Miss Dreamsville and the Lost Heiress of Collier County

by Amy Hill Hearth

  Now if there is one thing I hate, it’s being ambushed. I had been planning on telling them in my own good time.

  “Jackie, must you always put Dora on the spot?” Plain Jane scolded.

  “Oh, it’s all right,” I said, sighing. “I guess now’s as good a time as any. Especially since—as I keep telling y’all—I have to go back soon.”

  “Well, maybe you could start by telling us what Jackson, Mississippi, is like,” Jackie prompted. “They certainly have been in the national news, lately—”

  “Yes,” I said, “that poor man, Medgar Evers! That was two months before I arrived in Jackson. The Klan is crazy there. I mean, killing a leader of the NAACP! In his own front yard. Right out in the open!”

  “Did you see any protests, or altercations, or anything of that sort?” Plain Jane asked.

  “You can’t help but encounter some of it,” I replied.

  “But what’s it like to be there—in the city, I mean?” Jackie persisted.

  “Well, it’s hard to describe, but there’s a feeling like there’s not enough air to breathe,” I said, struggling to find the right words. “I guess it’s like—well, like when a big summer storm is rolling in from the Gulf and you can see the lightning strikes on the horizon. The air is so ripe with electricity and humidity that it makes you shiver even though it’s hot. Well, that’s what Jackson feels like to me these days. Especially since those three civil rights workers were murdered in June in that little city over in Neshoba County.”

  “You mean the city they call Philadelphia, of all things,” Jackie said.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Well, I guess that’s the difference between Mississippi and here,” Plain Jane said. “Florida is still waking up.”

  “Actually, I think we are in the land of Rip Van Winkle,” Jackie said sarcastically. “In twenty years’ time we’ll wake up and discover that the civil rights movement has arrived here.”

  “Maybe not!” I said. “I mean, maybe sooner than that. I can’t believe I forgot to tell you about the speaker I heard over at the Methodist church. I wish you all had been there. She was from some place in Ohio. An activist, I guess. She said we were ten years behind Mississippi, Alabama, and Georgia.”

  “No surprise there,” Jackie said.

  “But don’t you see?” I asked. “A year ago that lady activist from Ohio wouldn’t have been invited to speak here. She was right here in Naples at one of the Methodist churches. Isn’t that progress?”

  “Yes, I suppose it is,” said Jackie. I must have looked skeptical because she added, “I mean it seriously. I agree with you, Dora.”

  “I think Florida is more genteel,” Mrs. Bailey White said. “Yes, we have the Klan, but they’re just a bunch of idiots running around in the bushes setting churches on fire. Things like the Medgar Evers assassination—that doesn’t happen in Florida.”

  “Oh, yes it does!” Jackie said. “What about that man, Harry Moore, and his wife? The Klan put dynamite under their house and killed them on Christmas Day back in 1951 in some little town in Brevard County.”

  “Why, Jackie, you’ve been doing your homework,” Plain Jane said admiringly.

  “Well, there is some information at the library,” Jackie said. “But Ted’s been doing research when he’s been traveling around the state. He even went to the NAACP office in Tampa and picked up some pamphlets there.”

  “Y’all are going to get yourselves shot!” Mrs. Bailey White said. “Mercy!”

  “Well, Ted and I feel that we should try to understand what is happening, and the only way you can know that is to study the situation,” Jackie said.

  “Oh boy,” Plain Jane remarked under her breath.

  “What is that supposed to mean, Jane?” Jackie seemed surprised.

  “It means that you’re a typical Yankee,” Mrs. Bailey White said. “You think you can solve every problem by studying it to death and asking questions. Ha, ha, ha.”

  “Let’s get back to Dora and her stay in Mississippi,” Jackie snapped. “Did you ever feel like you were in danger?”

  “In danger of what?” I asked, taken aback. “It’s the black people who are in danger. Plus, the few white people who are trying to help them.”

  “So you didn’t try to help the black people?” Jackie asked. She seemed disappointed.

