Miss Dreamsville and the Lost Heiress of Collier County (25 page)

“Call me Miss Alice,” she said warmly. Aware that we were creating a small disruption, and that we had definitely abused the silence-only rule, we agreed to duck outside for a little stroll. My lunch hour had elapsed, but Mrs. LaCroix nodded her approval and smiled encouragingly.

The sidewalk was sun dappled and welcoming but too crowded with children walking home from school to hold a private conversation. I did not want to miss a word. Miss Alice gestured to a side street that was blessedly empty of activity except for a small dog sniffing at the base of a magnolia tree. We found a little bench where we could talk quietly.

“Your mama wanted to be just like us,” Miss Alice said.

“Like who?” I asked.

Miss Alice surprised me by chuckling. “Like down-to-earth folks. Ordinary people who didn't put on airs. She and I met over at the Salvation Army. The only difference was, she was a volunteer and I was a client. But we were the same age and we became friends. She confided in me. When she asked me to be her only bridesmaid, I didn't know what to do. I couldn't afford the dress. But she said, ‘Don't worry about it, I'll pay for it.' Then I started worrying that maybe her parents wouldn't want me in the wedding. It was during the Depression, but your grandpa
was still a wealthy man or at least that's the impression he gave. And your grandma was active in the Episcopal Church, which is for upper-class folk, you know. But your mama said, ‘Oh, don't worry. It's my wedding, and I want you in it.' ”

“Did you know that Mama was going to run off with someone else?” The words were painful to say.

“I knew she was in love with someone else but I wasn't privy to her plans,” Miss Alice said tactfully. “Or maybe there were no plans. Maybe she just up and did it.”

I was having a hard time picturing Mama being so impulsive, and Miss Alice read my mind. “She was young,” she said. “We were all very young. People do things they'd never do when they're older. And sometimes it's impossible to look back and understand.

“What your mama really wanted,” she added, “was to be just plain folk. She didn't want nothin' to do with the highfalutin family she was born into. She even learned to talk like me. And she surely didn't want to marry that fellow from Louisiana. That wasn't her dream. Her dream was to be a nurse among the downtrodden. She was going to give up all her fancy airs. And then somehow—maybe at the Salvation Army—she ran into your daddy, Montgomery Witherspoon. Oh, he was a bad boy. Had been in jail and everything. But I think she saw in him a way for all of her dreams to come true: A simple life. Helping others.” She thought for a moment and added, “He was her way out.”

“Daddy had been in
jail
?” I choked on the word.

“Yes'm, but I don't know what for. Nothing too terrible or I'd remember that. Where is he, do you know?”

“No,” I said, “I don't know what happened to him. All I know is Mama said there was a big fuss when I was a baby, and Daddy up and left. I believe he's dead. When I was growing up, Mama
gave folks the impression she was a widow but come to think of it, I never actually heard her use that word. Maybe implying that he was dead was her way of keeping up appearances. It's a lot easier to be a widow than a divorcée in this world, that's for sure. Anyway, whatever happened between them didn't end well. I always had the feeling she was embarrassed by him, or something he'd done.”

“Maybe he was prone to drinkin',” Miss Alice said sympathetically. “Lots of menfolk are.”

“Miss Alice,” I said, desperate to put more pieces together. “Have you been watching me? Or is it a coincidence that you come to the library all the time? How did you know who I am?”

She smiled a little mischievously. “A little bird told me that a gal calling herself Eudora Welty Witherspoon was in town, and that her mama had been Miss Callie Atwater. And I thought,
Now that's mighty peculiar
. I thought maybe the Lord hisself wants me to find out what this is all about. Maybe to help you in some way since your mama and I were friends back in the day.”

“But how—”

“Child, Jackson may seem like a big city to you but it's a small town at heart. My mother took a Bible study class with your landlady, Mrs. Conroy. And one day Mrs. Conroy mentioned she had a gal staying with her, and she said your name and that you were working at the library. My mother told me, and that's all I needed to know.”

“Well, I am grateful to you,” I said. “I thank you for telling me what you know.”

It was the wrong thing to say. She looked away, and a deep uneasiness swept through me.

“There's something else,” she said finally. When she glanced back at me, her smile was gone and her face sagged, making her
look much older. “What your mama really wanted most was a child, but I was pretty sure she couldn't have one.” She looked at me closely, as if studying my features, then said, “Maybe I shouldn't be telling you all this, but it seems wrong that you don't know. The fact is your mama had some kind of fever that almost killed her when she was, oh, maybe sixteen. And after that, she was told she'd never be able to have children.”

“So you're saying I was a surprise?” I said, but the second the words left my lips I realized she meant something else entirely. “Do you think . . . ? Are you saying—?”

“—that you might have been adopted?” Miss Alice said softly. “Could be.” She paused a moment, then added, “Then again, maybe you're some kind of miracle baby.” She tried her best to smile brightly, but I don't think she was convinced. And neither was I.

Finding out that you might be adopted is one thing. Finding out at the age of thirty-two, and from a person you've known for exactly ten minutes, is a tough row to hoe.

“Mama always said I was born in Naples, at home,” I said quietly. “I suppose that might not be true.”

“Well, what does your birth certificate say?”

“I don't have one.”

“Everyone has one.”

“No, Mama said she never got around to registering me. I found that out when I got married. Before we could get the marriage license, Mama had to swear in an affidavit that she was my mama and that I was born at home in Naples.”

“I see,” Miss Alice said.

What she could see, and so could I, was that it might all have been lies. And the worst part was not being able to ask Mama because she was dead. Just ask her; that's all I wanted. I would
have accepted the idea of being adopted, if only she had told me herself.

