“Oh, I forgot to make introductions!” Jackie cried out. “Miss Bunny Sanders, please meet Miss Dolores Simpson. Actually, Dolores’s name is Bunny, too, but I keep forgetting to call her that. Shame on me—”
“Bunny?!” The proprietor took a step back. “Bunny?” she repeated. “Her name cannot be Bunny. Apparently you have forgotten, Mrs. Hart, that I am Bunny.”
Jackie looked confused. “Oh,” she said quickly, “two Bunnies! How cute! You know, I never knew anyone in Boston named Bunny but now I know two Bunnies.”
Poor Jackie. She had failed to comprehend that here in the South it is a well-known fact that trouble can ensue when two gals in a small town have the same first name. Southern women are like a bee colony. They just can’t tolerate two queens in one hive.
I cupped my hand and whispered a quick explanation into Jackie’s ear. She looked at me like I had lost my mind. “What are you talking about?” she said a little too loud. “Why can’t there be two Bunnies?”
You could fault men for all kinds of things, but no man, I felt sure, would have a problem with having the same first name as another. Why, I bet you could have a whole room full of Bobs and they’d probably just call themselves Bob 1, Bob 2, Bob 3, and so on. Or they’d just call each other by their last names. But you couldn’t have two Bunnies in the little town of Naples.
For a moment I thought the hairdresser was going to ask us to leave. I could see she was mulling it over, but professional pride or Christian charity got the better of her. “We’ve got us some work to do!” she announced, in what was undoubtedly the understatement of the year. With remarkable speed she shampooed our Bunny’s hair, slapped some goop on it, and led our Bunny to the only available hair dryer, which happened to be right smack in the middle of the row of all the others.
Bunny enjoyed being treated like a pampered swan. She even asked for a copy of Screen Idol magazine. No doubt, I thought, to look for photos of Elizabeth Taylor. Only when the manicurist was ready to do her nails—Bunny chose Petunia Pink—did she let go of the magazine.
As soon as the dryer was finished, Bunny the hairdresser rewashed our Bunny’s hair, cut, and styled it. Jackie started to say something but did not; she was disappointed, I could tell, that her opinion on what she referred to as the coiffure was clearly unwelcome. This was not going as planned but it would have to be good enough. I was thankful when Jackie paid the bill and we could leave.
Bunny’s new hairdo was a stunner: a mile-high tower of teased tresses reminiscent of cotton candy. Holding her hands so that her new manicure would finish drying, our Bunny did something I’m pretty sure she hadn’t done in years: She smiled the type of full-faced grin that reminded me of a teenage girl getting ready for prom.
As we left the shop, however, reality returned. “Bunny,” I said, “I hate to ruin this Kodak moment, because we’re having great fun here. Not to shanghai you or anything but there is something you need to know.”
The smile vanished. “Go on,” she said, jutting out her chin. Jackie, meanwhile, pretended to rummage in her purse for her car keys; by prearrangement, she was to stay silent during this part.
“Well, uh, it looks like it’s got to come out in court that you were, um, arrested a long time ago,” I said. “And it’s actually a good thing because it means we have your fingerprints from when you were using the name Bunny Ann McIntyre. Now we can compare them and prove that you are the same person. And Mr. Yonce says this will be necessary.” I said this so rapidly even I wasn’t sure what I’d just said.
Bunny simply shrugged. “Okay,” she said. “But doesn’t that mean we need to get some fresh fingerprints? We’d better get to it.”
Here I had worried myself sick about this pending conversation, and yet Bunny had taken it in stride. She was definitely a more complex person than I had thought.
We walked to the sheriff’s department, where our attorney Mr. Yonce was waiting for us. It was half past three on the day before court. We were cutting things very close.
With a desk sergeant acting as a witness, a deputy sheriff fingerprinted Bunny. Her only concern was that it had messed up her manicure.
As soon as the prints were dry, Mr. Yonce said they would be examined that night by a fingerprint expert. Our young lawyer certainly seemed to have everything under control, but before we left he whispered to me, “We better hope these are a perfect match. We might win anyway, but this would seal the deal.”
