Miss Dreamsville and the Collier County Women's Literary Society

by Amy Hill Hearth

  He tried changing the subject. “So, how old is the house? Nice wainscoting, by the way.”

  “Could we stop the chitchat, please?” demanded Plain Jane, seated next to me on a leather sofa the size of a hippopotamus. “I think we have more important things to discuss. Mrs. Bailey White, please, come sit here so you can hear everything that is said.” Mrs. Bailey White obeyed, and Plain Jane continued. “Could someone please explain to me what happened tonight? And what we are going to do now?”

  No one answered, which seemed to irk Plain Jane even more. “Jackie,” she demanded, “please explain.” And then came the words as acidic as year-old cider vinegar: “You could have gotten us killed.”

  Jackie tried to answer. “I was trying to . . . get us out of there,” she said finally.

  “Why the hell didn’t you back up or turn around?” Plain Jane was shouting now.

  “Well, I did turn around.”

  “Okay, you two, stop your fussing.” This from me. “Let’s be grateful we are all here, alive. Especially . . .” I didn’t have to say the name. I meant Priscilla, who would have been their prime target, though who knows what they would have done to the rest of us.

  Robbie-Lee crouched by the fire, snapping a few small sticks in his hands and flinging them into the flames. Instead of looking at each other, the way we did in our circle at the library, we stared mindlessly at the humble fire. How odd, I thought, that we looked at this fire as a source of comfort. An hour or so before, a fire meant something else altogether.

  “I don’t know if this will be helpful,” I heard myself saying, “but Mama used to say that when you don’t know what to do, do nothing. She meant you can try too hard to solve a problem. If you give it a little time, the answer might just come to you, plain as day.”

  No one objected. I was hoping Plain Jane would calm down and Jackie and Priscilla would recover a bit more. We needed all of our brains working together to figure this one out. I assumed we probably had two choices, neither of ’em good. We could lie and deny we were ever there. Or we could go to the police—the sooner, the better—and tell them what happened, although this was risky since the Klan and the police were known to be friendly and rumored to be in cahoots with each other.

  Priscilla had curled up in a little ball, her shoes kicked off and her feet tucked under her. In some ways, Jackie was in worse shape—limp and defeated.

  But Plain Jane was not through with Jackie. “You know, I grew up in the South, and one thing you don’t do is tangle with the Klan.” She hurled the words in Jackie’s direction.

  Jackie didn’t react at first, but then she surprised us. In a low, weary voice, she said to no one in particular, “I was in a bad fire once. A long time ago.”

  “Really?” asked Robbie-Lee, when she didn’t say more. “What happened?”

  Jackie sighed. “As I said, this was a long time ago.” She paused, and then: “It was terrible. Completely terrible.”

  Now we had to know. “Where was this fire?” This from Priscilla in a tiny voice. Until now, she’d been silent.

  Jackie looked at Priscilla, then at each of us, one by one. “During the war. At a nightclub. In Boston. I wasn’t supposed to be there. My parents thought I was at a friend’s house.”

  Just when we thought she might not say anything more, she added, “It was a famous fire. You may have heard of it. The Cocoanut Grove fire.”

  “Oh my God,” said Plain Jane. “Yes, I heard of it.”

  “Me too,” said Mrs. Bailey White. “I read about it.”

  The younger ones among us—Robbie-Lee, Priscilla, and me—were only vaguely aware of the story. When Jackie seemed unable to continue, Plain Jane said to us quietly, “Mostly young people were killed.”

  “Four hundred and ninety-two people, to be exact,” Jackie said. “There were only supposed to be five hundred in the club, but there were about a thousand. The doors were locked from the outside so no one could sneak in without paying. To this day, I don’t know how I got out. I think maybe someone carried me.”

  “But when we saw there was a fire tonight, up ahead of us, you drove toward it.” This was Priscilla.

  “Don’t think I didn’t want to run away,” Jackie said, “but all I could think of was your grandma being trapped in her house.”

  Priscilla and Jackie locked eyes. “Thank you,” Priscilla mouthed the words.

  “So when you actually saw the fire—the church—is that why you reacted the way you did?” This was Mrs. Bailey White. “You panicked?”

