I felt light-headed. “Darryl doesn’t have that kind of money,” I said finally. “Besides, he’s dumb as a post. He doesn’t have the smarts to dream up a project like that, or make it happen.”
Dolores scoffed so loud she startled a night heron nesting halfway up a tree about thirty feet away.
“Aw, shucks,” Dolores called over to the heron, “I ain’t going to hurt you. Now just settle down on yer ol’ eggs and stop your frettin’.”
I looked over toward the mama night heron, my eyes searching until I saw the familiar shape of its beak and the markings on its little head. They were odd-looking birds on account of their yellow eyes with red irises. Plus, they didn’t sing. Instead, they made a sound like the cranky old crows that used to raid Mama’s sunflower garden the minute we turned our backs.
“Your Darryl has got hisself help—people from up north will be paying for it.”
“He’s not ‘my’ Darryl.”
“You were married to the idiot for a few years. I thought you could try to talk some sense into him. Besides, who loves this here river more than you do?”
Well, that was true. I was known for bringing all kinds of swamp and river critters home with me, which Mama, amazingly, tolerated. After a while, folks around the county had gotten to recognize I had a special talent with turtles. After I rescued an Everglades snapping turtle the size of a truck tire from the middle of U.S. 41, folks started calling me the Turtle Lady. From then on, people brought turtles to me that needed help. Three of them stayed on as pets—Norma Jean, Myrtle, and Castro.
I looked again at the mama heron. A heron nest was a messy-looking pile of sticks, and I remembered, with a flush of shame, that years before I had made fun of one when I’d been out for a walk with Mama in these very swamps. She’d said to me, “Now, it may not look like much to you but no doubt it is perfectly suited to the heron. The heron knows what it’s doing, rest assured.”
Dolores followed my gaze. “Huh, she’s giving you the stink eye,” she said of the heron. “She don’t like being stared at, especially by a stranger.”
This seemed a surprising side of Dolores. It didn’t fit with her reputation. It was hard to imagine tenderness of any kind in her heart, but then again, she had raised Robbie-Lee and he was the nicest man I ever met. Go figure.
“Dolores,” I said, trying to get back to the problem at hand. “What do you expect me to do about it? About Darryl, I mean?”
“Don’t you go rushing me, girl,” Dolores snapped. Her raised voice was met with two sharp squawks, like warning shots, from the heron.
“Aw, will you just stop worrying yourself to death?” Dolores called to the bird. “Do you think I’m going to cook you for my supper? If I was going to do that, I’d have done it already.”
“Dolores, look, I want to help, but I don’t know if I can stop Darryl,” I said. “I’m just one person, and I haven’t even lived here the past year, and—”
She hurled her whittling to the ground and jumped up with clenched fists, her arms flailing like a toddler having a tantrum. For a split second I thought she might run straight for me and strangle the life out of me, so I stepped backward, tripping over my suitcase and landing on my rear end. The heron, apparently unhappy with the commotion, burst from its nest, wings a-flapping, in what struck me as an almost-perfect imitation of Dolores.
“You can’t let him do this!” Dolores screamed. Half sprawled in the sand, I felt like a turtle that finds itself upside down. I heard the sound of fast-moving footsteps heading away from me—thank you, Jesus. A door slammed, and I felt momentarily relieved. She’d gone inside.
Then it dawned on me that I was in a fine pickle. Soon it would be dark in the swamp, and I wasn’t about to walk back to the Tamiami Trail with no flashlight or torch. Moonbeams had a way of illuminating sandy paths that weren’t visible during the daytime, making it easy to get confused—and lost—at night.
I’d been so eager to talk to Dolores I’d scurried right over to see her, right off the bus. I guess I thought she’d invite me inside and we’d talk. It hadn’t occurred to me that we’d have a big fuss and she’d leave me outside all night.
The fall had knocked the wind out of my lungs. I spent several long moments just looking around me. Dolores had made some improvements to the fishing shack since her son had left home. The front door, if you could call it that, had been painted shocking pink. A hand-carved sign, stuck in the ground and tilting wildly like a forgotten grave-marker, read Home Sweet Home. Off to the right, brush had been cleared away from the outhouse which now featured the words “Powder Room” painted in a girlish script.