• • •
THERE WAS ONE MORE TASK: figuring out what Bunny was going to wear in court.
Once again, Bunny proved to be a surprisingly good sport. At Mrs. Bailey White’s house we laid out all the possible outfits and let her choose. Jackie had brought a few things from her closet. Plain Jane had purchased some items at a church rummage sale, including gloves and a hat. Mrs. Bailey White offered costume jewelry and shoes. And my contribution was a small makeup kit I bought for half-price during a sale at the Rexall.
There was a risk of offending Bunny, of course, but there was another problem as well. None of us wanted to address the fact that Bunny’s artificially enhanced bustline made her figure completely out of proportion.
Thankfully, Jackie anticipated the problem by creating what one might call a modified muumuu (although she described it as “reminiscent of what Liz Taylor might wear when she is entertaining at home”). Essentially, she had taken one of her own housecoats, added a little elastic here and there, altered the sleeves, and added a patent leather belt. The result was passably good. Bunny tried it on and seemed very pleased.
I had been worried about Bunny’s reaction to the baby but when Plain Jane brought Dream into the room, Bunny sort of half smiled and nodded in Dream’s direction in the way women do when they see a beautiful baby, even one that was the “wrong” color. For all I knew, Bunny might have balked at staying even one night under the same roof with a colored child, but she said nothing. The only thing left was for Bunny to have a good meal, a long hot soak in a bathtub (heaven only knows how long it had been), and a decent night’s sleep in one of the guest rooms of Mrs. Bailey White’s house.
Once Bunny was settled for the night, and Dream had drifted off to sleep, the rest of us convened for a nightcap of rose wine in the parlor. We talked over our plans for the next day when suddenly I blurted out that I had more to tell them about my visit to Jackson “if,” I said, “y’all are in the mood to hear it.”
“Of course we are in the mood to hear it,” Jackie said. “If you feel like telling us now, by all means go ahead.”
“Should I get us some warm milk?” Mrs. Bailey White asked.
“Forget the warm milk,” Jackie said.
“Agreed,” Plain Jane said, adding, “But thank you anyway.”
“Can I just get this over with?” I said. I was tired and my nerves too raggedy to be as polite as I should have been. I took a deep breath while they focused their attention on me. “You know how I told you that I learned from Miss Welty that Mama had run off with Daddy on the day she was to marry someone else?” I said. “Well, there’s more.”
“Be brave, dear, what is it?” Plain Jane asked gently.
“I learned that I was almost certainly adopted,” I said in a whisper, “and I doubt I’ll ever find out what happened.”
“What’d you say?” asked Mrs. Bailey White. “I can’t hear you.”
“She said she found out she was adopted,” Plain Jane said loudly.
“Oh!” Mrs. Bailey White said. “I’m sorry I didn’t hear you, please go on.”
And so I told them the rest of the story, starting with what Miss Welty had said; about my research at the library; the newspaper stories on Mama; and meeting Miss Alice, Mama’s long-ago bridesmaid. I explained how at first I felt like someone had died. I was in shock and grieving like when there’s a tragedy. After that I was angry for a long while. I was so prickly I could have lost my job except my boss, the head librarian, felt sorry for me. For the first time in my life, I cussed of
ten and over the littlest things, like dropping a nickel on the sidewalk and having to bend down to get it. That would just infuriate me. Everything seemed too much, like the world was out to get me in big ways and small. But I also laughed a lot, not because anything was funny but because of the irony of it. I had gone to Jackson to find out about Mama and, oh boy, I’d gotten a lot more information than I had bargained for.
Jackie, Plain Jane, and Mrs. Bailey White were listening carefully. After it was clear I was all talked out, Plain Jane spoke up. “You seem to be doing pretty well with this,” she said gently.
“Well,” I said, “I’ve had a few months to get used to the idea.”
“Dora,” Jackie said sympathetically. “If there’s anything any of us can do—”
“Jackie, you make it sound like someone died,” Plain Jane interrupted.
