Priscilla began to shake visibly, sobbing.
“The letter came yesterday,” said Jackie. “I was going to give it to you tonight when we dropped you off at your grandmother’s. I thought you might want to show it to her first.” Jackie’s voice trailed off.
Priscilla covered her face with her hands. She made what seemed like an effort to pull herself together, sitting up straight and wiping the tears from her cheeks.
“Thank you,” Priscilla said to Jackie. She seemed to be gulping for air as she added, “I can’t believe you did this for me.”
“She didn’t know?” Robbie-Lee asked Jackie. “I mean, you didn’t even discuss this with her?”
“I urged her to apply but she kept putting it off,” Jackie said. “So I called Bethune-Cookman and told them about her, how she loved to read, how she dreamed about college, and they sent me an application.”
Robbie-Lee shook his head in admiration. “That’s what I like about you, Jackie. Some people say they’re going to do something, but you actually do it.”
But Jackie looked worried. “Priscilla, maybe I should have handled this differently. Are you all right?”
“Well,” Priscilla began, “it’s just that I never thought in my wildest dreams that I would ever go to college.”
“But you talked about it all the time!” Jackie said. “It was your goal!”
“Not really,” Priscilla said.
“Not really?” Jackie sounded alarmed now.
“It’s hard to explain,” Priscilla said a little defensively.
Plain Jane piped up. “This is a lot to take in. It’s perfectly understandable. Especially after the day we’ve all had.”
Priscilla looked uncomfortable. “It’s not that,” she said. “It’s that I never truly believed I would get to go.” She looked just on the verge of crying again.
“Well, you don’t have to go.” This from Plain Jane. Jackie shot her a look. This was not going as planned.
“There’s something else,” Priscilla said, dropping her face back into her hands. Then she started wailing as loud as Robbie-Lee had, minutes before.
“What? What is it?” Jackie asked, speaking for all of us.
Priscilla looked up, and this time she let her gaze linger on Jackie’s face.
I wanted to comfort or reassure Priscilla, but since I didn’t understand why she was upset, I had no idea what to say. I tried out several phrases in my head and rejected them all. It was Mrs. Bailey White who knew what to do. She left the room and returned with a shawl—mohair, or perhaps angora, in a pale yellow plaid. I don’t usually get excited over such things, but even I said something like, “Oh, that’s lovely.” Mrs. Bailey White’s arthritic hands, gnarly as an old wisteria vine, slowly draped the shawl around Priscilla’s neck and shoulders. Priscilla closed her eyes. She either fell asleep or pretended to. Either way, it was clear we’d hear no more about the topic. Not that night and maybe not ever.
Fifteen
Priscilla’s reaction to what should have been good news left us all even more on edge. It was Plain Jane who finally broke the spell.
“My dear,” Plain Jane said to Priscilla, whose eyes fluttered open, “you don’t have to surrender your dreams forever.”
I looked at Plain Jane as if she’d lost her mind. Only ten minutes or so had gone by, and anyone could see that Priscilla wanted to be left alone.
“What I mean to say,” Plain Jane added, “is that I’m a gray-haired lady. And I just had a lifelong dream come true.”
This was a welcome change of course. “My first book of poetry has been accepted by a publisher,” Plain Jane said proudly.
After a round of congratulations, Robbie-Lee said, “But I thought you’d been publishing your poetry all along. Isn’t that how you’ve been making a living?”
“Alas,” Plain Jane replied, “one cannot make a living writing poetry. Unless you happen to be Robert Frost.”
So the question lingered in the air—how did she make a living?
Plain Jane saw that we were hoping she’d reveal something, for once, about herself. “The truth is,” she began nervously, “well, the truth is that I pay my bills by writing for magazines.”
“You mean like Ladies’ Home Journal and Good Housekeeping?” Mrs. Bailey White sounded impressed.
Plain Jane glanced at Jackie. “No, more like Sophisticated Woman and Playboy. I write about sex.”
We could not have been more stunned than if she’d just announced she was a Russian spy and was taking us all hostage. “Well, I don’t write under my own name,” Plain Jane added hastily. “And I don’t want people to know. Especially now that I’m finally getting my first book of poetry published.”