But the ’Glades were coming alive with evening sounds. I soon decided that gators, snakes, and panthers were, in fact, scarier than Dolores—although frankly I wasn’t 100 percent sure. I struggled back to my feet and edged my way carefully along the dock toward the shack, which sat like a little island on rough-hewn pilings. As I knocked, I ducked to one side, just in case she answered with a shotgun blast.
When she didn’t respond, I called out, hoping she could hear me. “Dolores, you know I can’t stay out here all night. I need to borrow a flashlight.”
Nothing. Quiet as a grave.
I tried again. “Dolores, what would Robbie-Lee say if he knew you weren’t looking after me?”
The latch clicked and the door swung open.
“Don’t you go saying my son’s name,” Dolores said. “He ain’t here anyway. He up and left me. Went to New York City.”
“He’ll be back,” I said gently. “He’s young, and just wanted to see a little more of the world. Just like I did.”
“See the world,” she harrumphed. “I guess the ’Glades ain’t good enough for the likes of you, or him.” She paused. “Why would anyone in his right mind go to New York City?”
I couldn’t argue with her on that point. Mississippi wasn’t exactly a stone’s throw away, but at least it was the South.
I noticed she had a drink in her hand. I wasn’t sure if this was a good sign or not. “You must hear from him—right? Does he send letters? He should be sending letters,” I said, taking her side.
“Yes, he writes me letters but he doesn’t tell me much of anything. Says a whole lot of nothing in them letters. Just things about pretty parks and big, tall buildings.” Suddenly, she brightened. “He saw Liz Taylor outside some theater on Broadway.”
“Really?” I asked, forgetting my problems. “Robbie-Lee saw Elizabeth Taylor in person?”
“Yes, he did,” Dolores replied proudly. “She was going to see a play, and he said he was maybe ten feet from her, with him working in the theater and all.”
“Well, ain’t that something?” I said. “Was she just as purty in person? Did he say in the letter?”
“Oh, purtier!” Dolores replied, as certain as if she’d been there herself. “Can you imagine seeing a Hollywood person like Elizabeth Taylor in the flesh?”
“She was my mama’s favorite movie star,” I said softly.
“Mine, too,” Dolores said wistfully. “Ever since I saw her in Father of the Bride.”
Now I was really seeing another side of Dolores Simpson. I had trouble imagining Dolores in a movie theater at all, let alone watching such a sweet and charming movie. Of course, that film had come out fourteen years ago, in 1950, and it made me wonder what Dolores must have been like when she was younger. Then I had a memory of Mama, talking about forgiveness and how hard it was for her to get past the fact that Elizabeth Taylor stole someone else’s husband. My mind was a thousand miles away when suddenly I realized Dolores was peering at me as if she’d never really seen me before. All this talk about Elizabeth Taylor had altered the air we were breathing.
“Come in,” she said finally.
• • •
THE NEXT MORNING I WOKE up on an ancient horse-hair couch that smelled like spilled beer, stale cigarettes, and low tide. An old metal spring was poking into my back.
She had left me a note, written in pen
cil in all capital letters. THIS HERE CORNBREAD IS FOR YOU. TAKE IT AND EAT. TAKE A COKE, TOO. SORRY IT BE WARM. COME BACK AFTER YOU’VE TALKED TO DARRYL.
Talk to Darryl? Oh Lord, in my disoriented state, I’d almost forgotten. Honestly, I’d rather have met the devil before daylight but I had agreed the night before that this was the next step. If it was true that he was going to pave over this part of the ’Glades, I needed to hear it from the horse’s mouth. And give him a piece of my mind.
And find out where he got the money to pull off such an idea.
And find a way to stop it. Or at least, keep it from happening right here.
I washed down the cornbread with Coke and was revived enough to start walking back to the Trail. I noticed, as I left, that the mama night heron was using the Home Sweet Home sign for a perch. She stared at me warily as I walked past. I was tempted to say howdy but thought better of it. Poor thing had been through our ruckus the night before. As Mama used to say, “When it comes to Nature, leave it be.”
