Miss Dreamsville and the Collier County Women's Literary Society

by Amy Hill Hearth

  I think ten whole seconds went by, maybe longer, without a single soul able to speak. Finally a shout came from somewhere in the crowd, followed by a hearty chorus of boos and a general roar of dismay.

  The teenaged boys who had fantasized that Miss Dreamsville looked something like Raquel Welch were livid. A few even shook their fists at Mr. Toomb and Mr. McIntyre on the stage. Even the thunder had to get its two cents’ worth in, with a sound like a cracking whip.

  I was finally able to move. The first thing I did was look at my friends to see if I’d heard right. Robbie-Lee was so stunned he was slack-jawed, which told me I had not imagined what Mr. Toomb had said. Mrs. Bailey White began tugging on my arm. “What did he say?” she asked, cupping her ear. When I leaned in to her good ear and told her, she pulled back and stared at me as if I was plumjack crazy, her head cocked like a spaniel’s reacting to a bird whistle. Plain Jane’s eyes were squeezed shut but Miss Lansbury was looking straight ahead, her eyes big as sand dollars. If the Gulf of Mexico had parted like the Red Sea, with a pathway for us to cross, we couldn’t have been more shocked.

  Then I thought, Where is Jackie? I looked at Robbie-Lee again and followed his gaze. She was still standing in back with Ted and her kids, or rather, Ted and Judd, the twins having left for parts unknown. Jackie looked surprisingly calm, even stoic, like she was performing the role of Joan of Arc in a local play and was taking the part too seriously. Ted looked wretched. Judd looked like he might upchuck and I said a quick prayer, for his sake, that he didn’t. I wished the storm would hurry up and get here, dousing us all and putting out this flame.

  Mr. McIntyre stepped up to the microphone. “Miss Dreamsville, please join us on the stage,” he said, his voice quavering slightly. Everyone now realized Jackie was in the crowd. Heads turned to get a look.

  Jackie kissed Ted lightly on the cheek, patted Judd’s shoulder, and managed to look absolutely radiant despite her bizarre attire. I couldn’t imagine what had happened to cause Jackie’s leaving the house dressed like that. As she moved through the crowd to the stage, people pulled back to let her pass, and she milked that moment for all it was worth. “Thank you,” she said again and again, loud and deliberately pleasant. “Thank you so much.” She never failed to smile, all the way to the platform.

  When she reached the stage, I lost sight of her for a moment, until she reappeared on the arm of a Boy Scout who had the job of escorting her up the steps. As soon as they reached the platform, he detached himself from her. She continued the rest of the way alone, taking her time, smiling and nodding as she passed the mayor, the miscellaneous dignitaries, Bill McIntyre from the radio station, and last but not least—Mr. Toomb.

  I’d have died on the spot if I’d been in her shoes. It must’ve been a very long walk to the center of the stage. When she reached the microphone, she took a deep breath, then exhaled.

  “H-e-l-l-o, Naples,” she said, using the same sultry voice that we listened to, night after night, but had never once connected to her. “It’s Miss Dreamsville here.”

  The crowd murmured. This was her, all right.

  “I know I’m not what you expected,” she said, returning to her everyday voice. “I’m sorry you’re disappointed. I didn’t think you would be that disappointed. I guess I should have seen it coming.”

  She paused for a moment, then went on. “This is not how I hoped this day would turn out either. I mean, I didn’t expect to be standing here in a muumuu with mud all over my feet.

  “Okay, look at it this way,” she said, trying a different approach. “When this opportunity came along to have my own radio show, it flipped a switch in me. I’m not the greatest mom. I’m not the greatest wife. I’m not even a good cook. Anna Mae”—she pointed to the mayor’s wife, standing in a cluster of ladies—“you make the best key lime pie in the world. Me, I can’t even make a Jell-O salad you’d want to eat. Sally—where are you?—the work you do with the Cub Scouts puts me to shame. I don’t have that kind of patience. I envy you for that. But see, my point is we are all good at different things. And in my case, it’s being Miss Dreamsville.”

  This approach seemed to be working, at least with some of the women in the crowd.

  “I’m not like the rest of you,” Jackie added. “I know that. I’m a Northerner. I don’t fit in. I think I was looking for something to do that was just for me—you know, aside from raising kids and taking care of the house. I didn’t set out to deceive you, and neither did Mr. McIntyre.” She gestured toward the young radio station owner, who looked worried but nodded eagerly.

