshe—”

“All right, I think we getthepicture,”thejudgesaid.

“Sir, I would just like toadd that I don’t think it’s atallnice that thesehighfalutinlawyers”—he gestured atDarryl’sattorney—“aresaying

such evil things about mydearmama.”

At his emotionalpronouncement,hankieswereremovedfrompursesandvestpockets throughout thecourtroom, mostconspicuously along the leftfront row. Jackie, who hadreturned to her seat next tome; Mrs. Bailey White, onmy other side; myself, and

even Bunny, were cryingloudly.

“And there’s somethingelse Iwould like to say, yourhonor,” Robbie-Lee said. “Irecall as a child visiting mymother’s parents,who died along timeago.And theyhada familyBible—I surelywishwe knew where it is now—but it had the names ofpeople written into it, eachtimesomebodywasborn.My

mama pointed out her name—Bunny Ann McIntyre—tome, and we wrote my namejust below it. And while Idon’tknowwhathappenedtothatBible,Iswearthatthisisthetruth.”

Robbie-Lee steppeddownandheadedforanemptyseaton our row, pausing to kisshismamaonthecheek.

Mr. Yonce looked a littleshell-shocked by the

unexpected testimony ofJackie and Robbie-Lee, butDarryl’s lawyer saw anopportunity. “Your honor,”hesaid,“thisisaprettyscenebut I believe we are gettingoff trackhere!These sortsoftheatricsdonothelpusgettothe truth. Especially comingfrom Mrs. Hart, who is anotorious local personality, anewspaper columnist, and

previously, the host of ascandalousradioshow.”

The judge grabbed hisgavel and slammed it twice.“Good heavens, man, can’tyou see that MissDreamsville, er,Mrs.Hart isin mourning clothes?” hescolded. “Have we reachedthattimeandplacewherewehave abandoned all decency?Were you not raised betterthanthis?”

“Thank you, your honor,”Jackie said, standing briefly.“Sir, you are a truegentleman.”

The judge blushed. Mr.Yonce looked so lost hereminded me of a fish thathad leapt out of water andfound itself belly-up on dryland.Our poor young lawyerhadcompletelylostcontrolofhiscase.

“Is there anyone else whowould like to speak?” thejudgeaskedfinally.

A laborer named JimBeam, just like the liquor,spokeabouttheneedforjobs.“We need this project,” hedeclared. “How am Isupposedtofeedmyfamily?”

Then one of the brothersfrom Gun Rack Village—Billy, I think—also chose tospeak, directing his question

to Mr. Beam. “Does yourneed for a job mean you’vegottodestroywhatwehave?”he asked. “It may not seemlikemuch to you but it’s ourentirewayoflife.”

IwaswaitingforsomeonetobringupSeminole Joebutbeforethatcouldhappen,theproceedings came to an end.“I’ve heard enough,” thejudgesaid. “I’vehadasmuchbotheration as I can stand.

There’snoneedtogofurther.The rightful owner is MissBunny Ann McIntyre. Allotherargumentsaremoot.”

He brought down thegavel and left the courtroom.Ifhehurried,he’dbebacktohis favorite fishing spot bymidday.

Thiry-TwoAnd so Bunny AnnMcIntyre had won fair andsquare. She was now theofficial heir to the river. Infact, she was the largestheiressinCollierCounty.

Dora was thrilled,naturally. Jackie Hart rushedoff towrite a special columnfor the newspaper. Robbie-Lee was relieved and morethanalittlesurprisedthathismother had turned out to bewealthy—well, land-rich, atleast. Billy and Marco hadraced off in their pickup tosharethenews.

Before the sun reached itshighest point, word had

spread sure and steady like asmolderingswampfire indryseason.

The last to hear the goodnews were the Negroes whowould have lost theirsettlement. Among themtherewas said tobe asmuchshock as joy, because therehad been justice. Theyweren’tusedtoit.

No one, of course, shouldhave been happier than

Bunny. She had insisted onwalking back to her fishingshack alone. Everyone else,including her son, had goneofftocelebrate.

“Oh,don’tgetmewrong,”she toldPeggySue,whowassnuggledinhernestanduponhearing Bunny’s familiarvoice, opened one eye. “I’mtickled to death that I won.Butnowthere’sonemorejob

Ihavetodo,andLordknowsIdon’tfeellikedoingit.”

Bunny sat down on theedge of the dock and let herfeet dangle over the side.She’d already taken off thestrange shoes she’d borrowedforcourt.“WhatdoyouthinkI shoulddo,PeggySue?” shecontinued. “I’m stuckbetween a rock and a hardplace.”

The fact was that onesecret remained: the one shefearedmost.

“How am I going to tellher?” Bunny said, and thenightheronrespondedwithapeculiar squeak. “Oh, am Iannoying you? I beg yourpardon!” Bunny added, andlaughed. “But seriously,Peggy Sue, the look on herfaceisgoingtobeawful.Andwho can blame her? How

would you like to find outyour real mother was anexotic dancer turned alligatorhunter?”

For years, she’d watchedfrom a distance without herhaving a clue. Dora. Bunnyliked the name they hadchosenforher.

But when Bunny realizedDora was in the same bookclub as Robbie-Lee, shenearly passed out from fear

thatDorawouldfigureitout,orhewould.The thoughtofthe two of them, half sisterand brother, sitting side byside talking about books wasso painful it seemed like thedevilwaslaughinginherface.

Then Dora went toMississippi, and Bunny gotreally scared. She didn’tbelieveDorahadanyideashewas adopted, but she mightfigure it out if she started

poking around there. Andsure enough, Bunnyoverheard the book clubladies—Jackie, Plain Jane,and Mrs. Bailey White—talking downstairs when shestayed overnight at the oldgal’s house before they wentto court. They werediscussingDora,howshehadlearned she was adopted butwas dealing with it prettywell.Seemsshe’dfoundouta

few months earlier so she’dhadsometimetogetusedtotheidea.

ButDorastilldidn’tknowwho her mother was. Andlikelyneverwould.

Bunny knew in her heartthat Dora deserved to hearthe truth, even if she mightbe disappointed. She hadgotten to knowDora, whichmade itmighty hard to keepup the lie. Dora was, also, a

rightfulheir toBunny’s land.She and Robbie-Lee wouldshareitsomeday.