  “How?” I asked. “I’m from Florida. I don’t understand Mississippi. I don’t think I should presume to tell them how to fix their problems. I might have made things worse.”

  “But you might have made things better,” Jackie said softly.

  Mrs. Bailey White spoke up again. “Now, don’t admonish Dora. That’s not why she went to Mississippi. She is still grieving her mama’s death and went there to look for her people. She did her part. Besides, it ain’t Dora’s job to fix the world!”

  “Well!” Jackie said furiously. “That’s so . . . Southern! Mind your own business, pass the buck . . .”

  “Jackie,” I said grimly, “I’m doing my part in my own way. For instance, every Tuesday my landlady Mrs. Conroy and I cook dinner for the black leaders.”

  “What?” Jackie said. “What do you mean?”

  I wondered how much I should share with them, even though they were my closest friends. I remembered that old World War Two saying “Loose lips sink ships.” “Well,” I began slowly, “y’all have to promise me that this doesn’t go beyond this room. But there is concern that someone may try to, er, harm the leaders, like the Rev. Martin Luther King when he comes to town.”

  Jackie quickly put two and two together. “You mean poison?” she asked, aghast.

  “Sure,” I said, “among other ways. I don’t know what they have in place to protect him from being shot or anything like that. I’m sure there must be bodyguards. But somebody figured out that the food he and the other leaders eat could be tampered with. So the way it works is there’s a very small group of people like me and Mrs. Conroy who volunteer to cook at home using ingredients we buy or grow. This is all very hush-hush, of course. We prepare the food and pretend we’re taking it to Mrs. Conroy’s church for potluck night. But instead the food is picked up by a Negro janitor at Mrs. Conroy’s church. He gives it that same day to his colored preacher, who takes it directly to the colored side of town himself.”

  “My goodness!” Jackie said, “who dreamed this up?”

  “I have no idea,” I replied.

  “Wait—Mrs. Conroy is involved? Isn’t that the same lady you said was nervous as a rat terrier?” Plain Jane asked.

  “Well, she is,” I said, blushing a little at my unkind characterization. “She also has a heart of gold. And she belongs to one of the white churches that is trying to help the Negroes.”

  “Never mind all that, have you actually met Dr. King?” Jackie asked, wide-eyed.

  “No,” I said. “But I know I helped feed him whenever he was in Jackson.”

  “Oh, Dora, I am so proud of you,” Mrs. Bailey White gushed.

  “What else did you do?” Plain Jane asked.

  I paused and thought about it. “I noticed in Jackson that I hadn’t seen any groups like our book club—you know, white people who welcomed a black person to join,” I said. “I don’t see that kind of socializing go on between the races there at all. So every time I meet a new person in Jackson, I find a way to tell them all about our Priscilla and how smart she is, that we were in a book club together and now she’s studying at Bethune-Cookman College.”

  “How is that supposed to change things?” Jackie asked.

  “Are you kidding? That’s the best way to make change happen!” Plain Jane cried. “By pointing out that she is friends with a black person, and that the black person is someone she likes and admires!”

  “Oh, brother,” Jackie said. “If that’s progress, it’ll only take a hundred years.”

  • • •

  THERE WAS ENOUGH TENSION IN the air to fry a rabbit so we went to our separate corners. Mrs. Bailey White made s
ome kind of excuse and disappeared into her kitchen, where she puttered about doing this and that; Plain Jane attended to the baby (we could hear her cooing, her voice echoing in high pitches down the staircase); Jackie went outside to clean the windshield of her car and have a smoke; and I went into Mrs. Bailey White’s paneled library. Studying her books, taking them down one by one, was soothing. What is it about books? They are like old friends.

  About an hour later, Mrs. Bailey White rounded us up like she was Mother Goose and we, her little goslings. She asked that we return to the parlor. Once there, she announced, “Now, girls, let’s focus on Dora, and what she learned about her family, if anything, on her trip.” To me, she said kindly, “Take your time, dear.”