“Well, Dora herself said it felt like someone died,” Jackie protested. “Oh, Dora, this really is terribly unfair, isn’t it? I hope we will all see the day when people don’t feel they have to be so secretive about adoption. It seems so much worse not to tell a child! I think if I had adopted any of my children I would have told them from the beginning.”
“Well, that’s not what the experts say,” Plain Jane said solemnly. “I was just reading an article about it. It’s better to wait until they’re old enough to understand—or maybe never tell them at all. That’s what it said.”
“That’s crazy,” Jackie snapped. “Look at poor Dora here. I think the way she found out is the worst part.”
“Ladies!” Mrs. Bailey White said. “Let us be thoughtful!” She gestured to me. I was sinking further and deeper into the seat cushions of the ancient sofa.
Plain Jane and Jackie rushed to apologize while Mrs. Bailey White poured me a teeny-tiny brandy and made me drink it. “Now, you listen to me, Miss Dora Witherspoon,” she said firmly. “First, I want to say that you mustn’t spend your life trying to find out more about the past. Some things are just meant to remain a mystery. Second, I don’t know much about adoption but the woman you called ‘Mama’ loved you. She must have, because she raised you right. She’s your real mother. The woman that’s buried over yon in the Cemetery of Hope and Salvation. But since she won’t have a chance to tell her side of this story—well, not until you meet her again in the Spirit World—I think we shouldn’t judge her.”
I reached over and squeezed Mrs. Bailey White’s hand, grateful for her wisdom.
Thirty
The day of the court hearing dawned early for all of us. As agreed, Jackie picked me up at my cottage at six o’clock and we drove straight to Mrs. Bailey White’s.
Jackie was nervous. She was dressed to the nines—still in mourning black but with a few extra flourishes like a heavy gold brooch and matching earrings that I’d never seen before.
“My mother’s,” she said, tugging gently on her earlobes when she saw me staring. “I want to look like I’m richer than I am,” she added with a laugh. “We need to impress the judge.”
I was wearing a light-gray suit with a lavender blouse. At least I had found some shoe polish and improved the appearance of my loafers. Well, if I could never pull off looking glamorous, at least I looked neat and presentable, but I made a silent promise that if I ever had any money to spare I would ask Jackie to take me shopping. Maybe even go to Miami or Palm Beach, though that was really dreaming on my part.
We arrived at the old house to find Mrs. Bailey White fluttering around like a bird that is trapped and trying to find its way out. Upstairs in her crib, Dream was hollering in a certain shrill, hysterical way which meant she wasn’t calming down anytime soon. Plain Jane came down the stairs more quickly than I’d ever seen her move.
Bunny, Plain Jane said, was not in her room. Nor was she in the bathroom, the parlor, the kitchen . . .
It was Jackie who found Bunny sound asleep in a hammock on a screened-in porch on the north side of the house which no one ever used. Bunny woke up when she sensed that we were staring at her.
“What y’all lookin’ at?” she barked. “And what’s all that racket? Oh . . . the baby. Forgot where I was for a moment.” She stretched. “Nice hammock,” she said to Mrs. Bailey White, who collapsed into an ancient wicker chair.
“Oh, I see,” Bunny said, dragging herself out of the hammock. “Y’all thought I ran off. Thought I let you down, huh.” I heard a twinge of resentment in her voice.
“Well, we didn’t know what to think,” said Mrs. Bailey White.
I went upstairs to comfort the baby while Jackie looked after Mrs. Bailey White, who looked a little peaked from all the excitement. Plain Jane, who believed in the adage “If all else fails, there’s always food,” announced that she was going to make pancakes for everyone.
And, of course, it worked. There are times when pancakes are not just pancakes, they are problem solvers. Sitting down together to share a meal is part of it. The other, as Mama used to say, is that a full belly solves most of the troubles of the world.
Plain Jane dearly wanted to go with us to the courthouse but agreed that she would stay home and take care of the baby. That way, Mrs. Bailey White could go. This was a deliberate strategy on our part: Mrs. Bailey White represented old money. People knew who she was—for better or worse—and that her father had been a big somebody way back when.