She was so desperate tosave the river that she’dgambled by asking Dora forhelp.Sheknewwhenshesentthat telegram that shemightbe starting something thatwould be hard to stop. Factis,theStateofFloridadidnottake her baby girl when shewasfifteenandhadrunoffto

Tampa. The truth was therewasanurse,asweetgalfromMississippi, who told Bunnythat she knew she couldn’thave children. The nurse’snamewasCallieandshewasstaying in Tampa, just for awhile, because she needed ajob and itwas theonlyplaceshe could find work. Herhusband—she said they’dbeen married about a year—wasfromCollierCounty,and

shewouldjoinhimassoonasshecouldgetajobthere.

Bunny had a feeling therewas more to this story butsince she was so young andhadaworldoftroublesofherown,shedidn’task.Thenonenight when Bunny couldn’tsleep, the young nurse toldherhowshe’dlefthermanatthe altar and run off withsomeoneelse.Upandleftherfiancé,herparents,herwhole

life, and had no regrets.Thesamedayshewassupposedtomarry one fella, she marriedthe other. She and her newman drove straight fromMississippi to Alabama andfinally, just after crossing theFloridastateline,gotmarriedthat night in the parlor of aMethodist preacher’sparsonageinsomesmalltownBunnyhadneverheardof.

To Bunny this was animpressive tale. UnlikeBunny, the young nursenamedCallie knewwhat shewantedinlife.Shehadstoodupforherself.Plus,shewasatrained nurse. She waseducated. When BunnyfoundoutthatCalliecouldn’thaveachildbutreallywantedone, she knew at thatmoment that she was meanttogiveherbabygirltoCallie.

Ithurtlesstogivethebabytosomeone she chose. Besides,thenurse’shusbandwasfromCollier County and that’swheretheyweregoingtolive.Bunny felt like a part of herwould stay with the baby byhavinghergrowupwhereshedid.Although,ofcourse,inabetterhome.

WhenBunnyhadRobbie-Lee seven years later at thesame hospital in Tampa,

something told her it wastime to go home to CollierCounty. She wanted to benear Dora. She wanted towatchhergrowup.

And so Bunny AnnMcIntyre picked her newname—Dolores Simpson—not justbecauseshesawit ina magazine left on asouthboundbustoNaplesbutbecause Dolores sounded, toher, a lot like Dora. Just

another little secret, away tokeep her close withoutanyoneknowing.

“Peggy Sue,” she calledovertoheravianfriend,“wishmeluck.”

•••

SHE DECIDED TO TELLROBBIE-LEE first. That wasonly fair. The next morningshe walked to Mrs. BaileyWhite’s house. People were

coming and going, and shebegan to despair of having amoment alone with her son.Finally,sheaskedhimtohelppack up the belongings she’dleft when she’d spent thenightbeforegoingtocourt.Itwasalovelylittleroomonthesecond floor, and Bunnyknewshewouldmissit.Theywere taking a break; he wassittinginachairthatwastoosmall for him and she was

perched on the side of thebed. He was talking abouthowheneededtogobacktoNewYork, thathewasn’tonofficialleavefromhisjob.

Nowwasthetime.“Dora Witherspoon is

your sister,” she blurted out.Theywerethemostpowerfulanddifficultwordsshe’deversaid aloud, and to her theyseemedtotakeovertheroomlike a swarm of furious bees.

The sting of those wordsmocked her and hung in theair until she noticedsomething odd. Robbie-Leewasstrangelycalm.

“Why do you think Ijoined the book club?” heasked.

“Huh?”“I joined the book club

because Dora was in it. Iwanted to get to know herbetter. I knew who she was,

but we weren’t in school atthesametime,sothatwasmychance.”

She felt like she had acrawfish stuck in her throat.“Buthowdidyouknow?”sheasked.

“Mom, you forget, youtalk in your sleep,” he saidbluntly, almost impatiently,adding, “Especially whenyou’vebeendrinking.”

“Well, did you ever sayanythingtoheraboutit?”

“No, of coursenot.That’syour story to tell,Mom.Notmine.”

“Since when do you callmeMom?”

“Well, I can’t call youDolores anymore. You’re notDolores.And,frankly,Idon’twant to call you Bunny. AllmylifeI’vewantedtocallyouMom. I never liked the way

youmademecallyoubyyourfirstname.”

“Well,Ididn’tfeelworthyofbeing amom, that’swhy,”shesaid,hervoicebreaking.

“Aw, now, you mustn’tthink like that,” Robbie-Leesaid,addinglightly,“Iturnedoutprettygood,didn’tI?”

“Don’t tease, this is aterrible situation. I can’t tellDora.Youhavetodoit.Ijustcan’t.”

“Yes,youcan.”“No, I can’t. Maybe if I

was,youknow,purtyand...normal. Someone she couldbe proud of. That’s why itwouldbebettercomingfromyou. You could tell her youare her brother. She’ll likethat.Thatwillbegoodnews,because she likes you as afriend. It might even be ahappy surprise, for all Iknow.”

Robbie-Lee sighed. “Thisis an awful thing to asksomeonetodoforyou.”

“Well, what if sheupchuckedwhen I told her?”she asked. “What if shelaughed at me? What if shesaid something sohorrible tomethatIwon’twanttogoonliving?”

“Oh, Mom, please,”Robbie-Lee said. But she

could see that he finallyagreed.

It all was happening soquickly. Not more than tenminuteslater,Bunnystoodatthe upstairs window half-hiddenbyanoldlacecurtain,andwatched her son tell herdaughterthattheywerekin.

They sat opposite eachother on wrought-ironfurniturethatmusthavebeenas old asMrs.BaileyWhite.

Someonehadbeenmakinganeffort to trim the grass andplants in what must havebeenalovelyflowergardenatonetime.

She wished she’d thoughtto open the window. It wastoolatenow.They’dhearheropen it for sure. But at leastshe could see their lipsmoving. And she could seetheirfaces.

He leaned forward, hishands on his knees, andBunnythought,Oh,doesn’thelook like a grown man, soserious and strong. He saidsomething that must havebeen meant to prepare Dorafor important news becauseshe reacted by folding herarms across her chest,crossingherlegsattheankle,andtiltingherhead.Thenhesaid something that might

have been the word “sister.”Dora pulled back, surprised.Then her shoulders sagged,andshecoveredherfacewithherhands.

JustasBunnyhadfeared.Dorastoodupandwalked

afewfeetawayfromRobbie-Lee. He said a few words,and she responded withoutturningaround.Hesaidafewmore words, and she finally

faced him again. She wascrying.

Robbie-Lee went to herand hugged her for a longtime. Then he took her faceintohishands.Hesmiled.

