They left us without saying another word.
We dropped Priscilla off, then had to face the possibility we’d encounter the police again on our way back. But there was no sign of them, except for some deep ruts that might have been made by the patrol cars.
For this to happen on the very night we had discussed Zora Neale Hurston’s novel, it was enough to break your heart.
Eleven
The year-end holidays were approaching, which meant no one wanted to read anything that made us think too much. We chose Charles Dickens’s A Christmas Carol, even though the author was a man and we’d each read the book several times. We needed safe territory after our incident with the highway patrol and the sheriff, and our nervousness showed in our choice of reading material. The book was short and had its scary moments but we knew it ended well.
Unfortunately, the book sent Jackie into a sentimental tailspin. She was missing cold weather, and so were her kids. Judd, she reported, was complaining nonstop that Collier County didn’t “look, feel, or smell” like Christmas. “He misses it all,” Jackie said, sounding wistful herself. “He keeps asking me when we’re going to get chestnuts, and how we’re going to roast them since we don’t have a fireplace. He said, ‘Mom, even the Christmas trees don’t look like Christmas trees.’ I told him that’s because they are local pine trees, but that just made him sadder. He even asked me why there weren’t any Salvation Army bell ringers here. I don’t know what I’m going to do with that boy.”
I tried to help by offering to introduce Judd to a Collier County tradition. Like swallows returning to Capistrano on a certain day each year, Yankees who came down for the holidays had an irresistible urge to jump into the Gulf of Mexico on Christmas Day. Frankly, the water was too cold even for them, but they stayed in just long enough to have a buddy take their picture so they could brag about spending Christmas in sunny Florida to their folks back home. The locals found this charade so amusing that we hurried our Christmas dinners so we could get down to the beach to watch. I took Judd, who was eager to go along. For an hour or two, at least, he forgot all about chestnuts and hot cider and all that Yankee stuff.
We never did find out what, or who, the police were looking for that night when we were driving Priscilla home, but we had our suspicions. There had been rumors of white civil rights workers coming to Florida to help mobilize the Negro population to vote.
Maybe some redneck had notified the highway patrol of a certain station wagon with Massachusetts license plates—Jackie’s car. This seemed like a good time to lay low.
There was plenty to talk about in town, however, ’cause Miss Dreamsville was becoming unglued. We could tell what kind of mood she was in, based on the music she chose. People in town were in the habit of commenting on Miss Dreamsville’s musical selections. It was no different from chatting about the weather. She was just part of our lives now. People would come into the post office, and if I was stuck working the counter, the chitchat would go something like this:
“Miss Dreamsville surely was in a mood last night. Sentimental, I’d say. Dang, those are some nasty clouds coming up over the Gulf.” Or, “That Miss Dreamsville must’ve had a fight with her boyfriend. Why else would she choose that Skeeter Davis song? Or a whole set of Patsy Cline? Hope it stays warm this winter so I don’t have to fill the propane tank.”
Then Miss Dreamsville, whoever she was, went a little too far. She started talking, in her breathy voice, about the folk music movement in Greenwich Village. For our listening enjoyment one night, she played an entire set of Peter, Paul, and Mary, followed by Pete Seeger and ending with the Weavers.
“Miss Dreamsville done lost her mind,” was the prevailing sentiment the following day. “That’s Commie music.”
Someone must have complained to the station, ’cause after that, we didn’t hear folk music for a full three weeks. But then we noticed it reappearing once in a while, sandwiched between some good old country “love ’em and leave ’em” tunes.
Then, just to shake things up even more, Miss Dreamsville announced she had in fact broadcast live one night the previous week, hinting that there might be a repeat performance. This made people nuts, realizing that Miss Dreamsville, in the flesh, had been at the radio station and had they known, they could have got dressed, raced down there, and seen who she was.