  “No,” Jackie said. “Of course I was shocked when I saw the flames. I hadn’t seen a building burn like that since . . .” Her voice trailed off. “But there was something else too. When I was a little girl, we were visiting my aunt and uncle on Long Island. And we ran into the Klan.”

  “On Long Island?” several of us cried out. Jackie waited for us to settle down before continuing. “Yes, on Long Island. I’m not sure where, someplace near the eastern end. My father was driving; my mother was sitting next to him. I was in the backseat, mostly asleep. And we came around a bend in the road—just like tonight—and there they were, these men. In their robes. Holding torches. They had blocked the road; there was nothing we could do. My father drove forward and had to face them.”

  “But they let you go, of course,” Plain Jane said quickly. “You’re white.”

  “Well, yes, but we had a very bad moment. They asked for our names and where we were from, and one of the men said to the other, as if it was a dirty word, ‘Catholics.’ And he spat on the ground.”

  “You’re a Catholic?” said Robbie-Lee, clearly surprised.

  “I was raised a Catholic,” Jackie replied. “But I became a Unitarian when I married Ted.”

  “What’s a Unitarian?” asked Robbie-Lee.

  “It’s church, without God,” Plain Jane said.

  “Don’t be silly,” Jackie snapped, and almost laughed. “Unitarians are a type of Protestant. They’re just a little less structured than, say, the Methodists or the Baptists.”

  “Excuse me—could we get back to the story on Long Island?” This was me, feeling impatient and being more rude than I had ever been in my life. But I wanted to understand.

  “Yes, yes,” said Jackie. “They taunted my father and mother because we were Catholics. I think they hoped we would deny it, but my father would never have done that, not in front of me, anyway. He said, ‘Yes, we are Catholic.’ And I remember wondering what would happen next, because clearly, to these men in their white robes and torches, being Catholic was not a good thing.”

  “What happened then?” Plain Jane asked the question the rest of us were afraid to ask.

  “Another car came up behind us. This diverted their attention away from us. I remember looking out the back window of our car. They made those other people get out of their car. They were Negroes. And although we were Catholic, which they hated, they hated Negroes more. I only remember the man—the driver. There were others in the car but I looked away when they were getting out. I think there were women—several women. And maybe another man. But at that point, the men with the torches yelled at my father that we should go. They yelled something nasty I didn’t understand, but it was clear we should leave. And my father, he drove away as fast as he could.”

  “What happened to the people—the Negro people?” Priscilla asked.

  “Well, I don’t know,” Jackie said, her voice rising. “I was a child. I never found out. I’m not sure it’s possible to find out. I asked my father when I was a teenager. I had become a little . . . rebellious. I asked him one night and he got angry. He said, ‘Don’t ever mention that again.’ I was so upset, I called my friend Ginny and walked to her house to sleep over. But we snuck out. To the Cocoanut Grove.”

  Plain Jane groaned and Robbie-Lee shook his head. Priscilla shut her eyes tightly.

  “I need a cigarette,” Jackie said. “Right away. Where’s my darn purse?”

  “I brought everythi
ng in from the car; it’s around here somewhere.” Robbie-Lee seemed happy to have something to do. He found Jackie’s purse and handed it to her. She rifled through it until she found her cigs and lighter.

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Bailey White, I should have asked you first if I could smoke,” Jackie said. She was definitely starting to sound like her old self again.

  “Not at all,” said Mrs. Bailey White. “My husband used to smoke Camels.” At the mention of her husband, the rest of us glanced at the mantel. “I may as well tell you,” she added, “I didn’t actually kill him.”

  “Huh?” This from Robbie-Lee.

  “Well, I’ve been waiting a long time to tell the truth of what happened, and now seems as good a time as any,” she said. “Does anyone want to hear it?”

  “By all means,” said Plain Jane. I, for one, was not so sure.

  “But you went to prison,” Robbie-Lee said. “You were found guilty.”

  “Aw, that doesn’t mean a doggone thing,” she replied dismissively. “I was guilty, but not of killing him. I was guilty of being unfaithful.” With a touch of anger in her voice, she added, “I suppose y’all find that hard to believe. Hard to believe I was ever young. Or beautiful. Or unhappily married, so I had an affair.”