And she smiledback.Shemighthavesaid,“Brother.”

ThenDorasatbackdownhard, like she was a sack offlour.

Suddenly it occurred toBunny that theymight come

looking for her as soon asDora caught her breath.Mercy, what an awfulthought. She hurried downthe stairs and out the frontdoor. The river—her river—wascallingherhome.

Thirty-ThreeThis iswhathesaidtome:“I have good news and badnews,Dora.”

IsatdownonMrs.BaileyWhite’s wrought-ironfurniture. Moments before Ihad been thinking what a

lovely garden this must haveonce been. Someone hadbeen working on it—PlainJane,maybe.

“What?”Isaid.“Justsayit.Whatisit?”

“Whatdoyouwant first?”Robbie-Leeasked.“Thegoodnewsorthebad?”

“Idon’tcare!Justsayit!”He cleared his throat and

lookedmestraightintheeye.“My mother is the woman

who gave you up foradoption,”hesaid.Hewaitedforittosinkin.

“What are you talkingabout?” I shrieked.My voicecame out so shrill that Iwould never have guessed itcame fromme. “Robbie-Lee,that can’t be right! How doyou . . . What makes youthink . . . That’s just notpossible!”

But, truth be told,anythingwaspossible.

I felt like my skin hadbeenbittenbyathousandfireants, and I very nearlyupchucked. I stood andturned my back on Robbie-Lee,justincase.Inever,everthoughtIwouldfindoutwhomymotherwas.

Once I collected myself Iturnedaround, tears flooding

my eyes. “Was this the badnews?”Iasked,confused.

Robbie-Lee chuckled.“Well, a lot of people wouldthinkso.Youknowshe’snotexactly Betty Crocker. Idoubt very much that she’sthetypeofmotheryouwouldhavehopedfor.”

“Oh,” I said. “Well,honestly?No.”

“Okay, now I’m going totell you the good news. Do

you knowwhat that is?Thismeansthatyou’remysister!”

Despite everything elsethatwashappening, Ihad tosmile. This was good news.I’d always wanted a sibling.And Robbie-Lee would bethe best. He was smart,funny, and an all-aroundgreat guy. We were friends.And now we were siblings,too.

“I have a brother,” I saidslowly, trying it out to seehow it sounded.Awondrousthing, having a brother. Myfriends growing upcomplained bitterly abouttheir brothers; Jackie’s twindaughters seemed to dislikeJudd heartily. But I alwayswanted to tell them, You areluckierthanyouknow.

Suddenly I felt a littlestrange, like I couldn’t

breathe. I sat down again,tryingtocalmmyselfenoughto find the right words.“Robbie-Lee, I thank you,” Isaid finally. “I mean, thankyoufortellingme.”

Robbie-Lee smiled a littlesadly. “Well, Iknewyouhadto know. I mean, she finallyconfirmed it. And you’re anheirnow.Youandmeboth.”

“Whydidn’tshetellme?”Iasked.

“Because she was scared,”hesaidsimply.“Iwasscared,too,butnotasmuchasher.”

“How long have youknown?”

“Oh, I’ve had somesuspicionsforalongtime,”hesaid. “Something she saidonce or twice when she wasdrunk.”

I waited a moment, then,“Do you think we have thesamefather?”

Robbie-Lee surprised meby laughingout loud. “Not achance,” he said, addingquickly, “Does it reallymatter?I’mnotsurewewantto know any more secretsfrom the past, even if wecould find out. I think wehave enough to contendwith.”

“You’ve never knownwhoyourfatheris,right?”Iasked.“I’vebeenwalkingaroundfor

years thinking thatMontgomery Witherspoon,whereverheis,ismine.Soit’ssomething else I have toaccept.”

“I’m so sorry, Dora,”Robbie-Leesaidsoftly.

Ishruggedinresponse.“Dora, I know this must

come as a shock to you,” hecontinued. “I know she’s nota, um, conventional motherbut she’s a great person, she

really is. She’s a little rougharound the edges, but if yougive her a chance . . .” Hehesitated. “I surely do hopethat you give her a chance.Maybe not right away—thatwould be understandable—butmaybeonceyouget,well,usedtotheidea.”

What could I say? Thatmy newly found motherscared me to death? That Iwas repulsed at the idea that

mymotherhadbeenadancerin a nightclub? That I wasembarrassedbyher?AndthatI wondered what this meantabout me? I had thought Iwas a higher-class personthan that.Mama and Iwerepoor,Iknewthat,butMamahad been a nurse and I hadtwoyearsofcollege.

“Want to hear somethingfunny?”Isaidfinally.“AfterIlearned I was adopted I

starteddreamingthatmaybeIwas Eudora Welty’s secretlovechild.Iwasaiminghigh,wasn’tI?”

“Well, now, that wouldhave been something!” hesaid. “But that’s the problemwith real life, isn’t it? Lifecan’t live up to your dreams.I’m not saying dreams cannever come true; sometimesthey do, sometimes theydon’t. But one thing’s for

sure, once you start trying tomake a dream come trueyou’d better be prepared thatanything could happen. Youfind out you’re adopted.Youdream that your mother is abrilliant writer but she turnsouttobe,well,astripper—orfan dancer, or whatever—turnedalligatorhunter.Goodgrief,Dora,Icanseewhyyoufeelletdown.”

“I wouldn’t say I feel letdown,” I said quickly. “Thatsoundstoomean,andI’mnota mean person. I just needtime.”

Robbie-Leenodded.“Let’sgo inside and get somethingto drink,” he said, standingup. He took my arm andgentlyledmebackindoors.

•••

“ARE Y’ALL GOING TOTELL us what’s happening?”Mrs. Bailey Whitedemanded. I realized, oncewe were in the pantry, withRobbie-Lee chopping someiceforourdrinks,thatevenashort person like her couldget a peek at the garden aslong as she stood on hertippy-toes.

“Mrs. Bailey White, wereyou spying?” I saidwith fake

outrage, yet she reacted withguiltyshame.

“Well, we all were,” shesaid. “Jackie and Plain Jane,too.Only they ranoff to theliving room to pretend theyweren’t inherewatching youfromthisherewindow.”

Robbie-Lee and I lookedat each other and grinned.After fixing lemonade for allof us, we commenced tofindingtheothers,withMrs.

BaileyWhite trailingbehind.JackieandPlainJanewere inthe parlor pretending to playcards.

“Whathave you twobeenupto?”Jackieasked.