  The crowd was giving her a chance. At least, I thought, they seemed to be listening. But then Jackie—being Jackie—went too far.

  “Besides,” Jackie continued, her voice rising noticeably. “Why can’t a middle-aged mom be Miss Dreamsville? Why does that make people uncomfortable? I think we should ask ourselves that question.”

  Someone booed—very loudly.

  “Well, fine,” she said sharply. “I have news for you—the world is changing. Things are going to be better for women. We’re going to have more options. Same thing for Negroes. You wait and see. It’s going to happen. It already is! We have a Catholic president! People said that would never happen! The world is changing—for the better!”

  “Amen!” roared Robbie-Lee, shocking us all but inspiring Plain Jane, Miss Lansbury, Mrs. Bailey White, and me to start clapping wildly. Others in the crowd were applauding too, and when I looked around, I saw it was Ted and Judd.

  But this was dangerous ground. I just wanted Jackie to stop.

  “If America is going to stay number one in the world,” she continued, “then we have to put aside our differences here at home. We have to allow everyone to live up to their full potential. It’s not about black versus white, Catholic versus Protestant, Southerner versus Northerner. That’s just stupid! We can do better!”

  “What the hell is this?” a man in overalls hollered from the middle of the crowd. “Is this some kind of joke?”

  Jackie’s shoulders slumped. Her momentum—and apparently her courage—were gone.

  Seeing her hesitate, he went in for the kill. This time his voice was more than angry. It was mocking. “I asked you, lady, if this is some kind of joke. Or are you some kind of joke?”

  I grabbed Robbie-Lee’s arm. “We should do something,” I said as he bent down to hear me. But someone else beat us to the punch.

  “Stop!” The shout sounded like a young man, maybe a teenager. We craned our necks and saw Judd waving his arms wildly, his face almost as red as his hair. I exchanged glances and a shared thought with Plain Jane—Now what?

  Judd charged through the crowd, head bent and elbows flying like a pissed-off whooping crane running off intruders who’d come too close to the family nest. As he reached the stage, he had so much momentum, he took the steps two at a time, then nearly crashed into the dignitaries, finally ending up at his mother’s side. Grabbing the microphone, he spoke, gasping for breath but determined.

  “My mother is not a joke!” he said. He took a few more breaths, then continued. “I’m proud of her! Why shouldn’t she be Miss Dreamsville? She’s smart and she loves music. She’s beautiful—even though she’s old! I love my mom! God bless my mom!” And then, as if he couldn’t think of anything else to say, he sang out, “God bless America!”

  There was a moment of hesitation, followed by an eruption of noise never heard at a Swamp Buggy Festival, a kind of hysterical joy and frantic applause more typical of a revival, like the one held outdoors each year at the Incorruptible Word of Faith Church and Ministry.

  Judd had just hit the ball out of the park without meaning to. No Southerner can resist a public spectacle involving a declaration of undying loyalty and devotion to one’s mama. Wars have been fought and men have died for the love of God and country, but in the South they ought to add “mother” to the list, and not necessarily last either. Even Mr. Toomb looked like he was going to cry. Judd was so astonished,
his mouth hung open, but Jackie quickly seized the moment. She placed both arms around Judd in a maternal embrace that would have made Donna Reed proud, and produced her very best smile for the newspaper photographers, who crouched and leaped—and even shoved each other, not something we’d ever seen in these parts—while trying to get the best shot. The men in charge of the television apparatus struggled to keep up, pivoting the camera like an Army tank taking aim at its prey.

  We could guess what the headline on the front page would be tomorrow, “Miss Dreamsville Revealed!” or something along those lines, no doubt in enormous typeface, the likes of which we hadn’t seen since Pearl Harbor was attacked. Beneath it, no doubt, would be a second, smaller headline, “Son Defends Mother in Emotional Start to Swamp Buggy Fest.”

  Jackie and Judd had made a 180-degree turn in a matter of seconds. They’d been as welcome as carpetbaggers in Sherman’s wake, and now they were the darlings of Naples. The chamber of commerce folks, the mayor, the dignitaries from Tallahassee, and—yes—Mr. Toomb had made a sharp reversal too and now appeared to be Miss Dreamsville’s most ardent supporters, gluing themselves to her side like eager suitors competing for the prettiest girl in town.

