Miss Dreamsville and the Collier County Women's Literary Society

by Amy Hill Hearth

  “Look, Jackie,” I said, trying to stay calm, “you do not want to mess with these people.”

  “These people—Klan people?”

  “Yes.”

  “Don’t you think I know that? I mean, give me some credit here, obviously I know they are dangerous.”

  “This is going on all over the place, and it’s something we have to handle ourselves.”

  “Meaning Southerners? Southerners have to handle this themselves?” Jackie looked pissed.

  “Yes, Southerners. We have to end this. Believe me, it doesn’t help when outsiders . . .” I stopped, realizing I’d gone too far. “Look, Jackie, I just don’t want you to get yourself killed. You don’t know what you’re dealing with.”

  “What a mean little redneck town this is,” Jackie said bitterly. “I had no idea it would be so . . . Southern.”

  “Well, what did you think it was going to be like?”

  “Ted told me it was a little fishing village by the sea. I don’t know . . . I guess I didn’t think of Florida as being like this.”

  I sighed. One of the most annoying things about Yankees was that they didn’t know their history. They didn’t understand Florida at all. “I don’t know what they teach y’all in school up there in the North,” I said, shaking my head. “Florida fought for the Confederacy. This was a rebel state. Matter of fact, Florida was the third state to secede, and proud of it. Jackie, what you are is a fish out of water. That’s what this is all about. You’re a northern fish trying to swim in a little old southern pond.”

  A fresh stream of tears dripped down Jackie’s cheeks. I went to the kitchen and ran the hot water. I found the softest cloth I had, a handkerchief that belonged to my grandma, dampened it, and returned to Jackie. I washed her face as if she were a child. “Go on home,” I told her. “Get some rest. You can’t change the world all by yourself.”

  The following day Ted came back from his trip. The only one at home who knew the story was Judd, and Jackie knew she could count on him to stay quiet. Her plan was to wait for the right moment to tell Ted.

  But Jackie was good at procrastinating, at least when putting something off suited her purposes. She told us later she’d been “gathering courage” to tell Ted but was “diverted” by other activities in town. She claimed to be involved with an upcoming event, the biggest one of the year—the annual Swamp Buggy Festival.

  I didn’t buy it. But then again, I had no idea what she was really up to.

  Eighteen

  The Swamp Buggy Festival, I suppose, was our way of coping with the mud and muck of spring—similar, I guess, to some folks I read about who live in Canada and throw an ice festival in the middle of winter. You just get so sick of the snow—or in our case, mud—there’s nothing left to do but throw a party.

  First, I guess I need to explain that a swamp buggy is a crappy vehicle, open to the sky, that seems more truck than car. What made a swamp buggy special was the enormous balloon tires—and I do mean enormous. Usually they were airplane tires, either bought from armed services surplus stores or collected in the swamp after a plane crash. Picture a tire so big, the driver has to climb a ladder to reach the seat of the vehicle.

  The racetrack was seven-eighths of a mile long. A driver could move to the head of the pack through speed and aggression, but it helped his chances if he was good at guessing the location of the deepest mud holes (which, of course, slowed you down if you hit ’em).

  Surveying this scene of muddy mayhem was the local beauty selected as the Swamp Buggy Queen, perched at the top of a telephone pole so she could be at eye level with the drivers. Even so, she was splattered with mud by the end of the race. After she’d climbed aboard the winner’s buggy, the two of them—hand in hand—would jump together into the mud.

  To be honest with you, I never figured out why anyone would want to be the Swamp Buggy Queen, but the competition was brutal. The winner for 1963 had been announced already, with her photo on the front page of the newspaper. She was a lanky lass with a bouffant and a toothpaste-model smile. In other words, she looked pretty much like every other Swamp Buggy Queen over the years.

  I couldn’t imagine why Jackie would give a hoot about the Swamp Buggy Festival. At first I thought maybe one of her twins was involved in some way, maybe as one of the Swamp Buggy Queen’s many attendants. But that couldn’t be right. Jackie’s daughters wouldn’t have a chance. There was no room on the platform for girls who were new in town. Worse, Jackie’s girls were from up North.