“Dora and I have anannouncement to make,”Robbie-Lee said. “Ihave justinformed her that we arebrotherandsister.”

Jackie had been reachingfor her lemonade and nearly

knockeditover.PlainJaneletout a little gasp, and Mrs.Bailey White said, “Did Ihearthatright?”

“Yes,youdid,Mrs.BaileyWhite,” I said, followingRobbie-Lee’s courageouslead. “We have the samemother.”

Jackie gulped. “Dora, yourmotheris...?”

“Yes,”Isaid,realizingthatmyfacewasstartingtoflush.

“Well, I’ll be a monkey’suncle,” said Mrs. BaileyWhite. “And here I thoughthewasproposingtoyou!”

“What?Youknowhe’snotthe marrying kind!” PlainJanesaidloudly.

“Well, just because he’snot a man’s man and notinterested in women in theBiblical sense doesn’t meanhe might not get married,”Mrs. Bailey White said

defensively. “I mean, ithappens all the time, doesn’tit?”

Robbie-Leeseemedalittleamused. “All y’all aresomething else!” he said.“Nowlet’sgoseeMom.She’supstairsresting.”

But all we found was anemptyroom.

Thirty-FourRobbieLee,you’regoingtowear a path in Mrs. BaileyWhite’sOriental rug,”I said,watching him pace back andforth.Wehadtodecideifweweregoingtogoafterher.

“IneedtogetbacktoNewYork,” he said, “but I’m notleaving until I see her. Youknowshe’sbackatherplace,probably talking to that birdanddrinkingupastorm.I’mworried.”

I had told Robbie-Leeabout thenightheronbuthehadn’t seemed surprised. Heliked the fact that she hadnamed the bird Peggy Sue

because he used to sing thatsongandmakeherlaugh.

“Well, you could go seeher and then tomorrow youcould catch themorning busnorthbound,”Isaid.“I’msure—”

“I have a better idea,”Robbie-Lee said, a littleimpatiently. “Let’s you andmegoseehertogether.”

“No,” I said firmly, “I’mnotreadytoseeher.”

“Well, fine,” he said. “I’mgoingtherenow.”

Great, I thought, we’realready quarreling like brotherand sister. The others wiselystayedoutofit.

•••

I SPENT THE AFTERNOONPLAYING withDream.Mrs.Bailey White was resting;Jackiewentbacktoherhousetobewithherkids,andPlain

Jane puttered around thegarden. I was glad for achance to be with Dream,who was beginning to warmuptome.ShelikeditwhenIplayedonthefloorwithher.Ihad not spent much timewith an infant since mybabysitting days in highschool.

I got to thinking howstrangeitistobealiveinthisworld. It’s not like anyone

asks to be born; you justarrive whether you like it ornot. You’ve got no saywhatsoever in who yourparents are. And yes, life isgoodandevenwonderful.Ongooddaysyousaytoyourself,“My,it’sgoodtobealive!”or“Ain’t lifegrand?”or “Thankyou, Jesus!” But other times,when things go badly, yousay, “What the heck is thisthing called life?” or “What

exactlyamIdoinghere?”Oreven, “Lawd, what kind oftrick you be playing onme?”Now the last is sacrilege, ofcourse,butIbetthere’snotahumanbeingalivewhohasn’thadmomentsofdespair.

Of course, Dream was along way from havingthoughts like these, good orbad.Shewasstilllivinginherown world, as yet unformedasanactualperson,herfuture

a question to be answered intime. What questions, Iwondered, would Dream askher mother one day? Wouldshe be angry at Priscilla forgoing away to college andleaving her behind? Wouldshe demand answers aboutwhoherfatherwas?

By the time Robbie-Leereturnedfromhishiketothefishingshack,Dreamwasfedandasleep.Iwaswaitingfora

chancetotalktoRobbie-Lee,but I must have dozed off,too,becausewhenIawokeinDream’sroomitwasdarkandIheardthesoundofhisvoicecomingfromthekitchen.

As I came quietly downthestairs,Isaidalittleprayer.Iwantedtocleartheairwithhim before he went back toNewYork.

He had showered andchanged his clothes, andwas

sitting at the kitchen tablewithMrs.BaileyWhite.Theremains of a Key lime pie—one of Mrs. Bailey White’sspecialties—sat in front ofhim.

“Why, hello, Dora!” hesaid, sounding like his oldcheerful self. “Mom is doingfine. I gave her somemoneytobuysomethingssheneeds.I wish she had let me knowshe was so tight on money!

But that’s Mom—she’snothin’ if not prideful andstubborn.”

“So . . .” I said, searchingforwords,“she’sokaythen?”

“Yes,”hesaid.“Andit’suptoyouifyouwanttoseeher.SheandItalkedaboutitandof course it’s your decision.I’msorryItriedtopushyou.Iwaswrong.”

“SoIshould—”

“You should do what youwant to do, whenever you’rereadytodoit,”hesaid,takinganothermouthfulofpie.

Hearing the commotion,Plain Jane, wearing an oldplaid bathrobe, joined us inthe kitchen. The only onesmissing from our old bookclubwere Jackie,whowas atherhome,andPriscilla.

Mrs.BaileyWhitelefttheroom for a moment and

returned with a copy of TheAdventures of HuckleberryFinn and, just as wesometimes did, back whenthe book club met regularly,we took turns reading italoud, passing the bookaroundthetable.

Justlikeoldtimes.

Thirty-FiveRobbie-Lee left the nextmorning forNewYorkCity.I watched him walk downMrs.BaileyWhite’slongdirtdrivewaytowardtheTamiamiTrail until he disappearedfromsight.

An hour later I wasdressed and heading to thefishingshack.

ItoldmyselflittletalesasIbegan my walk. I could turnaround at any time. I don’thave to go. I wasn’t reallygoing to see her. I was justgoing for a walk in theswamplands,bytheriver....

I carried a copy of theNaples Star with a headlinethat screamed, SWAMP

QUEEN PREVAILS INCOURT.

So much had happened.The river and the landsurroundingitweresafefromdevelopment.

Iwasadopted.And this strange woman

namedBunnyAnnMcIntyre,of all the women in theworld,wasmymother.

Once Robbie-Lee hadstoppedaskingmetoseeher,

I thought it through and IknewthatnothingwouldfeelsettleduntilIdid.But ithadtobemyidea—mychoice.

I wondered if I got thisstubbornness fromher?Prideand stubbornness, Robbie-Leehad said.Ohdear.Thatsoundedmightyfamiliar.