  “Wow,” said Jackie between puffs.

  “I was married young, against my wishes. My daddy said I had no choice—I had to marry the son of his business partner. Nobody knew I was in love already, and if they had, they’d have skinned me alive, because my boyfriend was, well, he was not a white man.”

  “Well, then, what was he?” This was Jackie.

  “He was . . . colored.”

  Priscilla leaned forward to look at Mrs. Bailey White closely, as if to convince herself that those words really had come from the older lady’s mouth.

  “I knew him all my life. His name was Benjamin. One day when I thought my husband had gone into town, Benjamin and I were dancing. That’s all we were doing—dancing. But my husband came home early and I didn’t hear him on account of the Victrola. I’m sure you can guess his reaction.” Mrs. Bailey White sighed before continuing. “It happened very fast. My husband pulled out a gun and shot me. He got me right here.” She rubbed her upper arm. “Benjamin charged at him and they wrestled for the gun. I heard the gun go off and I thought Benjamin was shot. Then I realized it was my husband. Benjamin had accidentally shot him right through the heart.”

  “Lordy, Lordy,” I said under my breath.

  “Benjamin made a bandage out of a towel and tied it tight to stop the bleeding from my arm. I told him to leave—to get going. He looked sad, but he knew I was right. He’d be hanged without a trial. At least I would have a chance.

  “We said our good-byes and he promised he’d come back for me when the time was right, when things were all smoothed over. But I was convicted. I was sent to jail. And I never heard from Benjamin. I told myself he would have written or visited if he could. Sometimes I even lied to myself that he was waiting for me somewhere, maybe up north.”

  “You never heard anything?” Plain Jane asked gently. “Not even through his family or friends?”

  “I heard a rumor he went to Chicago or maybe Detroit. Not much to go on. After all these years, I doubt he’s even alive. Or if he is, he probably has a family.”

  “I don’t understand why you were convicted,” Jackie said. “Didn’t you claim self-defense? And what about your arm? You had a gunshot wound to your arm! Couldn’t you have just claimed there’d been an intruder?”

  “I was afraid to mention there’d been anyone else here. I just said that Wilford—that was my husband’s name—he came home and was yelling at me for no good reason. We had a fight and he shot me. I took the gun from him and shot him square in the chest. That was my story.”

  “And the jury didn’t accept that?” Jackie said. “Why not? With a good lawyer you should have been convicted of manslaughter, not murder.”

  Mrs. Bailey White stared at Jackie. “You forget,” she said, “this was a long time ago. A man could do whatever he wanted to his wife. And remember—women weren’t allowed to serve on a jury. The jury was all men—needless to say, all white—and some of them had been friends of Wilford’s! I think they set out to make an example of me. They couldn’t let a wife get away with something like this. So it wasn’t fair, no. But that’s what happened. I’m just lucky I didn’t hang. I would have, except my sentence was commuted to life in prison. I’m not even sure why. Then, last year, the parole board said I could go home. Said I’d been a model prisoner.

  “You know, I’m embarrassed to admit it, but I think I actually hoped, maybe even expected, that Benjamin would be waiting for me. Not outside the prison, of course, but here at home. It was in the papers when they let me out. And somehow I just hoped he would know. That someone would tell him or send him the clipping.

  “So now you know my story. And I’m lucky—lucky to have a home to come back to. This was my childhood home. I was born in this house. My father gave it to Wilford and me as a wedding gift. And this is where Wilford died, and now he’s up there on the mantel. If the house had been in Wilford’s name, they would have taken it from me when I went to jail. But Daddy never got around to changing the deed to my name and Wilford’s. Daddy passed while I was in prison, and I inherited the house.

  “It’s the only good thing that’s happened to me.” She blew her nose into her handkerchief. “Well, at least now you know I’m no murderer. Yes, I know the things people say about me—all kinds of things. That I ambushed my husband with a shotgun. That I poisoned his oatmeal. But it’s not true.”

  “You should write your life story,” Plain Jane said suddenly. “I mean the true story.”