This was the same week I let Marty the turtle go. I gave him a special snack—part of a tuna sandwich—and he went on his way. Sometimes they come back; sometimes they don’t. Marty didn’t, and to tell you the God’s honest truth, it about broke my heart. Somehow that turtle and Darryl were linked, ’cause that same day, Darryl showed up at the post office again. This time he presented me with flowers, putting me on the spot, which might have been his intention. My stupid boss, Marty, said, “Aw, isn’t that nice? He’s not so bad, is he, Dora? Can’t you just forgive and forget?”
Standing your ground after a public display like that is very hard. I’m reminded of those men who get down on one knee in a restaurant—right in front of everybody—and make a big to-do about asking the girl to get married. How the heck can she say no under those circumstances? (In some cases, could that, maybe, be the point?)
Before I became a member of the literary society, I think I might have given in to the pressure—sometimes said aloud, sometimes not—to go back to Darryl. But I had changed. My new friends didn’t make me feel ashamed of being divorced. They seemed to like me, just as I was.
I smiled, accepted the flowers, then called him later and told him he was wasting his time. In the back of my mind, I’d been hearing that little voice that said marriage vows are forever. But it seemed to me that God wants us to be happy, and I couldn’t be happy with Darryl.
Meanwhile, Jackie’s marriage was falling apart too, or at least ripping at the seams a bit. She and Ted had a huge fuss over—of all things—her station wagon.
Plain Jane told us what happened. There was such a ruckus at the Hart household that she heard the whole argument from her patio. The rest we got from Jackie.
It seems Jackie was making a Jell-O salad, the kind with marshmallows in it, for the twins to take to a Valentine’s party. She was folding the marshmallows into the red goop at just the right moment, so they wouldn’t melt. She was even wearing her “Best Mom in the World” apron that Judd had bought her one Mother’s Day.
She tried—she really did.
But then the girls started having a fight in the other room, the kind of hair-pulling fuss that would only happen between sisters. Judd went outside and started sweeping the cement near the pool, but he made sure he was right in front of the kitchen window so Jackie would see him. He was sulking, not just because the twins were arguing again, but because he had asked for a puppy for his birthday, coming up in April, and Jackie had said no.
And then Ted walked into the kitchen. Poor Ted. He was as dense as a Florida tomato after a winter drought. Like a lot of men, Ted wanted to talk when he wanted to talk.
“Jackie, I want to speak to you about a new car,” he said, just as she was moving the Jell-O salad into the fridge to chill. She didn’t answer right away.
“Car?” she finally said. She started cleaning off the counter with a damp sponge. If you didn’t get spilled drops of warm Jell-O off the counter right away, there’d be a stain that was hard to get out. Everyone knew that. Except men, I guess.
“I’m trying to talk to you about something important. What are you doing that for?” Ted asked.
“This is important,” Jackie said. “The countertop will be ruined if I don’t get this stuff off.”
“Oh,” Ted said.
Jackie was pissed. “Look, if I let these drops of Jell-O ruin the counter, we would have to replace it,” she said through gritted teeth. “I am trying not to be wasteful—wasteful with money.”
“Well, I am trying to tell you something nice, and all you can do is be angry.”
Jackie finished wiping the counter and sat down at the break
fast nook, where she lit a cigarette as elegantly as if she was in a nightclub. “Okay,” she said, finally looking at Ted. “Something about the car.”
“Yes, I want to buy you a new car. Trade in the station wagon for a new one.”
“I don’t really think I need a new car,” Jackie said. “Why don’t we save the money for something else, like a vacation? Maybe for just the two of us? We could go somewhere, get away . . .”
“So you don’t want the car?”
“Well, I don’t see the point. Unless I were to get something different. The kids are older now; I don’t really need the station wagon. I’ve never really liked station wagons, anyway.”
Ted commenced to saying the single stupidest thing that ever come out of his mouth. “Why do you need anything other than a station wagon?” he asked. “You’re just a housewife.”
This dislodged a volcanic reaction in Jackie. She stubbed out her cigarette, grinding it into mush. “Just a housewife?” She shrieked so loudly even the twins hushed for a moment in the other room. “Just a housewife?”