I stopped and drank froma canteen that Mrs. BaileyWhite had given me. Thewater was hot and metallic

tasting, and I spat it out. Iwas suddenly angry atRobbie-LeeandIwasn’tsurewhy.Ishouldhavegonewithhim yesterday to see her. Icouldhave lethimdoall thetalking.Icouldhave...

But I couldn’t go back intime.

Itwouldhavebeennice iftherewasaway to runaway,to reject all this newinformation, these

inconvenient facts. It was aburden. I had been forced torewrite the story line of myownlife.

And yet I had to do it. Itold myself: Sometimes thehurricanehitssouthofyou,andsometimesnorth, and once in awhile, the dang thing smacksyouhead-on.Well,Dora,thisisyourhurricane.Andifyouhangon for dear life, you justmightmakeitthrough.

I didn’t know what toexpect when I got there. Ithought shemight be sittingin her favorite spot on thedock,maybewhittling as shehad that first day when Iresponded to her telegramand she’d said, “It’s abouttime you got here.” It mademe laugh to thinkabout thatnow.Inretrospectitsoundedlike something a mothermightsaytoadaughter.

IhadnoideawhatIwouldsaytoher.Afewthingswentthrough my mind, but noneof them were right. I’d justhave to pray that the rightwords would come to me. Ihoped to keep it brief and,well,manageable.Tidy. Justafew words for now. I’d tellher that I had to go back toMississippiforaspellbutthatI’dbeback.Nopromises.Just

an acknowledgment of whathadoccurredbetweenus.

But that’s not how itworkedout.

Iarrivedtofindherinfulluproar. Something—something terrible—hadhappened. Imean it had justhappened, seconds before.She was wailing and carryin’onlikesomebodyhadupanddied.Whenshespiedme,shereacted as if I was any old

person, no one special. Icould have been anyone.“Look, lookwhathappened!”she cried out. She waspointingupatthetreewherethe night heron had beenkeepinghernest.

Apparently sometimeduringthenightthenesthadbeen disturbed—a bobcat,maybe even a panther. Thenest was hanging at asickening angle; part of it

appeared to be missingaltogether. Bunny must havejustwokenup, comeoutside,andfounditthatway.

“Peggy Sue is gone!” shehollered,andIdidn’tknowifshe meant dead or flownaway.

As I walked toward hersheturnedherbacktometohide her weeping. She wascryingsohardshehadtogulpfor air, which scared me to

pieces.After all, itwas just abird.

And then I thought, No.It’snotjustabird.It’snot“just”a bird any more than NormaJean,myEvergladessnapper,is“just” a turtle. Once you lovesomething,itownsasmidgenofyour heart. That’s the pricewepayforgivingourloveaway.

I took her arm, but sheyanked it away. Iwatched asshe sat down on the dock

withher back tome. I couldsee her shoulders heavingwithsobs.

I examined the nest, orwhatwasleftofit.Ifoundnosign of Peggy Sue. Thereweren’t even any scatteredfeathers, so hopefully she’dbeenabletoflyaway.

I poked at the debris andjumpedbackwhensomethingmoved. At first I assumed itwas a snake or some other

swamp critter. But then Irealized I was looking atsomething wonderful. I wasnose to beak with twohelpless chicks. I had neverbeensohappyinmylife.

“Hey!”I shouted.“Lookeehere,twobabies!”

Bunny stopped wailing.Shewasbymysideso fast itspookedme.

So therewewere,meandmymother,peeringanxiously

at the tiny chicks, which,bless their little avian hearts,were the ugliest things Godeverputonthisearth.

We named them Lamar(after a skinny-necked guywhosometimesworkedattheEsso station) and Liz (afterElizabeth Taylor, of course).We took them into thefishing shack and spent thenext hour arguing about the

best way to feed them andkeepthemwarm.

Once we got themsituated, Bunny pouredherself a small glass of gin.“Wantsome?”sheasked.

Ishookmyhead.“Robbie-Lee’s gone; now

evenPeggySue is gone,” shesaid bluntly. “And if theselittle babies don’t make it, Iwon’thavenothin’atall.”

“Well,” I said finally.“You’vegotme.”

•••

ANDSOIBEGANTO acceptthat I had twomothers—theone I calledMama,whohadraisedme,andwhohaddied;and the one who had givenbirth to me, who wasstanding before me, puffingon a small cigar and fussing

overtwobabynightherons—theheiressoftheriver.

“I don’t suppose you’llwanttocallme‘Mama,’ ”shesaid,loosenedupbythegin.

“Well,” I said slowly, “thefact is, I won’t call youMama, because I had aperson in my life who willalwaysbeMama.”

She flinched ever-so-slightly. “Well, Robbie-Leehas decided to start calling

meMombecausethat’swhathealwayswantedtocallme,”shesaid.“Youknow,Ialwaysinsisted he call meDolores.”She started to say somethingmore but stopped. “I guessyoucancallmewhateveryouwant.”

“Ineed to thinkabout it,”Isaid.“MaybejustBunny.”Ifelt like I was being a littlesnippy but, mercy, I’d been

through enough. At least Icouldthinkthisover.

“I just have one thing Iwant to say,” she said,slurring her words a bit. “Iwant you to know that Iadmired your mama as apersonverymuch,andIthinkshe done a durned good jobraisin’ you, if I may say somyself. I couldn’t have donenearlyasgood.”

“Well, youdid agood jobwith Robbie-Lee,” I said.Anditwastrue.

“If youdon’t everwant tocall me Mom or Mother ornothin’ like that, Iunderstand,” she continuedsolemnly, as if she hadpracticedthesewords.“AndIagree you have only one‘Mama.’ She may be gone,but she’ll always be yourmama.”

I felt tears stinging myeyes and blinked them away.“Thankyou,”Imumbled.

“And if you don’t wantfolks to know about me, oryou don’t want to be part ofmy life, Iwillgitused to theidea,” she said,with a snifflethat might have been fordramatic purposes but Icouldn’t be sure. She added,“Youhavethatright.”

That’showwe left things.I wasn’t about to make anypromises, except forone: “I’llbe back,” I told her. “I’mleaving for Mississippi for aspell.But I’ll be back.And Ihope these little critters”—Ipointed to Liz and Lamar—“are big and strong bythen.”

As I hiked back to themainroad,allIcouldthinkofwas getting back tomy little

cottageandseeingmyturtles.I understood Bunny’sattachment to Peggy Sue;herons, liketurtles,don’ttalkback.Theyjustlisten.