I told Miss Alice a little about my life, what Naples was like, and about my failed marriage to Darryl. She asked what had led me to come to Jackson to find out about Mama, and I told her about the Collier County Women's Literary Society and how the founder, a newcomer to Naples named Jackie Hart, had encouraged me to get out in the world, ask questions, and experience life. I had known immediately that I should go to Jackson, if for no other reason than to see where Mama had come from. And then I told Miss Alice what Mama's life had been like in Naples, and how she'd gotten sick. And how she died.

Miss Alice listened carefully. “Well,” she said finally, “I'm just glad she had you with her when she got sick.” Then she turned directly to face me. There were tears in her eyes, but she smiled as she added, “I hope you realize that you must have meant the
world
to her, Dora
.
She was truly blessed. And so are you.”

W
e had four days until the hearing at the Collier County Courthouse, and Mrs. Bailey White was beginning to fret. “I do believe that we should provide some new clothes and, um, a little
assistance
with Bunny's appearance for the court date,” she said. “I know from my own experience, during my murder trial, that it's important to look your best.”

I'm sure I flinched and I have little doubt the others did, too. I'd never been able to come to terms with Mrs. Bailey White's past—not fully anyway—but at the same time I was happy for the diversion. Any topic was preferable to the possibility that they would ask more questions about my discoveries in Mississippi.

“As a matter of fact, I'm glad you brought this up, Mrs. Bailey White,” Jackie said, interrupting my thoughts. “I've been sitting here trying to figure out how we're going to get her into town for fingerprinting. Mr. Yonce said it was imperative. And I agree. We need to fix her up for court, if she lets us. Maybe we should, um,
retrieve
her from the, er,
swamp,
get these things done, then
keep her in town—maybe just for one night—so that we can be sure she gets to court.”

“She could stay here the night before,” Mrs. Bailey White said thoughtfully. “I mean, if she's willing to.”

“I have some clothes that might fit,” Plain Jane interjected from across the room. “Or, at least, we can alter them. Maybe we should all ransack our closets and see what we can come up with.”

And so it was agreed, at least by everyone except, of course, Bunny. Jackie even offered to pay for a trip to the hair salon and said she would escort Bunny there if I promised to go along for moral support. But someone had to get Bunny out of Gun Rack Village and into Naples. Jackie still refused to drive in Gun Rack Village, citing wear and tear on the convertible, and I balked at canoeing again. My hands were still sore from paddling Mr. Yonce over there and back. And I didn't feel like going on foot again, either.

I took a chance and left a note for her at the Esso station. I knew that Billy and Marco, the pair of brothers who lived somewhere along the river, were in the habit of stopping by the Esso station almost daily. Bucky, who owned the gas station, was pretty reliable and agreed to give my note to them. Hopefully, the brothers would then deliver it to her.

The note was hard to write. How do you tell someone that she needs to get gussied up for court? That her hair and clothes won't do? That she needed to be fingerprinted at the police department? That we wanted her to stay the night before court at Mrs. Bailey White's house because we didn't want to take any chances that she wouldn't show up?

I kept the note very short. This was one of those “the less
said, the better” moments. If it didn't work, I'd have to hike back there and persuade her to return with me.

•  •  •

TO MY SURPRISE, AT PRECISELY
two o'clock the day before court, Bunny arrived at the Edge of Everglades House of Beauty, just as I'd hoped. Marco and Billy had not only retrieved my note from Bucky and delivered it to her, they had saved her the long hike into town by giving her a ride.

This seemed like a minor miracle to Jackie and me. We'd been nervously waiting at the beauty parlor, flipping randomly through magazines devoted to the latest hairstyles, none of which, to be honest, would look good on anyone we knew. The beauty salon's owner kept a radio tuned to WNOG, “Wonderful Naples on the Gulf.”At one point Jackie turned to me and said, “Oh, for Pete's sake. If I hear that Beatles song ‘I Want to Hold Your Hand' one more time, I might have a stroke and die. My kids play it day and night and I hear it everywhere I go.”

“I like the Beatles,” I said lamely.

“Do you know what Judd said?” Jackie asked. “He said the school principal at the junior high held an assembly and said just two words into the microphone—‘The Beatles'—and two girls screamed.”

“Well, aren't girls everywhere screaming over the Beatles?” I asked.

“That's the point! It means that the cultural phenomenon known as the Beatles has even reached the end of the earth—that is, Naples.”

We didn't even realize that Bunny was standing right in front of us, listening. She must have slipped through the door while
we were having our Beatlemania discussion, which, judging by the look on her face, was all news to her. She sort of nodded and grunted something that might have been “hello.”

The sight of Bunny sent a shock wave through the salon. The other women in the salon stopped talking abruptly. Their heads swiveled in unison. Even the ladies trapped under hair dryers were trying to get a good look.

Jackie was gracious. “So glad you could join us!” Her words of welcome were scarcely said when the owner of the beauty parlor scurried up to us. “What have we here?” she asked, with alarm.

“Of course you meant
whom
do we have here?” Jackie said sweetly. “This is the woman I was telling you about. As I mentioned before, it's my treat.”

The hairdresser looked doubtful.

“I was thinking maybe a bouffant of some sort, though maybe she needs some color first,” Jackie said, taking Bunny's arm and escorting her to the nearest washbasin.

Bunny actually half smiled at the other customers. “I would like a manicure, too,” she announced, and, in one of those peculiar moments of perfect timing, a new Roy Orbison song called “Oh, Pretty Woman” started playing on the radio. To some people, it might have seemed like irony, but to me it was like a little message of love or tip of the hat, meant just for her.

“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.