  The Swamp Buggy Queen was supposed to be crowned in a ceremony prior to the race. Then the crowd would follow the queen and her consorts to the swamp buggy track, a half mile away.

  But there was to be a new, added attraction at the ceremony this year: the radio station and the chamber of commerce had cooked up a plan to reveal the identity of Miss Dreamsville. A few swamp buggy purists were opposed to the idea, saying it would steal the thunder from their queen. But the chamber and the radio station insisted that surely the two women could share the stage gracefully.

  Jackie, meanwhile, was secretly preoccupied with protecting her charade to the end. She knew she couldn’t keep the secret under wraps forever. Besides, she could not have been more thrilled that her big moment would occur at the festival. There was nothing Jackie loved more than making a big splash.

  The big day arrived, and Jackie had still not told Ted about the Klan. That ugly chapter in her life was beginning to seem like a bad dream. Today was her big day and she was going to enjoy every second. She had other things to think about. She was supposed to give a short acceptance speech. What should she say? And, of course, there was the question of what to wear.

  She decided not to prepare a speech but to wing it. As for her clothes, this remained a vexing problem. If there was ever a time to dress up like Ava Gardner, today was the day. But sadly, Jackie came to the conclusion that she would have to play down the glamour. She needed to stay under the radar to maintain the surprise. How could she show up at the festival, supposedly just to stand in the crowd with her kids, looking spectacular? It was tragic, but ordinary clothes would have to do.

  She had done her makeup and hair but was still wearing her muumuu when she saw the early-afternoon edition of the newspaper had been tossed onto the lawn. In Boston, she would make a mad dash for the newspaper in her house clothes and no one would care. But southern women didn’t leave the house, ever, without full makeup, coiffed hair, stockings, and jewelry—what my mama used to call “the works.” Jackie had marveled at the discipline this required, tried it, and given up after two weeks. She still dolled herself up, but only when she actually went somewhere, like the post office or the Winn-Dixie. Not to retrieve the newspaper.

  She grabbed her floppy hat and sunglasses—necessities, she had learned, even for a few moments outside—and slipped on a worn-out pair of low-heeled pumps she kept by the front door. Her kids teased her all the time because she never went barefoot outdoors. Her feet were too tender, she said, and that might have been true. A more likely reason was her fear of Florida bugs.

  Jackie had already learned, from personal experience, an important rule of southern life: be cautious about picking up anything that’s been laying on your lawn, even if it’s only been there for a minute. There were all kinds of scary stories, most of them true, about spiders, wasps, and even snakes crawling into the folds of a rolled-up newspaper. That is why Jackie had acquired the habit of holding the newspaper away from her body and shaking it ferociously before carrying it into the house. She was so caught up in this ritual that she didn’t hear a car pull up a few feet away. When she glanced up, she recognized Mr. Toomb’s personal town car, a black Lincoln with a mirror finish. The driver was a Mr. Hendry, usually called just Jim. He motioned for her to come closer and rolled down the electric-powered window. It was the only car in town to have this much-coveted gadget until Jackie bought the Buick.

  “Miz Hart,” he called to her, “I need you to come with me.”<
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  “Why?” she asked, almost dropping the paper. “What’s wrong? Has something happened to Ted at work?”

  “No, ma’am, at least I don’t believe so. Mr. Toomb say he just want to talk to you for a few minutes. Just a coupla minutes.”

  “Talk to me?” Jackie later said she found this very strange. “Hasn’t he ever heard of a telephone?”

  The chauffeur shrugged. Jackie leaned into the car. “Gad, it must be hot wearing that uniform,” she said. “But listen—I can’t come with you. I have things to do! And I’m not dressed properly.”

  “But he say it’s important, and I was to come carry you over there in this here car.” He looked genuinely worried.

  Jackie too was worried. Or at least wary. She had never been to Mr. Toomb’s house. Few people had.

  “Looka here, it only take a few minutes of yo’ time,” pleaded the long-suffering Mr. Hendry. Only when the thought occurred to Jackie that the elderly chauffeur might get into hot water if he returned without her did she start to cave in.

  “Could I just change quick?”