“Golly,” said Robbie-Lee.
“So anyway, Priscilla,” Plain Jane said, “sometimes life has a way of fooling you. Sometimes things work out. Just differently than you expected. But that doesn’t mean you have to give up your dream forever.”
It was a nice sentiment, but it didn’t do much to cheer up Priscilla, who had slid down so far into the sofa cushions, she looked like a child. We were delaying the inevitable—that some decisions had to be made. How long should we stay at Mrs. Bailey White’s? What now? Then again, maybe Priscilla had the right idea. I let my head sink into my chair, hoping for a short, healing sleep.
“Wait a minute, Dora,” Jackie said. “Everyone has told something about themselves tonight except you.”
I lifted my head and scowled at her. “There’s nothing to tell.”
This was greeted with an undercurrent of grumbling around the room. “I’m just boring old me,” I protested. To myself I was thinking, I have never fired a gun at anyone and gone to prison. I did not escape from an historic nightclub fire. My mother was a nurse, not a stripper turned alligator hunter. Even Plain Jane had been living a more exciting life than I had—writing sexy stories on the sly for magazines in New York and Hollywood. The only thing that made me special was my turtles, and everyone knew about that already.
“Oh no, you’re not getting away with that ‘boring old me’ stuff,” Robbie-Lee said crossly.
“Why don’t you tell us about your marriage?” This was Plain Jane, coaxing and gentle. “How long were you married? What happened?”
I felt angry. Cornered. Just because they had all spilled their guts, did that mean I had to too?
“There’s nothing to tell,” I repeated, but the tears that rushed to my eyes betrayed my true feelings. Everyone waited while I collected myself. “Aw, heck, my life is just not that interesting,” I said, wishing I didn’t sound so defensive. “Me and Darryl, we grew up together. We were best friends. We went steady in high school. We got married. And it didn’t work out.”
This was sort of the Cliffs Notes version of my life, and my friends glared at me, willing me to say more.
“Well,” I continued, “when we were growing up, we were together all the time. His mama used to say we were like Siamese twins. He lived next door. Maybe that was all there was to it—he lived next door and there was no one else our age to play with. Neither of us had brothers or sisters.”
I was warming up now. “When we were kids—I’m talking eight or nine years old—we would climb this wonderful tree near Lee Street. You had to follow a little path around some palmetto bushes. The tree was made for us. I couldn’t even tell you what kind of tree, but there were layers of sturdy branches close together, mostly on one side. One thick branch made up most of the other side, as if the trunk had split in two, decades before. I suppose it was hopelessly lopsided, but to us, the tree was perfect.
“It wasn’t the tallest tree around, but something about the way it was situated, on a bit of a rise, meant you could see the whole town from up there. Not that there was much to see, but it put everything in perspective. On one side of us were the Everglades, a canopy of trees that spread to the edge of the horizon. To us, the Everglades were as majestic as any mountain range—not that we’d ever seen any actu
al mountains other than in books. In the other direction—and just as endless, or so we thought—was the Gulf, sparkling like a million diamonds but always changing colors, depending on the clouds. The Gulf connected us to magical places—the Keys, Mexico, and the Caribbean Islands. Both the Everglades and the Gulf were beautiful from a distance but full of danger. This was our world. We didn’t know any other.
“We started to think of it as ‘our’ tree. I always climbed straight to the top because I thought I could touch heaven from there. Darryl was different. He would take his time, trying different routes, exploring the shape of the tree. I should have realized then how different we were. My dreams were big, and I wanted to get there fast. Darryl enjoyed the journey. He didn’t even care if he got there.
“Now all he cares about is money. Maybe he never had any real dreams. Maybe he didn’t want to touch the sky, or see the world beyond the Gulf and the Everglades.
“But I remember one day when I think he did. We were at the top of the tree. Darryl was talking about how the train sounded louder from up there than on the ground. ‘You know what?’ I interrupted him. ‘This is what it must be like to be on a boat out at sea.’