Whether I ever really gottoknowBunnyornot, Iwasdeterminedthatitwouldhavetobeonmy terms aswell ashers. I would take my time.This situation was going torequire a whole lot ofthinking and forgiveness,

which was not going tohappenovernight.

I’d have to forgive Mamaforhersecrets,andI’dhavetoforgiveBunny for beingwhoshe was, and for giving meaway.

On a much lesser scale, Iwas annoyed—just a bit—atRobbie-Leefornottellingmelong before that he knew, orsuspected, that he was mybrother. But then that

thoughtledtoanother:Ihavea little brother! This was adream come true.Andwhileourmotherwas,well,alottohandle, at least we couldhandlehertogether.

AsIcameneartheendofmy hike, it began to rain. Ididn’t care that I would getwet—soaked to the bone,even.Thismademealmostashappy as discovering thosefragile baby herons. I kept

moving but I listened. Therain,making itsway throughthe thick tree canopy, madeits distinctive sound like anaudience applauding—first afew claps, then growing to athunderousroar.

And I thought, That isMama,speakingtomefromtheSpirit World. For the firsttime I realized somethingimportant—crucial, even. Asa nurse, Mama had always

seemed to find room in herheart fordamaged souls. Shedidn’t fault people for theirmistakes.Sherecognizedthatwe were all worthy humanbeings.

BunnyAnnMcIntyrewasprecisely the type of personMamawouldhavebeenkindto.

And she would haveexpectedmetodothesame.

Thirty-SixAfter all of the hullabaloodieddown,acoupleofthingshappened.

Darryl offered to buy partof the river from Bunny butshe refused. And althoughMrs. Bailey White told

Bunny she could move intoher old Victorian house,Bunnydeclined,preferringtolive in her fishing shack.WhenDarrylofferedtobuyadifferent section—the partthat included the Negrosettlement—that got onBunny’s last good nerve, andshethreatenedtoshoothimifhe set one foot anywhere onherproperty.

The night heron chicks,LizandLamar,survived.

Robbie-Lee continued tothrive inNewYorkCity.Hebegan studying actingwith afamous teacher.He even gotan understudy role in a play,and although it wasn’t onBroadway, we wereecstatically happy for him.Maybe this would be his bigchance.

Priscilla continued to getstraight As at Bethune-CookmanCollegeinDaytonaBeach, and there were hintsthat she had met someonespecial. She came home asoften as she could to see thebaby aswell as her grandma,whose health had begun todecline.

Jackie still had regularargumentswithTedaboutallthe timehewas spendingon

the road while trying tolaunch Wild Blue YonderAirways. The businesscontinued to be rocky, andTeddidn’thelpmatterswhenhemisspokeataChamberofCommerce event in Tampa.“Wehaveadozenfrights,er,flights, a day,” he said. Theaudience burst out laughing.For a while, people referredtoMr.Toomb’sprideandjoyasWhiteKnuckleAirways.

Jackie and Plain Janecontinued their plans to starta home for young, unwedmothers at Mrs. BaileyWhite’s house. I could seetrouble on the horizonalready;there’dbeenaheateddiscussion about what theresidence would be called,with Jackie insisting on theCollier County Home forExceptionalGirls.

Weneverdidfindoutwhovandalized the Welcome toDreamsville billboards withpaint. Not that it mattered.Perhaps it really was theghost ofSeminole Joe.Somefolks thought it was JuddHart, but I never believedthat.MymoneywasonMrs.BaileyWhite.

Darryl got into sometrouble when authoritiesasked him to explain where

andhowhegotthe ideathathe could build DreamsvilleEstates onwhatwas, in fact,Bunny’s land.Darryl claimedtohaveboughtthelandfroma fellow inKentuckywho,asitturnedout,didn’texist,butcharges against Darryl nevermaterialized. Meanwhile,Darryl began work on adifferent development, thisone called Pirate’s Landing.He convinced the state to

build the roads but afterlosing in court to Bunny, helost his Basking Ridge, NewJersey, investors, along withthe fiancée—kinfolk, welearned later, of our mayor’swife.Theabandonedroadsofhis new developmenteventually became an ideallanding strip—for drugsmugglers coming to the U.S.fromCentralAmerica.Waytogo,Darryl.

Iwentback to Jacksonona late November day withbarely a dime left in mypocket. I’d been gone threemonths and didn’t expectanyone to forgive me forbeing gone so long. To mysurprise,myjobatthelibraryand my room at Mrs.Conroy’s waited for me. Iworked at the library longenough to pay Mrs. Conroythe money I owed, plus a

little extra on account of herbeing patient with me. Iwroteabrand-newshortstorycalled “The Book Club” andshowed it to Miss Welty inhergarden.Thistimeshenotonly liked it, she suggestedthatIwritemore.

When it was time to saygood-byetoJackson,mynewfriends implored me to stay,but this much was clear tome: I belonged in Collier

County. I wanted to sayfarewell to 1964, andwelcome 1965, by singing“Auld Lang Syne” with mybook-club friends. I hadalways known Naples washome but now I understoodmy deep attachment. Ofcourse,nothingwouldbe thesame, knowing what I nowdid aboutMama andmyself.My life had changed; I hadchanged.Therewasnogoing

back but taking steps towardthefuturewasnecessary,evenif it sometimes felt likerunning barefoot in deepsand. I had learned thatdreams have a life of theirown, propelling us onwardeven when they don’t cometrue or are realized inunexpectedways.

Now therewould be timefor newdreams, though, andIhadafeelingthatMama,up

in heaven, would have likedthat. Mama used to say,Open your heart to thefuture, Dora. You can eitherbe afraid of what’s to come,orembraceit,comewhatmay.IwassogladIcouldstillhearhervoice.

Back at home, near themangroves, the herons, andthe turtles, and sleepingsoundlyinmylittlecottagebythesea,Iwouldstartthenext

chapter ofmy life. This newbeginning would, no doubt,include writing andstorytelling. Only now,thanks tomy recent journey,and the encouragement ofMiss Welty, I had theconfidence to value my ownexperiences. My stories weremyown,andIwouldtellthestoriesIwasmeanttotell.

Comewhatmay.

AcknowledgmentsI am overwhelmed withgratitude to thousands ofreaders, including book clubsacross America and beyond,whose love and enthusiasmfor my first novel, MissDreamsville and the CollierCounty Women’s Literary

Society, inspired me to writethis sequel. I am humbledand deeply moved by thesupportofeachandeveryoneofyou.