The thick smell of the ’Glades made me feel drugged or a little feverish. I wasn’t used to the overwhelming clash of plant life anymore, some of it quite stinky in its own right but bunched together, almost nauseating. Mixed in was a vague scent of decay, helped along by humidity that was almost indescribable, though a high-school friend had come close when he said it felt like being caught in a downpour, only it was raining up. On particularly hot days, Jackie, in her wry Northern way, would say, “How refreshing! Essence of Swamp!” which was funny but always made me feel inferior. However, having been away for a year, I could see her point.
As I marched along, I tried to picture my friend Robbie-Lee making this same trek day after day for years, just to get to school or the library or anywhere. And I wondered how in the world he had survived growing up with Dolores as his mother.
After disturbing several snakes along the way, I finally reached the Trail where, mercifully, I got a ride from a truck driver heading south to Everglades City. I guess I was a pathetic sight, walking down the side of the road with a suitcase in my hand. I offered him a dollar when he dropped me off by the Esso station, but he wouldn’t take it. Told me I’d better take good care of myself, and that’s when I realized that I must’ve looked like death warmed over in a saucepan. I didn’t want anyone else to see me like that. Pride is a sin and so is vanity, but who wants to return to her hometown looking like a wilted orchid?
It was still early, and Naples was not fully stirring. I walked quick as I could, hoping I wouldn’t run into anyone. It was already hot as Hades, and I had to catch my breath twice. While I was confident that Judd Hart, Jackie’s teenage son, had been taking good care of my pet turtles, I was eager to see them. I managed to half run the last hundred yards to my little cottage with my little suitcase bumping against my thigh at every step.
I opened the gate and stepped into the yard. Nothing stirred, so I whistled and stayed still. I whistled a second time and heard some rustling. Slowly, they came out from their hiding places, their heads poking out, curious. And then they lumbered toward me, picking up speed, with Norma Jean, always the boss, in the lead. When they got close they stopped short. They didn’t have the greatest eyesight in the world but as soon as they heard my voice they knew it was me.
I wanted to spend the next hour right there in the front yard but I had to go inside and pull myself together. Happily, the cottage did not need airing out. Judd had clearly been following my instructions.
I unpacked my suitcase and showered. Only then did I allow myself to settle into Mama’s favorite chair. How I missed her. In the year I had spent away I had often imagined sitting in her chair and feeling comforted, and I did. But I also felt a deep stab of sadness.
I was born right here in this little cottage. There wasn’t a nickel to spare for a doctor, not that there was usually one available, especially with the Depression going on. Thankfully, Mama had been trained as a nurse and so she birthed me herself.
Mama used to say that at least Daddy left us with a roof over our heads. Not that it was much of a roof. Every time we had a hurricane it leaked in a new and mysterious way, and Mama and I would spend the duration of the storm moving mop buckets from place to place until we were too tired to care. The year I turned fifteen, Mama finally had enough money set aside from her part-time nursing jobs to have it fixed proper.
When I married Darryl, a local boy I’d known since childhood, we set up housekeeping all the way up in Ocala. I wasn’t happy about it, but Darryl had landed a good construction job. Before long Mama took sick, and I began spending more time with her in Naples than with Darryl in Ocala.
That’s when I found out that Darryl had a mean streak. He didn’t like me being away from him, even for a good reason. The sicker Mama got, the more petty and irritated Darryl became. Later, I spent a lot of time trying to decide if he’d changed overnight or if he’d always been that way and I had failed to notice.
Mama and I both thought she had glade fever and it would pass once the weather turned. But even when the rains ended, she was still feeling puny. I knew things were bad when she gave up all her part-time nursing jobs, one by one, including her favorite, her twice-daily visit to check on Miss Maude Mobley, who was ninety-three and lived alone. Miss Mobley had outlived all her friends and kin. She didn’t need to be in a state home; she just needed someone like Mama to make sure she was taking her liver pills and eating proper. Mama wouldn’t rest easy until I went to Miss Mobley’s church and asked the preacher to find someone to take Mama’s place.