It’s a wonder the damn roof didn’t blow off the house. She was beyond angry. She was nasty mad.
Still wearing her apron and slippers, Jackie left the house, slamming the door so hard it sounded like a gunshot. All she had was her pocketbook and her car keys.
Once she was behind the wheel of the station wagon, she revved the engine like a wild woman. As she backed out of the driveway, she slammed hard into the mailbox—and to this day folks in the neighborhood still argue about whether she did it on purpose or not. Then she threw the car into drive, sped across the lawn and into the street. Who knew that station wagon could move so fast? She sent a plume of dust and sand into the air all the way down Paradise Court and as far as Magnolia Place, five whole blocks away.
Now Ted had to decide whether to call the police. His wife had just lost her mind and was driving at high speed who knows where in her Chevy station wagon. But if he called the police, she might be arrested, which would be the end of his employment with the Toomb family. On the other hand, if he didn’t call the police, she would be a danger to herself—and everyone else in Collier County—until her anger wore off. Which could be a while.
“Dad, maybe you should go after her.” This was Judd, looking wide-eyed and worried.
The twins did not seem overly concerned. “Well, did she at least finish making the Jell-O salad before she left?” one of them asked.
Ted decided to sit down and light his pipe, which is what he did when he couldn’t make a decision. This was interpreted by Judd as total disregard for what was happening with his mother.
Ten minutes, then twenty, went by. There was no sign of Jackie. Ted drove the twins to the party in his sedan. At home, he and Judd waited. And waited.
What they didn’t know was that Jackie drove straight to Seminole Chevrolet in Fort Myers with the intention of trading in the station wagon. She got up there in record time and was still shaking with rage when she pulled into the lot.
She knew she looked ridiculous. There was not much she could do about the housedress and slippers, but she paused to put lipstick on, using the rearview mirror, before getting out of the car. Lipstick, in Jackie’s mind, could fix anything. Or almost anything.
It was a Saturday afternoon in February and chilly, though not cold. She walked around the lot with two salesmen. “No station wagons,” she said. “I’m trading in for a sedan.”
But all the cars they showed her seemed boring. “Wait—how about that one?” she asked, pointing to a convertible, silver or maybe metallic gray. It looked like a spaceship. “My God, that is gorgeous,” she said, rushing over to it.
The car that caught her eye was a 1960 Buick LeSabre. Because it was two years old, she could afford it. After negotiating with the men, she realized she would need only a small loan—$250—to make up the difference for the value of the station wagon.
They went into the office to fill out the paperwork when one of the men hit the third rail on an electric train track. “Ma’am,” he asked, “do you mind if I ask you—does your husband know you’re here?”
All the joy of finding the perfect car was gone. “Well, no, he doesn’t. And I don’t see how it matters.”
“Do you have two hundred fifty dollars in cash?” asked the other salesman, doubtfully.
“No, I shall need a small loan in that amount,” Jackie replied, businesslike.
“We can’t do a loan without your husband signing it,” the first salesman said. “That’s the way it is.”
Jackie sat stiffly in her chair. “Well, gentlemen, I think that is patently ridiculous. And you have just lost yourself a customer.” She left the showroom, walking slowly back to the dreaded station wagon. She waited until she’d driven a half mile before pulling over to the side of the road, where she cried. Now what? She could not go home. No, that would be a retreat.
She drove on. To Tampa.
She had been to Tampa only once but remembered vaguely that shady-looking used-car dealers had been in abundant supply. By the time she reached the outskirts of Tampa, she was too tired to be angry anymore. She just wanted to make a deal.
She drove from lot to lot along a seedy strip of used-car dealers on Dale Mabry Boulevard. By the fifth or sixth lot, she no longer bothered to park and get out of the car. She just pulled up within shouting distance of anyone who seemed to be working there and hollered out the window. She was determined to get the same make and model she’d so coveted in Fort Myers.