  I cleared my throat. “Well,” I began slowly, “as you know, I always wondered why I was named after a well-known writer from Mississippi, and figured Mama may have been friends with Eudora Welty, or maybe even kinfolk. Or maybe Mama had just been an admirer. But I realized that the first thing I should do is read all of her books. Miss Welty’s, I mean. I read The Robber Bridegroom on the bus on the way to Mississippi. Once I got settled I read everything I could get my hands on. And frankly it made me a little uneasy. Because Miss Welty’s writing is a little off-putting at times. Intimidating.”

  “Well, that one is especially eerie,” Plain Jane interjected. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

  “So anyway I read them all,” I continued, “just because I thought it would be rude not to. I mean, who goes to visit a famous writer and hasn’t read her books? I wasn’t even sure I would get to talk to her, but it seemed respectful to be prepared.

  “All this time I was working up my nerve. Finally, I decided that I was being a ninny. What was the worst thing that could happen? That she would turn me away? Everyone in town knew where she lived, so I went over there on the bus and walked back and forth on the sidewalk trying to work up my nerve. Then I realized Mama would not approve of me, a complete stranger, just knocking on Miss Welty’s door. So I went back to Mrs. Conroy’s and wrote a letter. I told Miss Welty that I was living in town temporarily to find out more about my late mother, whose name was Callie Francine Atwater of the Jackson Atwaters, and that Callie had married a man named Montgomery Witherspoon, known to all as Monty, and that I was their only child. And that I wouldn’t be bothering her—with her being an important writer and all—except I believed she may have known my mother at one time, and that in fact my name is Eudora Welty Witherspoon and while it could be a coincidence it seems highly unlikely in my most humble opinion. So I wrote this in a letter. And I mailed it.

  “Of course, I hoped (and truth be told, prayed) that I would hear back from her if for no other reason than to clear up the mystery of my name. Three days later I received a letter. When I came home from my job at the library, Mrs. Conroy was standing on the porch waiting for me. The mailman had just been there. I’m still amazed Mrs. Conroy didn’t steam it open because she can be nosy as a raccoon and not half as subtle, bless her heart.

  “I went upstairs to open it. It was an invitation from Miss Welty to visit her at her home the following Sunday afternoon at three o’clock. That was all. Just a handwritten note, one sentence long.

  “I was relieved and happy that she’d replied but as the days passed—slow as molasses, it seemed to me—I started dreading what she might tell me. I’m not sure why. I was prepared for her to say almost anything.

  “Finally, Sunday arrived, and after church and Sunday dinner with Mrs. Conroy, it was time to go. I was so scared I’d be late that I got to Miss Welty’s neighborhood a half-hour early. At five minutes till three, I knocked on her door. She answered herself. She’s a plain little thing, but the type of person who has presence.

  “ ‘Do you mind if we sit in the garden?’ she asked me. ‘My mother is upstairs and feeling very poorly today.’

  “And of course I said I was sorry to hear that, but the garden would be fine. So we sat in her garden—oh, what a garden!—and—”

  “Wait—she has a lovely garden?” Mrs. Bailey White interrupted. Mrs. Bailey White had what Mama used to call “garden envy.” Some folks have kitchen envy, some have porch envy. Mrs. Bailey White salivated over lush flower gardens.

  “Let’s not talk about that now—” Jackie said.

  “Does she have climbing roses?” Mrs. Bailey White persisted. “I just love climbing roses.”

  “Why, yes, Mrs. Bailey White, she does! She has Lady Banks, American Beauty, Mermaid, and some others I didn’t recognize.”

  “Oh, I wish I could see it!” Mrs. Bailey White said plaintively.

  “Mrs. Bailey White, we all love gardens,” Plain Jane said gently, “but let’s let Dora get back to her story.”

  “Well,” I continued, “we talked about her books until finally she broached the subject by saying, ‘I was sad to learn from your letter that your mother has died. ’

  “Well, it all came tumbling out of her—this story from before I was born. Mama and Miss Welty had been friends in school, with both pledging they would remain independent, unmarried and childless, and pursue careers as writers.