Not that anyone could take Mama’s place. I always knew that was the case, but imagining and living it are two different things. Her final decline happened sooner than I expected. Without telling me, Mama slipped out one morning while I was shopping at the Winn-Dixie. She took the bus to Fort Myers, where she saw a blood doctor. When she came home, she told me she had cancer and they couldn’t fix it. Two weeks after Mama saw the doctor in Fort Myers, she crossed over to the Spirit World in her sleep.
After the burial, I went up to Ocala, packed up my things, and came home. Now it was just me at the little cottage on the Gulf. Me and my turtles.
Returning home to Naples as a divorced woman was even harder than I thought it would be. People I’d known my whole life—even old pals from school—avoided me. I got a job at the post office and was thankful for it, but on the days I was assigned to counter duty I found myself having to make small talk with people who looked down on me. If not for Jackie Hart and her book club, I’d have remained friendless.
These memories were exhausting, and I was tempted to let myself fall asleep in Mama’s chair. The deep, soft cushions still smelled of her.
But my mind was too restless. Part of me wanted to handle Darryl on my own to show everyone that little Dora Witherspoon was more independent and confident than she used to be. This was plain foolishness, however, and I could practically feel Mama glaring down at me from the Other Side. Mama would have said there was no shame in asking for help, in which case I had only one place to turn: my old book club. If anyone could stop Darryl, it was the members of the Collier County Women’s Literary Society. Especially, an outspoken woman from Boston named Jackie Hart.
Four
Dolores Simpson sat on the dock that led to her fishing shack and wondered how she’d ended up here, alone, on the edge of the ’Glades with no one to talk to except a nervous night heron. Nothing in her life had gone right. She wasn’t even sure who she was anymore. Truth be told, she wasn’t even Dolores Simpson.
Her real name was Bunny Ann McIntyre. She always wondered what her mama had been thinking when she wrote those words in the family Bible. Of course, when she became a grown girl and was working as a stripper (she preferred “fan dancer”) in Tampa, Bunny was a perfectly suitable name. At least she didn’t have to come up with something new and catchy like all the other girls. The funny thing was, girls named Mary, Elizabeth, and Susan who became Safire, Sugar, or Bubbles were annoyed that
she was, in fact, an actual Bunny. Why this bothered them was a mystery to her, but then women in general had always seemed more complicated than men.
When she fled from that life and moved back to the Everglades, she wanted a new name to go with a new life. On the bus heading south from Hillsborough County, a lady in a tailored navy suit left a magazine on the seat next to her. Dolores picked it up and flipped to a random page where she began reading about a woman named Dolores Simpson who owned a six-bedroom home, an Olympic-sized swimming pool, a maid, and even a Lincoln Continental. And she hadn’t done it by marrying some man. No, according to the story, she had started her own business. She was even quoted as saying she didn’t need a man in her life. Incredible! How she wished she could be that woman, and if she couldn’t, well, at least she could borrow her name.
Good-bye, “Bunny.” Hello, “Dolores.”
But a lot of good it had done her.
She spat a stream of tobacco juice, taking care not to hit the pink bougainvillea that Robbie-Lee had planted at the foot of the dock. Dolores had learned the hard way that bougainvillea, which was generally quite hardy, would shrivel up and die if it had an unlucky encounter with tobacco spit. While she wasn’t partial to flowers, Dolores couldn’t see the sense in ruining a perfectly good plant. Besides, Robbie-Lee was fond of it, and she wanted it to be here looking purty when he came back.
If he came back.
“Oooh, my son is gone. Gone to see the world,” she moaned softly. Adding, “Fool. Dang fool.”
She wished she could direct that nasty stream of tobacco juice right at the feet of the folks who had created her problems. First was Jackie Hart, that trouble-making redhead from Boston. Robbie-Lee had been doing just fine until Jackie came along. The boy had a promising future which he now had thrown away. He’d managed to get hisself the rarest kind of job, one in which he didn’t get his hands dirty. As the sole employee for Sears, Roebuck & Company in Collier County, he’d helped folks place their orders from the catalog. It didn’t matter that the Sears Center where he worked was the size of an ice cream stand. He wore nice clothes to work and he wasn’t going to age overnight the way most of the menfolk in Collier did, either from the fishing industry or farming melons and sugarcane.
Miss Dreamsville and the Lost Heiress of Collier County Page 2