The new courthouse in East Naples was a short ride away, but Jackie wanted us to be the first to arrive. I’d never been inside and was curious. Until Hurricane Donna clobbered Collier County in 1960, the county seat was in the town of Everglades City, not Naples. Going to court (or conducting any county business) meant a long drive to the south. The courthouse in Everglades City was one of the few buildings that survived, and as the only two-story building in town, many folks rode out the storm there. However, it was badly damaged, the town was a shambles (even more so than Naples), and the powers that be relocated the whole kit and caboodle. We now had a newly constructed county government building on the Tamiami Trail that was—hang onto your hat—air conditioned.
Silently, I wished Priscilla was with us but that was a foolish thought. Even if she’d been home from college, she could hardly have gone with us to the courthouse. She wouldn’t be allowed to sit with us, on account of her being Negro. Ironic, I thought, that they could build a courthouse with all of the modern amenities but the attitudes about race were still a hundred years out of date.
Besides—and this made me flush with shame to think it—having Priscilla with us would hurt our case, despite her talent for making a good impression. There were judges who would rule against us simply because we were seen with a black person.
And so it was just the four of us—Jackie, Mrs. Bailey White, me, and also, of course, Bunny. Our attorney, Mr. Yonce, was to meet us there; he had borrowed a car and was staying at the Naples Beach Club Hotel.
As for Robbie-Lee, we had no idea where he was. Maybe he would arrive on the Trailways bus in time to get himself over to the courthouse. If not, he would miss all the fireworks. But, I thought privately, at least he will be here to help pick up the pieces if we lose.
When we arrived at the courthouse we discovered the building wasn’t open. Fortunately, it wasn’t hideously hot yet. Jackie kept the convertible top up for shade or we would have roasted even at that early hour of the day.
Mrs. Bailey White broke the silence. “I know this is a modern building and all, but frankly I’m nostalgic for the old days when the courthouse was down in Everglades City,” she announced. “Now that was a grand old building, with the columns and all up front. I have many memories—”
“It’s still there,” I interrupted, hoping to derail her from talking about her trial. I’d always wanted to hear all the details, but this was not the time. “They’re going to fix it up and turn it into offices or some kind of museum, I think.”
“Well, that’s good, because that place is filled with rich history,” Mrs. Bailey White said. “Including my trial. Or, I might say, especially my
trial. I was the most famous defendant they ever had, you know. Oh, those were the days.”
Jackie and I glanced at each other. We were sitting up front, with Mrs. Bailey White and Bunny sharing the backseat.
“Oh, yeah,” Bunny said to Mrs. Bailey White cheerfully, as if they were exchanging a recipe for fried catfish. “I do remember hearing about that . . . mess. Back when I was a child.”
“Oh, indeed, a mess it was! I can still hear the jury foreman saying, ‘Guilty on one count of murder.’ They sent me off to Lowell. Never mind that my lawyer said we had a good chance of proving self-defense. But not in Florida, not in my day. Not for a woman.”
“No surprise there,” Bunny said sympathetically. “It was a man’s world. Still is.”
“Yes-siree,” Mrs. Bailey White said.
“Can I ask you a question?” Bunny asked. “How come they didn’t hang you?”
“I suspect it was on account of my coming from an affluent family,” Mrs. Bailey White said. “But I don’t honestly know.”
“Why’d they let you out early?” Bunny persisted.
“Good behavior,” Mrs. Bailey White said.
“This is fascinating, ladies, but I’m a nervous wreck at the moment,” Jackie said irritably. “Let’s focus on today, please. I want to go over the particulars again. Now, remember, this is a hearing. If we’re lucky, we won’t have to go to trial. I mean, if the judge decides in our favor.”
“I sure hope I don’t have to talk,” Bunny said.
“I don’t think we’re supposed to say anything,” Jackie said. “Last night Ted called me long distance from Tallahassee to wish us luck, and he said, ‘Let your lawyer do the talking,’ and I think he’s right. It fits with what Mr. Yonce advised, too. He said that’s what we’re paying him for.”
Miss Dreamsville and the Lost Heiress of Collier County Page 20