“‘What? You mean like out on the Gulf?’
“‘No, I mean anywhere. The Gulf, the ocean. This tree—our tree—it’s like a sailing ship. Like the Nina, the Pinta, and the Santa Maria.’ Darryl warmed to the idea. He said, ‘We should be looking for pirates! You never know when you’re going to run into pirates.’
“‘Ahoy, mateys,’ I called out. ‘Grab the jib! Lower the sails!’ I couldn’t remember any more sailing terms from the books my mama had read to me, like Robinson Crusoe and Treasure Island.
“And so we played there, on the branches of our secret tree, lost in time and place. The trunk of our tree had become the mast of a great schooner; its branches became billowing white sails. We were attacked by pirates brandishing swords. We were shipwrecked on deserted islands. We were homesick and seasick and incredibly, deliriously happy.
“It was,” I added, “the best day of my life.”
I had never had that thought before. I thought I sounded silly, and I peered from face to face to see the reaction of my little group of friends. I didn’t know any of them a few months earlier, and now they were the custodians of my deepest feelings. I felt raw and exposed until I realized that they were all, in fact, crying.
“You are a natural storyteller, Dora,” Jackie said softly. “You can take a simple story, like climbing trees with Darryl, and turn it into poetry.”
“It is a form of poetry,” Plain Jane said. She grinned. “See—you have a talent. And you didn’t even know it. Maybe you should find out where it comes from.”
So I was a born storyteller. And in that instant, I knew they were right. How strange to be almost thirty years old and not realize I possessed this talent until my friends pointed it out to me—on one of the scariest nights of our lives, no less.
Then Plain Jane turned to Jackie. With a hint of mischief in her voice, she asked, “Jackie dear, isn’t there something else you’d like to tell us—about yourself, I mean?”
“Why, whatever do you mean?” Jackie replied in a deliberately casual voice.
Something was up, but no one felt like pursuing the hint.
“Another time, then, Jackie,” Plain Jane said. But Jackie just smiled.
Sixteen
We must have all fallen asleep, or something close to sleep, because next thing I knew I was awakened by snoring. Robbie-Lee and Mrs. Bailey White seemed to be in some kind of competition over who could make the most god-awful racket I’d ever heard. I’ve always reacted badly to being awakened suddenly. I was feeling mighty cranky when I saw something—or someone—out of the corner of my eye.
Just a shadow. But then the shadow moved. Over by the back door.
I breathed in so sharply, my rib cage hurt. I tried to scream but all I could do was squawk like a startled chicken. Still, it served the purpose by waking everyone up—even the snoring duo. The commotion that followed would have been comical under different circumstances.
The fireplace was providing only a dull glow. Several of us flailed about looking for a lamp or light switch. Mrs. Bailey White improved the situation slightly by turning on an old Tiffany-style lamp with a very low-wattage bulb, just enough to turn the shadow into a full-fledged apparition.
“What do you want?” Mrs. Bailey White yelled in the direction of the intruder.
“Holy cow! It’s Dolores!” shouted a very surprised Robbie-Lee.
I don’t know what stunned me more—that Robbie-Lee’s mother was there or that she was dressed like a man. A pair of rubber boots came up past her knees and a fly-fisherman’s vest tried but failed to contain her bosom.
“I came here to tell y’all you’re in a whole lot of trouble, especially you,” she said, pointing at Jackie.
“How did you get into my house?” Mrs. Bailey White demanded.
“That door in back,” Dolores said with a shrug. “You could’ve at least locked it.”
“But how did you get here?” This from Plain Jane. She meant, I guess, that Dolores didn’t have a car and Mrs. Bailey White’s house was too far to walk.
Dolores’s leathery face was easy to read. She pursed her lips and rolled her eyes. “In my boat, of course!” she said. “There’s a new channel—oh, ’bout eight foot wide.” With pride she added, “Cleared most of it myself.”
I was wondering what kind of boat could be navigated through a path so narrow. A canoe, of course, but then I remembered that Dolores made a living hunting alligators. A flat-bottomed rowboat would do the job. It also explained the clothing.