  “Oh Lord, the world ain’t ready for that yet,” she replied with a laugh.

  “You gals are tough as a buzzard’s talons,” Robbie-Lee said. “You and Jackie—I can’t believe what y’all have been through.” He fell silent and then added, “You know, I have something I could say—about myself, I mean. Something I never told anyone.” Our heads swiveled in his direction. Now what? I thought. He seemed to be gathering his courage, inspired by Jackie and Mrs. Bailey White but still afraid to speak up.

  “I don’t quite know how to say this, so I’m just going to say it,” he said finally. “You all may find this hard to believe, but I . . . I . . . I am . . . I am a—” He choked on the words. He tried again. “I am a—” But he couldn’t go on.

  We waited while he coughed and fidgeted. “This is very hard for me,” he said. “But the truth is I am a h-h-h-h—” he stuttered. He tried again. The best he could do was, “I am a home.”

  “You’re a what?” asked Mrs. Bailey White.

  “I’m a homo—” he said, louder now but still unable to finish the word. This was agonizing to watch. Taking one more deep breath, he blurted out, “I am a homosexual.”

  This was the most amazing nonnews the rest of us had ever heard. Jackie closed her eyes, and I swear she was trying not to smile. “Well, of course you are, Robbie-Lee,” she said sweetly. “We already knew that.”

  “Oh my God!” he howled. “You mean it’s obvious?”

  “Well, probably not to everyone,” said Plain Jane.

  “Aw, what the heck, what difference does it make, anyway?” This was Mrs. Bailey White. “I mean, you are who you are.”

  “But I didn’t think anyone knew.” The man loved to help ladies with their home decorating projects, ordering chintz from Sears by the yard. He didn’t hunt or fish, swear, go to football games, drink beer, or chew tobacco. Not only that, he belonged to the Collier County Women’s Literary Society. Just who did he think he was fooling?

  Only himself, apparently. He began to cry.

  “Oh, please don’t cry, Robbie-Lee.” This from Priscilla. “We are all God’s children.”

  Suddenly he stopped weeping, a thought having entered his mind. “Wait a second! Y’all knew all this time—and you still love me? I mean, you let me
be part of your group?”

  “Of course we love you, Robbie-Lee,” Jackie said. And Robbie-Lee started crying all over again. We waited until he was all cried out. After a decent interval, Jackie piped up, “Well, I have some news I’d like to share. Would anyone like to hear it? It’s good news. About Priscilla.”

  Priscilla looked up, baffled.

  “Oh dear, where is it?” Jackie said to herself. She rummaged through the pockets of her skirt until she found a small envelope that had been carefully folded in half. It was now curved, having molded itself to the shape of Jackie’s hip these last few hours. “Thank God I didn’t lose it,” she said under her breath. For the first time since we entered the house, she stood up from her chair. Leaning across the fancy coffee table, she handed it with a flourish to Priscilla.

  “What is it?” Priscilla looked totally confused.

  “Just read it,” Jackie said.

  “It’s from Bethune-Cookman College,” Priscilla said, her eyes wide. She carefully removed the letter from the envelope. The letter was addressed to Jackie. “ ‘Dear Mrs. Hart,’” Priscilla read in a voice that was barely audible.

  “Louder,” said Mrs. Bailey White.

  “‘Dear Mrs. Hart,’” Priscilla began again, only a tad louder but turning slightly so Mrs. Bailey White was more likely to hear. “ ‘Thank you for sending the application on behalf of Miss Priscilla Harmon. We are delighted that you brought her to our attention. We believe she is a worthy candidate for admission to Bethune-Cookman College. She has been accepted into the Class of 1967. Based on the essays she wrote, and that you were kind enough to send to us, the English Department has decided to offer her a full scholarship.’”

  Robbie-Lee and Plain Jane gasped. Jackie was smiling but looking anxiously at Priscilla, who let the letter fall to her lap. While she was reading aloud, I noticed her voice had gotten softer and softer.

  “What did she say? What is happening?” Mrs. Bailey White had missed the gist of the letter entirely.

  Plain Jane turned to Mrs. Bailey White and declared, “Priscilla is going to college!”