  Jackie, of course, loved every minute of this and played it to the hilt. She was glowing like a full moon or maybe even the brightest of all planets, Venus. Judd, on the other hand, struggled to follow his mother’s lead, but the best he could manage was a confused smile.

  I suppose that’s what we must have looked like too—the members of the Women’s Literary Society, kept in the dark just like everyone else. I looked over at Ted, standing alone in the back of the crowd, and imagined that we looked as giddy and baffled as he did.

  As Jackie and Judd finally prepared to leave the stage, a call went out for Ted and their two daughters to join them. Ted moved through the crowd enthusiastically, slowed only by people shaking his hand and congratulating him on his splendid wife and son, but the twins had vanished. The only person having a worse day than Jackie’s twins was the Swamp Buggy Queen.

  Just as Robbie-Lee said, “I need a drink,” everything came to a halt. A voice rang out. “Will the Turtle Lady and the rest of the literary society please come to the front of the procession?”

  So she had not forgotten us. This was the first time—and probably the last—that our motley little crew would be lauded. If only Priscilla had been there too. At this moment, at least, we were stars, caught up in Jackie’s amazing constellation.

  There were to be more photographs at the radio station, in front of the chamber of commerce, and at Jackie’s house. This was too good for the crowd to pass up. Things like this didn’t happen in Collier County very often. Matter of fact, they never did.

  By the time we got to Jackie’s, it was a few minutes past three o’clock. The newspaper photographers—and most of the crowd—were still caught up in the excitement, and although the television cameramen could not keep up and had returned to Fort Myers, Jackie was still playing the game for all it was worth. She even posed in her kitchen with a Jell-O salad. Then one of the photographers asked if she would pose outside, “in front of that hot rod convertible.”

  At first, she hedged. “Oh, so you like my convertible?” she asked, flirting with the photographer, who was maybe half her age. She hemmed and hawed and giggled, and then suddenly she seemed to get an idea. “Has anyone seen the sheriff?” she asked cutely. When we arrived, the sheriff had been standing in the driveway. We assumed his presence had something to do with crowd control.

  When someone located the sheriff in the living room, Jackie marched right over, took his arm coyly, and beamed up at him as if they were on a date. Then she steered the sheriff over toward Mr. Toomb, who was a few feet away. Without hesitating, Jackie grabbed Mr. Toomb with her other arm. She was now anchored between the two men. “One more picture here, then with the car,” she said, beaming. The sheriff and Mr. Toomb smiled dutifully. The sheriff, I noticed, looked a little wan.

  This was—you have to admit—a brilliant move.

  The house was jammed with people now headed outdoors, and the effect was that the threesome was carried on the tide and deposited in the driveway, right in front of the car. The photographers loved it. Jackie was laughing and smiling, only this time she wasn’t acting. She had the sheriff and Mr. Toomb right where she wanted them. They knew they were defeated. After all, Jackie had just put Naples on the map. The chamber of commerce was already preparing a press release.

  The case against Jackie was over.

  Well, not quite.

  “Mrs. Hart, did you know you have a crack in your windshield?” asked one of the photographers, an older fellow.

  “Oh, do I?” she said. “Oh yes, that’s right, I think it was a rock that was kicked up by a truck. Isn’t that a shame?”

  “Yes, and you’d better get that repaired right away, because it’s only going to get worse,” the photographer added.

  I was in hearing distance of this, and the moment was excruciating. I wished Jackie would, for once in her life, just shut up.

  “Sheriff? Mr. Toomb? What do you think?” she asked innocently. “Do you think it’s dangerous? What should I do?”

  “Um, yeah, you should have that repaired right away,” the sheriff said glumly. Mr. Toomb nodded.

  “Oh, thank you, gentlemen, so much for your opinion.” Jackie was really icing that cake. Before she could ruin it, I stepped forward and took her by the arm with a time-honored diversion. “Jackie, you’re needed in the kitchen,” I said, unable to think of anything better. The sheriff and Mr. Toomb took advantage of the moment and pulled away from her—in opposite directions.