“But how did you know we were here—at this house?” This was Robbie-Lee again, but his question was, I’m sure, one we all wanted answered.
“I heard tell what happened tonight,” Dolores said. “Word spreads fast around here, you know. I figured y’all came here. Where else were you going to hide out?” She said the last two words mockingly.
“We’re not hiding out, we’re collecting ourselves and trying to figure out what to do.” This was me, and I admit that I sounded a tad defensive.
Dolores laughed. “Y’all don’t know nothing about life,” she said with such disgust, I thought she might spit on the floor for emphasis. “You’re damn—what’s the word?—naïve. They are all looking for you and it’s only a matter of time before they come here.”
“Holy shit,” said Mrs. Bailey White, surprising us all with the cuss word. “I’m on parole. I’m going to end up back in jail.”
“Not if she”—and Dolores pointed again at Jackie—“faces the music.”
“I guess they recognized the car,” Jackie said quietly.
“Of course they recognized the damn car,” Dolores replied. “They know it’s yours. But the rest of you”—she swept her hand through the air—“y’all might be able to keep out of trouble.”
I felt a small jolt of hope rise in my chest. Maybe there was a way to get out of this after all. What we needed right now was leadership. And if that leadership came from a retired stripper turned alligator hunter, so be it. When you’re in trouble, you can’t afford to be picky. You don’t need Mr. Right to change your flat tire when you’re stuck on the side of the road. Any man will do.
Dolores did not disappoint. “Robbie-Lee, you come home with me,” she said. “You stay here,” she said, pointing at Mrs. Bailey White, “and act like you never left.” Dolores turned her authoritative gaze on Priscilla. “Lord have mercy, no one can ever know you were there. You should hide out here until dawn. Then walk to Mrs. B’s house—it can’t be more than a half mile. Just scoot on out to the road and act like you’re walking to work. Don’t let anyone see you come out of this driveway, though.” Dolores took a closer look at Priscilla and added, “And you’ve got to clean yourself up. Fix up your hair. Iron those clothes. You’re a wrinkled mess and no one will believe you’re going straight to work from your
grandma’s house looking like that.
“As for you,” Dolores snarled at Jackie, “you’ll have to take these two gals home”—she meant Plain Jane and me—“and hope to God no one sees you. If you wait until a few minutes after six, you’ll be fine.”
“Why six?” Jackie asked meekly.
“ ’Cause that’s when the sheriff and the other boys meet at the Fish House for breakfast.”
“And then I should just continue on home, leave my car in the driveway, and go inside?” Jackie looked forlorn.
“After you drop the other two off, and not right in front of their houses either. Let them walk partway so they aren’t seen with you. Or the car.”
“And then what?” Jackie sounded like Marie Antoinette on her way to the guillotine.
“They’ll come get you. You’ll have some explaining to do. But at least this way you can protect your friends.”
“Of course, of course,” Jackie murmured.
“Now, wait a minute, wouldn’t it be better if one of us, at least, said we was there? So we could be a witness for Jackie’s side of things?” This was Robbie-Lee, ever the chivalrous gentleman.
“That’s a bad idea,” Dolores said quickly. “That won’t help her one bit.”
“Excuse me, Dolores,” Jackie spoke up softly. “Is there any way we can find out what may have happened? I mean to the community, Priscilla’s community. Was anyone . . . killed?”
Priscilla sobbed into Mrs. Bailey White’s shoulder.
“I don’t know,” Dolores said. “I know the church is gone. And the tent—the revival tent. Don’t know what else.”
“Terrible. Just terrible.” This was Jackie, sort of to herself.
“Aren’t you going to ask about the people you tried to mow down?” Dolores asked Jackie. Her bluntness made me wonder whose side she was on—ours or the Klan. “Don’t you know you hit one or two of those men?”
“I didn’t see any ‘men,’” Jackie snapped back, sounding more like herself. “I saw some people running around with white robes and hoods over their heads. They weren’t men, though. They were monsters.”
Miss Dreamsville and the Collier County Women's Literary Society Page 12