  Mr. Hendry looked at his watch. “No, ma’am, he’s already waiting,” he said grimly.

  “Well, I have to get my keys and my cigarettes!” Jackie nearly yelled. She stomped to the house and returned seconds later. “This is crazy,” she said, opening the back door and climbing in. “I’m only doing this for you, Jim—Mr. Hendry. I know Mr. Toomb’s a mean man to work for. But just so you know, I’m not in the habit of allowing myself to be kidnapped.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He did a quick three-point turn using the neighbor’s driveway.

  Jackie fumed most of the way there. “I’ve finally been invited to the place, and look at me! Just look at me! I’m wearing this stupid muumuu and my ugly shoes.” At least, she thought to herself, she had been wearing lipstick already.

  “So . . . do you know what this is all about?” Jackie asked as they neared the gate to the property.

  “I don’t know, ma’am, he don’t confide in me.”

  The gate opened by some sort of remote control onto a private road. Jackie forgot her annoyance the second the house popped into view. As she’d heard tell, the Toomb mansion was a precise copy of Twelve Oaks, the palatial home of the Wilkes family in Gone with the Wind. Still, she was shocked to see it in person, and couldn’t resist the temptation to hum a few bars of the theme song, with Mr. Hendry glancing at her in the rearview mirror.

  They pulled up under an overhang that was more decorative than useful. Before Jackie had time to think, Mr. Hendry had moved around the back of the car and opened her door.

  Jackie wanted a cigarette in the worst way. She had missed her chance, though, because Mr. Hendry waved her toward the house. “You’d best be going in there right now,” he said.

  The massive front doors to the mansion seemed to open from the inside by themselves. She was greeted by a butler dressed like a Confederate soldier. “Follow me, Mrs. Hart,” the man said in an accent that was hard for Jackie to place. She nodded, determined to remain composed.

  The butler motioned for her to follow. They climbed a long, curved staircase that made Jackie wish she was wearing a ball gown, just so she could have swooshed back down those stairs—Scarlett O’Hara style—on her way out. She peered down over the railing. A maid was placing palm fronds, one at a time, in a vase so large Judd could have hidden inside.

  Judd, she thought. Maybe this has something to do with Judd. The only other time she had encountered Mr. Toomb was at the jail where poor Judd was being held on account of his having learned Russian.

  At the top of the nearly endless staircase, Jackie felt light-headed. She was hungry, thirsty, and in desperate need of a cigarette. Hopefully, this meeting would not take more than five minutes or so, and Mr. Hendry could take her back home to finish getting ready for the festival.

  The butler gestured toward a set of double doors. He knocked lightly, then ushered Jackie into the most beautifully appointed office she had ever seen. Directly in front of her, about thirty feet away, was Mr. Toomb, sitting behind a desk fit for a king, which indeed he was—in Collier County.

  “Mrs. Hart,” he said, “please come in and sit down.” Jackie, who was trying very hard not to seem impressed, sashayed forward like a model on a Paris runway. She knew she looked terrible, she told us later. But she was not going to let him have the upper hand.

  She was so fixated on making the right impression that she didn’t notice another person in the room until she was nearly to the empty chair where she assumed she was supposed to sit, opposite Mr. Toomb’s desk. It was Ted, leaning on the sill of a window to the left of Mr. Toomb.

  “Ted!” she said, and was even more startled that he didn’t respond or even turn to look at her.

  “Mrs. Hart,” Mr. Toomb began, as Jackie—now completely rattled—sat down slowly, never taking her eyes off Ted. “Mrs. Hart,” the old man began again, “I believe we have met before—at the police station, when the sheriff thought your son was a Russian spy. Do you remember that day?”

  “Why, yes,” Jackie replied, finally wrenching her eyes away from Ted and back to Mr. Toomb. “How could I ever forget?”

  “And of course,” Mr. Toomb continued, “your husband here is one of my most valued employees.” Ted continued to look out the window.

  “Mrs. Hart, let me be frank with you,” Mr. Toomb said.

  Jackie finally found her voice. “By all means,” she said, folding her hands to hide the fact that they were trembling.