Both books are works ofhistorical fiction inspired bymy long-agoexperiencesas afledgling newspaper reporterinFlorida.Thankyou to thepeople of the great SunshineState, especially inHillsborough and Volusia

Counties,whereakeypartofmylifewaslaunched.

And,of course, thankyouto the people of CollierCounty,wheremywonderfuland devoted husband, Blair,grew up. It’s safe to say thatthis book and its predecessorwould not exist if not forBlair, whose stories from lifein Naples in the 1960scaptivated my heart andimagination.

Collier County folk whohavebeenenormouslyhelpfulinclude Robin DeMattia,Sandy Linneman and theFriendsoftheCollierCountyLibrary,thestaffofSunshineBooksellersonMarco Island,the librariansandstaffof theCollier County LibrarySystem,andthevolunteersatthe Museum of theEverglades in EvergladesCity.

I must thank my parents,DorothyS. andLeeH.Hill,Jr., for encouraging me tobecome a writer. I would benothing without my parents.Thank you for (among otherthings) reading to me as achild; putting up with mewhenIwasahighlyannoyingteenager; paying for mycollege education; andteachingme(toquotemyoldfriends,theDelanySisters)to

reach high! Thanks also tomy brother Lee, a race-cardriver;mybrotherJonathan,acultural anthropologist; andmy sister, Helen, a musicianand elementary schoolteacher. I have learned a lotfromeachofyou.Thankyou,also, for my nieces andnephews,whoaremyjoy!

Professionally speaking, Iam very grateful to CarolynReidy,presidentandCEOof

Simon& Schuster, Inc.; andJudith Curr, executive vicepresident, publisher, andfounder of Atria Books (animprintofSimon&Schuster,Inc.), forunwavering supportand enthusiasm. My editor,SarahCantin, is a gem,withwhomIlookforwardtomanyfutureadventures.Thankyou,Sarah, for editorial insight,whichbroughtoutthebestinmeasawriter.

More than any otherpublisher with whom I haveworked, the staff of AtriaBooks works as a team. Iwould like to thank theproduction, marketing,publicity,andsalesstaff.Yourtalent and dedication aredeeplyappreciated.Together,we have created somethingspecial.

Very sincere thanks tomylongtime agent, Mel Berger

atWilliamMorrisEndeavor,who is not only the bestliterary agent in the businessbutalsoaveryfunnyguyandagreatfriend.

Imustalsothankmydearfriend and longtimepublishing attorney, John R.Firestone, of Pavia &HarcourtinNewYork.

I owe a huge debt ofgratitude to Kathy L.Murphy, founder of the

PulpwoodQueens,thelargestbook club in the knownuniverse with more than sixhundred chapters. Kathy is awhirlwind of book-lovingenthusiasm. All are welcomeat her unique, annualauthors-and-readers retreatcalled Girlfriend WeekendheldeachJanuaryinTexas.

I have visited many bookclubs in person or viaSkype/Facetime. The list is

very long so I will justmention a few: theStonebridge Book Club,Kensington Book Club,Harborside Gardens BookClub, Olde Cypress BookClub, and “The Runaways”Book Club, all of Naples,Florida.ElsewhereinFlorida:“The BookEnds” of PinellasCounty, the GlenLakes/Weeki Wachee BookClub, the “Caloosa Readers”

of Fort Myers, and theEverglades City Book Club.OtherbookclubsI’veenjoyedinclude groups in BatonRouge,Louisiana;Columbia,SouthCarolina;Woodbridge,New Jersey;Wall Township,New Jersey; Baldwinsville,NewYork;andTyler,Texas,home of the “Tyler WellReadRoses.”

Imust thankninewomennovelistswithwhomIsharea

phenomenal group blog,Southern Belle View Daily:Lisa Wingate, Julie PerkinsCantrell, Denise HildrethJones, Kellie Coates Gilbert,Shellie Rushing Tomlinson,Nicole Seitz, JolinaPetersheim, Eva MarieEverson, and Rachel Hauck.Thankyouforwelcomingmetotheporch!

Last (but never least),thankstothemembersofmy

local writers group, theSisterhood of AtomicEngineers:Pat,Caren, Janet,Audrey(whokindlyreadthismanuscript and providedinsight), Gwen, Denise,Joanne, Lillian, Nina,Frances, Jen, Kim, Leah,Kris, and our emeritamember, Jo. Y’all keep mesane! Thank you for sharingthe milestones, both goodandbad,inthiswriter’slife.

MissDreamsvilleandtheLostHeiressofCollierCounty

AMYHILLHEARTH

AnAtriaPaperbackReadersClubGuide

IntroductionIt’s late summer 1964, andmembers of the CollierCounty Women’s LiterarySociety are shocked to learnthat a large development isplanned for the edge of theEverglades along a stretch oftidalriverthatischerishedby

severalmembers of the bookclub, including DoraWitherspoon, the book’snarrator. The developmentalso threatens Gun RackVillage, a hideaway in theswamp where the residentsinclude book club memberRobbie-Lee Simpson’smother, Dolores, a reclusewhoseliferevolvesaroundhersmallfishingshack.

In her first novel, Hearthexploredwhatlifewaslikeforoutsiders or “misfits” in asmall, isolated community insouthwestFloridain1962.Byforming a book club, theybandtogetherandthrive.

In this sequel, Hearthaddresses how our identitiesare closely tied to the placeswecallhome,andthestressesand conflicts that arise whengreat change is on the

horizon. It is also a story ofhow long-held secrets, oncerevealed,canhaveunexpectedconsequences.

QuestionsandTopicsforDiscussion1.Secretscanshapeourlives

in peculiar ways.Do youbelieve that keeping asecret is sometimesnecessary, or is revealing

thetruthalwaystherightthingtodo?

2. Book club memberPriscilla isaway fromherbaby,attendingcollegeinanother part of the stateso that she andher childwill have a better future.This is an enormoussacrifice and Priscilla isconflicted.(page152)Doyou think she is making

the right choice? If youwere in her shoes, wouldyou make the samedecision?

3. Hearth explores thedifferent treatment thatan unmarried womancould expect toexperience upon findingherselfwithanunplannedpregnancy. (page 62)What did it mean for a

poor teen compared toone who came from afamilywithresources?

4. The tension betweenNorthern and Southernstates is illuminated bythe experiences of Jackieand her husband, Ted,who are from Boston.Jackie, in particular,makes many misstepswhile adjusting to life

below the Mason-DixonLine. Do you think the“North-South Divide”has improved or grownworse since the 1960s,andwhy?