  The crowd began to peel away in twos and threes. A few people were headed to the racetrack to catch the tail end of the swamp buggy race, or at least find out who won. After many hugs, the members of the Women’s Literary Society left for our respective homes, leaving Jackie, Judd, and Ted to celebrate on their own and wonder where the twins were.

  But thanks to the miracle of television, the day ended with one more surprise—a big one. At the end of Walter Cronkite’s CBS Evening News, Jackie’s and Judd’s smiling faces suddenly appeared for six seconds of eye-popping glory. The most famous voice in America read these lines with a smile:

  “And now this from our new affiliate in Fort Myers, Florida. A middle-aged mother in a little town called Naples has been named Miss Dreamsville.” Mr. Cronkite added his signature line:

  “And that’s the way it is.”

  Postscript

  We saw the bus before we heard it—the familiar shape of the Greyhound as it burst through a bank of swamp fog, the sticky morning mist so thick it dampened sound. The bus appeared to fly above the pavement, hurtling toward us, the noise of the engine absorbed by a million acres of marshland.

  Five months had passed since Jackie’s spectacular triumph. The Women’s Literary Society was splitting up.

  Three of us—Robbie-Lee, Priscilla, and me—were leaving town. Miss Lansbury had already left. She resigned from the library to study water conservation with the Osceola Indians. This was of course a stunning development. Librarians did not simply quit their jobs and run off to be with the Indians, at least, not any librarian that had ever worked in Collier County. As if this were not exciting enough, in her farewell interview in the local paper, Miss Lansbury announced that she was, in fact, an Osceola Indian. She had been passing for white. Her decision to follow her heart seemed to give permission to the rest of us to do the same.

  We discovered, also, that Priscilla had joined our group at the library at the invitation of Miss Lansbury. It turned out that the principal and several teachers at the Negro high school had alerted Miss Lansbury to a student named Priscilla Harmon who had read every last book in the Negro high school’s library. Miss Lansbury had quietly become Priscilla’s mentor, choosing books for her and getting them to her on the sly.

  Robbie-Lee headed to New York. But first he would escort Priscilla t
o Daytona Beach, where the fall semester at Bethune-Cookman College would start in two days. Jackie, along with Plain Jane and Mrs. Bailey White, would stay behind to help take care of Priscilla’s baby.

  Priscilla went to college after all.

  I was going with Robbie-Lee and Priscilla as far as Tampa. My plan was to sleep in the bus station, then board a bus for Tallahassee. From there, I’d take another bus west across the Panhandle, through a sliver of Alabama, and to my destination—Mississippi.

  Plain Jane, Mrs. Bailey White, and Jackie had come to see us off. As the bus came closer, I took my eyes off it to take one last look at the friends I was leaving behind and freeze the image in my mind.

  I had been worried about Jackie. Being Miss Dreamsville had lost its fascination for her. After her identity was revealed, she quit the show, insisting it would never be the same. Ted, strangely enough, was not fired. In fact, in the wake of the Miss Dreamsville publicity, he had actually been promoted by Mr. Toomb.

  Jackie needed a new project—and fast. But considering how often she admitted to having little or no maternal instinct, I was surprised, to say the least, when she came up with the idea to help Priscilla. For two whole weeks, Priscilla said no. She did not want to leave her baby, and besides, she thought it was too much to ask. But in the end, her grandmother convinced her to go.

  The bus was now close enough for us to see the words “Tampa/Orlando” on the placard across the windshield. A surge of joy mixed with desperation ran through me from my scalp down to my toes. If for some reason that bus did not stop, I would have run out into the road and flagged it down. Come what may, I had to leave.

  Robbie-Lee’s presence was a comfort. He was calm and stoic in his usual Rock Hudson sort of way. Aw, heck, he looked poised and handsome no matter what. It was early September, the hottest month here in Collier County. This meant I looked like a well-used dishrag even though it was only six thirty in the morning. Robbie-Lee, on the other hand, looked damp but not wilted. I tried to read his emotions. Determined, I think. He was going to New York to become a star. Either that or an interior decorator. But another of his goals was to find a doctor who didn’t sneer at his mother’s health problem—her painful breasts. His dream was to bring Dolores north and see to it that she got the help she needed. I had no doubt he would be successful in whatever career he pursued. I was confident, also, that he would find the right doctors. But I wondered if Dolores would go along with his plan.