  “I never saw Mama write anything more than a grocery list. But Miss Welty said Mama had been a ‘grand writer’ with ‘a lot of promise.’ Then she said with a smile that Mama had been a ‘great beauty’ who ‘had everything a person could dream of.’

  “She went on to say that Mama was ‘the belle of the ball,’ from a rich family, and then one day she turned everything upside-down: She ran away on the day of her wedding in 1931.”

  “She what?” Mrs. Bailey White shrieked.

  “She left her betrothed at the altar. And she took off with my daddy instead.” It was hard to push those words out of my mouth. But I did.

  “How exciting!” Jackie declared, and lit another cigarette.

  “Good heavens, Dora,” Plain Jane said sympathetically. “That’s a lot to think about.”

  “Well, I had no idea that Mama was ever engaged to someone other than Daddy. She always seemed like such a sensible person. I couldn’t imagine her leaving a man at the altar, abandoning her family and friends, and disappearing. That’s not the woman I knew my whole life.”

  “I’m sorry, Dora,” Jackie said, furrowing her brow. “I didn’t mean to make light of it.”

  “Did Miss Welty tell you anything else?” Plain Jane asked gently.

  “Well, I asked if she was there when Mama . . . well, when all that happened at the church, and she said, no, she missed the whole drama on account of it happened at the same time her daddy took sick and died from leukemia.”

  “Oh, that’s sad,” Mrs. Bailey White said. “What else did she say?”

  “Well, I asked her, ‘Are Mama’s parents still living?’ and ‘Did Mama have any brothers or sisters?’

  “Her answer, to both, was no. And I have to tell you, I was very disappointed. Somehow I had pictured Mama having a brother or sister. I would have loved having an aunt or uncle, or cousins. And another thing—Miss Welty was surprised to hear that Mama remained a nurse. She said, ‘I thought she was doing that just because her parents told her not to. I didn’t realize she stayed with it. Maybe it was her true calling.’ And then Miss Welty looked straight at me and with no warning at all, she said, ‘Well, Miss Witherspoon, what is your calling?’

  “And that’s when I told her about you—the Book Club, I mean—and how y’all have told me that you think I have a knack for storytelling. And while I didn’t know if I had what it takes to make a living as a writer, I had been trying my hand at it.”

  “Did she read anything you wrote?” Jackie interrupted.

  “Why, yes, she did,” I said. “She asked me to come back a week later and bring something I’d written.”

  “Wow,” Jackie said, “and then what happened?”

  “Oh, let Dora tell the story!” Plain Jane said.

  “That’s right,” Mrs. Bailey White said. “Just let her tell it.”

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sp; They all stared at me with excitement.

  “Well,” I said slowly, “I brought her a short story and she read it.”

  “But what did she say?” Jackie persisted.

  “Do you want the truth?” I asked.

  “Of course we want the truth,” Jackie said uneasily.

  I thought it best to blurt it out. “She said it wasn’t authentic.”

  “Authentic?!” Mrs. Bailey White cried out. “What is that supposed to mean?”

  My friends looked wounded, as indeed I had been at the time, until I admitted a simple truth to myself: Miss Welty was right.

  “What it means is that I was trying too hard to write about something I didn’t know anything about.”

  “Well, what did you write about?” Plain Jane asked.

  “A short story about a girl who has a love affair in Paris,” I replied.

  “But you’ve never been to Paris,” Jackie said, stating the obvious.

  “Miss Welty said the same thing,” I said. “She said it’s possible to write about a place you’ve never been but you shouldn’t ‘undervalue’ your own experiences. She said something about Paris being overdone.”

  “I don’t see how Paris could ever be overdone,” Jackie said.

  “I think she meant, written about too often, when there are other places that no one ever seems to write about,” I said. “She said that if I wrote about a love affair in Paris, maybe, at least, one of the characters could be visiting from Collier County, just to make it fresh.”

  “Ah, I see,” Plain Jane said approvingly.

  “This will sound funny,” I added. “On my way back to my landlady’s house a phrase kept popping into my head. I don’t know where it came from. Maybe from Mama in the Spirit World. It was, Listen to your own stories.”