  “Well, Mrs. Hart, I am aware of what happened.”

  “And what was that, Mr. Toomb?”

  “An incident involving your car.”

  “My car?”

  “Several weeks ago, you attempted to run down several of our most esteemed local citizens, who were attempting to put out a fire at a church south of town.”

  Jackie closed her eyes. She felt nauseous. “Esteemed local citizens?” she said bitterly. “Putting out a fire at a church south of town?”

  A little sarcasm can be a good thing, but as Mama used to say, it’s like cooking with pepper—a little goes a long way. Jackie had begun to understand only recently that she came on too strong. She realized that in the South, keeping your temper in check trumped everything else.

  “Mr. Toomb,” she said, having collected herself by studying the grain in the wood of his magnificent desk, “I believe there has been a misunderstanding.”

  “A misunderstanding?” Mr. Toomb sounded doubtful. Ted, finally, glanced at Jackie.

  “Yes, you see, Mr. Toomb, that is not what happened at all.”

  “Well, then, what did happen, Mrs. Hart? Because in our neck of the woods, you can’t run down innocent men with your car. You actually hit one of those men, didn’t you know that, Mrs. Hart? Fortunately, his friends took him to the hospital, and he survived.”

  Jackie swallowed hard. She glanced at Ted but he was staring out the window again. “Mr. Toomb,” she said, no longer able to bite her tongue, “this is what I saw—a bunch of men wearing white sheets, with holes for their eyes so they could see. Several of them were carrying torches. They weren’t putting out the fire. They had started it.”

  Mr. Toomb slammed his hand on the desk. “Mrs. Hart, I have kept the sheriff from arresting you these past three weeks. I brought you here today because I wanted to give you a chance to apologize. One word from you, and this ends right now. I know the man you hit, and I’ve discussed this with him. He is willing to let it go for the sake of peace in the community.”

  Jackie didn’t answer him. “May I smoke?” she said instead.

  “Well, yes, of course,” Mr. Toomb said.

  They sat there on opposite sides of the desk, with Ted still standing by the window, only now he was leaning harder on the sill, his head bowed and almost touching the glass.

  “So what have you decided, Mrs. Hart? Will you apologize?”

  “No!” Ted said suddenly in a sharp voice. He turned to fac
e them both, standing up straight, the way he used to look, Jackie thought, in his Army uniform. “This is too much to ask, Mr. Toomb. I won’t let you ask my wife to sell her soul. I love her for who she is, and I wouldn’t want her any other way.”

  His words sucked the air out of the room. Jackie beamed and tried to suppress the urge to gloat. Mr. Toomb would not meet her gaze but just shook his head.

  “Well, then,” the old man said wearily. “You’ll have to expect the sheriff and his boys will confiscate your car and take you in for questioning.” He drummed his fingers on the desk. “What is it,” he added suddenly, “with you Yankees, anyway? When y’all come down here, you get all high and mighty, shaming us for our way of life, for something you don’t even understand. We are good Christian people.”

  Maybe she was caught off guard and thinking the worst was over, but Jackie snapped. “Good Christian people don’t burn down a church,” she almost yelled. “They don’t terrorize people.”

  “Ha! Terrorize people! What do y’all think you did? I mean Sherman’s March and all that? Y’all wrecked the South. You didn’t have to do that. Y’all think you’re so much better. Ha! Don’t forget—you had slavery too, even in Massachusetts.”

  “This is absurd!” Jackie screamed. “Yes, we had slavery in the North, but you know what? We ended it back in the seventeen hundreds! And it didn’t take a war to do it! The people decided slavery was wrong and passed laws to end it!”

  “You think things are so much better for Negroes in the North?” Mr. Toomb was shouting now. “From what I hear, your schools are just as segregated—your neighborhoods, your churches.”

  “We never claimed to be perfect!” Jackie was standing now and pointing a finger at Mr. Toomb, something which had probably never happened in his long life. “There are plenty of bigots in Boston, New York, Chicago . . . plenty! I know that!”

  Ted moved away from the window. He slipped behind Jackie and put his hands on her shoulders, trying to calm her down. It didn’t work.