She didn’t even know why she wanted that car, but she did. Later, she said it was like seeing the perfect prom dress or wedding dress, being ready to buy, and then being told you were too fat for it. Although darkness was now falling and she was tired, she was never more determined in her life.
Her hopes were raised at Sam’s Superduper Deals. They had the right make and model, but it was pink. Anyone worth their salt knows that redheads have trouble with pink. It has to be the right pink. Sadly, the car was what Jackie called Pepto-Bismol pink. “If it had been lipstick pink—you know, fuchsia—that would have worked for me,” she explained later. “Or a very quiet, muted pink—delicate.”
The salesman saw her disappointment. “Look, lady, my brother-in-law in North Tampa sells cars. I’ll call him and see what he’s got.”
The news was good. A half hour later, at Billy Ray’s Fabulous Steals and Deals, Jackie found the car she was born to drive. She’d been right about Tampa—there were no questions asked. She signed some papers and off she went. She was headed home, not sure what she’d proved, but feeling at the top of her game.
Twelve
The car was the color of an overripe banana. No question about it, this was a car that belonged in Florida. Pale yellow bordering on cream-colored, the Buick was the same shade as the piña coladas that were served with a tiny umbrella at the Tiki restaurant on Highway 41 down near Miami. Robbie-Lee quickly dubbed the new car “the banana boat.”
We kept telling Jackie that February was too cold to be driving a convertible with the top down, but that didn’t stop her. She played the part to the hilt. In her white trench coat (from a place called Filene’s in Boston), black driving gloves, and a cashmere scarf that she draped around her head and neck, she looked like a starlet. Plain Jane was the only one of us who seemed cool to the idea. “A convertible?” she said disapprovingly. “Two-door, no less? It’s so impractical!”
“But that’s what’s so great about it,” Jackie replied.
We didn’t know, though, that the car was causing her a heap of trouble. The twins refused to be seen with her. They started taking the bus to and from school. If they missed the bus, they would walk. Judd had a different reaction: he and his friends thought the car was great, though they were disappointed she hadn’t been able to get the one that was the color of a spaceship. They spent hours making the convertible top go up and down—just by mashing a single button on the dash—until Jackie made them stop. As for Ted,
he was resigned to it.
But the real problem—little did we know—was that the Buick was making it harder for Jackie to come and go at the radio station. When you drive a car like that, you ain’t gonna stay under wraps for long, especially in a town like ours, where minding other people’s business is a time-honored tradition.
Jackie quickly learned to adapt and came to enjoy her secret even more, or so we learned later. To her, this was a whole new game. She would park the Buick behind the Baptist church or the jail, then walk to the newspaper office, where she still edited copy when they needed her, and to the radio station next door. On foot, no one noticed her, especially if she switched to flat shoes and the Miss Marple hat she’d picked up at the five-and-dime.
The most frustrated people in town were the teenage boys, who were getting more impatient by the week. At the soda fountain at the Rexall—where they hung out after school—or at the Dairy Queen at night, the conversation always seemed to loop back to Miss Dreamsville. Someone would come up with a new theory about her identity, based on a passing comment she’d made on her show, and an argument—Lord help us, even a fight—would break out.
Finally, three of the young, hormonally addled males decided to stake out the radio station. For several days, at all hours, we’d see them there, waiting. They reminded me of a lovesick dog that used to sit outside in the rain when Darryl’s dog, Mazie, was in heat.
When they did not catch Miss Dreamsville arriving or leaving, the boys got fed up and stormed into the station, walking right past the “Silence Please” sign until they found the only person in the building—Mrs. Jackie Hart. Seeing her rummaging through a storage area, they assumed she was cleaning up (isn’t that what women do?) and demanded, “Tell us where she is!”
“Who?” Jackie asked.
“Miss Dreamsville!”
“Oh, she left an hour ago,” Jackie said, completely casual. She laughed after they left.
Miss Dreamsville and the Collier County Women's Literary Society Page 8