5. In a post–9/11 era withHomeland Security,would Judd’s Cold Warexperiments with volatilechemicals and rockets beinterpreted differently?

WouldTedbeallowedtoprivatelysettle thematterwith his son? How haveboth political views andparental roles changed infiftyyears?

6.Were there any historicalfacts about Florida thatsurprised you? Were youaware that Florida was aConfederate state duringthe Civil War and that

the KKKwas very activein the state into the1960s?

7. Society tends to judgewomen likeDolores veryharshly.Often, a stripperor “exotic dancer” isviewed as a simplistic,stereotypical character.Hearth, however, showsDolores as a complexhuman being, an

overlooked or “invisible”person worthy of ourattention. ShouldDolores’s past life beconsidered in court as away of judging theveracityofhertestimony?

8. There are several ardentfans of the actressElizabeth Taylor in thebook. Are you a “Liz”fan? Have you ever

watched any of hermovies? Which of hermovie roles was yourfavorite? Can you namean actress on a par withher today in terms ofinfluence and iconicstature?

9. The Everglades regioncouldbesaidtobeamaincharacter of the novel.Did thebook change the

wayyou“see”thatpartofthecountry?

10.Throughouthistory therehave been many debatesover the idea that realestate actually can beowned. At various timesandplaces realestatewasowned:by individuals,bycorporations,bykings, incommon, or by the state.Some view real estate as

entirely owned by anindividual, who has therighttopreserve,develop,or destroy it (andwhatever lives on it).Some see real estate asbeing held in trust forfuture generations,regardless of whocurrently owns it. Thisdebate is woven into thefabricofthebook.Asyouread it, where in the

debate did you findyourselftobe?

11. How should societydecide whether to allowdevelopment of placesliketheEverglades?Doesthe kind of developmentchange the equation?How much economicbenefitdoesthereneedtobetooutweighindividualproperty rights versus

ecological benefits, suchas oxygen production,water conservation, andspeciesprotection?

12.Somepeople (like Jackie)welcome change. Others(likeDora)fearit.Whichdo you think describesyou?

13. Seminole Joe is CollierCounty’s boogeyman.

The concept of a ghostwho seeks revenge iscommonplace in manycultures.Canyouthinkofan example of a famousboogeyman? Did yourhometown have aboogeyman?Whatwashecalled?

14. Jackie creates confusionby wearing mourningclothes for an unusual

reason. Were you awareof the strict societal rulesabout wearing black, andfor how long, after adeath? What wasexpected of you duringthattimeinthecultureinwhichyougrewup?Howhasthatchangedtoday?

15. Dora “got to thinkinghow strange it is to bealiveinthisworld.It’snot

like anyone asks to beborn; you just arrivewhetheryoulikeitornot.You’ve got no saywhatsoever in who yourparents are.” How muchof our lives is a result ofcircumstances overwhichwehavenocontrol?Doesdestiny, or free will,determineourlives?

EnhanceYourBookClub1. Visit Amy Hill Hearth’s

website atwww.amyhillhearth.comto learn more about theauthor and to read heressay “Why I Write.”Contact her through the

link on her website andinvite her to “Skype” or“Facetime” with yourbookclub.

2. Play some of the musicmentioned in the novel,including “AnotherSaturday Night” (SamCooke),“WhereDidOurLove Go?” (TheSupremes), “The Houseof the Rising Sun” (Eric

Burdon/The Animals),“Everybody LovesSomebody” (DeanMartin),“IWanttoHoldYour Hand” (TheBeatles), “Oh, PrettyWoman” (Ray Orbison),“You Don’t Own Me”(Lesley Gore), and“Peggy Sue” (BuddyHolly).

3. Prepare and share foodand drink mentioned inthe novel, such as Jell-Owine, pineapple upside-down cake, CollierCountycheesegrits,Mrs.Bailey White’s Died andGone to Heaven Cake,andBostonCoolers.Visitwww.amyhillhearth.comforrecipes!

4.Pickoneofthebooksthatthe Collier CountyWomen’sLiterarySocietyreads(orplanstoread)inthesequel,suchasTotheLighthouse, Cross Creek, INeverPromisedYouaRoseGarden, and A MoveableFeast.

5. Dora Witherspoon talksto her pet snappingturtles. Dolores Simpson

chats with a heron shecallsPeggySue.Haveyouever found yourselftalking to “critters” as ifthey were human? Haveyou ever given a wildcreatureaname?

BLAIRA.HEARTH

AMY HILLHEARTH is the authorofMissDreamsvilleandtheCollier County Women’sLiterary Society, and theauthororcoauthorofsevennonfictionbooks includingHaving Our Say: TheDelany Sisters’ First 100Years, theNew York Timesbestseller and Broadwayplay. Hearth, a former

writer for the New YorkTimes, began her career asa reporter at a small dailynewspaper in Florida,where she met her futurehusband, Blair (a CollierCounty native). Thecouple now live in thegreaterNewYorkarea.

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AnImprintofSimon&Schuster,Inc.1230AvenueoftheAmericasNewYork,NY10020www.SimonandSchuster.comThisbookisaworkoffiction.Anyreferencestohistoricalevents,realpeople,orrealplacesareusedfictitiously.Othernames,characters,places,andeventsareproductsoftheauthor’s

imagination,andanyresemblancetoactualeventsorplacesorpersons,livingordead,isentirelycoincidental.Copyright©2015byAmyHillHearthCoverDesignbyStudioTakomaCoverPhotographsbyShutterstockAllrightsreserved,includingtherighttoreproducethisbookorportionsthereofinanyformwhatsoever.Forinformation,addressAtriaBooksSubsidiaryRightsDepartment,1230Avenue

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liveevent.Formoreinformationortobookanevent,contacttheSimon&SchusterSpeakersBureauat1-866-248-3049orvisitourwebsiteatwww.simonspeakers.com.LibraryofCongressCataloging-in-PublicationDataHearth,AmyHill,date.  MissDreamsvilleandthelostheiressofCollierCounty:anovel/AmyHillHearth.—FirstAtriaPaperbackedition.    pages;cm

  1.Lifechangeevents—Fiction.2.Literature—Societies,etc.—Fiction.3.Florida—Intellectuallife—Fiction.I.Title.  PS3608.E274M582015  813'.6—dc23  2014040719ISBN978-1-4767-6574-7ISBN978-1-4767-6575-4(ebook)