I hope Seminole Joe catches up to him,” Mrs. Bailey White said. We were sitting in her parlor, having skedaddled from Darryl’s construction site for a place to talk things out. Jackie was worn out, collapsed on Mrs. Bailey White’s good sofa after a marathon we eping session that was fueled by pure rage and p eppered with threats and oaths about high-powered Northern lawyers and what they would do to Darryl for having the nerve to steal her name. “Who is Seminole Joe?” Jackie asked wearily. Mrs. Bailey White and I locked eyes, and Plain Jane, slouched in an oversized leather chair near the fir eplace, looked up from the book she was reading and chuckled softly. “What’s so funny?” Jackie demanded. “Nothin’,” Plain Jane said, returning to her book. “Seminole Joe is a haint,” I said simply. I was sitting on the floor, trying to get better acquainted with Dream, who was having a good ol’ time with a set of alphabet blocks that Plain Jane had purchased at the Junior League yard sale. “A ghost,” Mrs. Bailey White added, translating for Jackie. I didn’t want to get onto the topic of Seminole Joe, not after the day I’d had, and surely not in Mrs. Bailey White’s parlor, where her kinfolk were lined up in jars on the mantel. Or, rather, the ashes of her kinfolk. The way I was raised—along with just about everyone else in Collier County—your body was supposed to be buried, not reduced to dust and placed in your home on the mantelpiece like a 4-H trophy. I had never got myself used to their presence. But Jackie, being Jackie, was not going to be satisfied with our skirting the topic. “I never heard of this ‘Seminole Joe’ before,” she said crossly. “Is this some kind of local secret?” “Seminole Joe is our boogeyman,” I said simply. I watched as Dream toppled the blocks by piling on one too many. She chuckled and clapped her hands in delight. “Maybe,” I added, “we shouldn’t talk about Seminole Joe until Dream has her nap.” “She’s too young to understand what we’re talking about,” Jackie said. “I wouldn’t count on that,” said Plain Jane, looking up from her book again. “It’s time for her nap, anyway,” she added. “I’ll take her up.” “So, who is this Seminole Joe person?” Jackie asked again. “As I said, he’s Collier County’s very own boogeyman,” I r eplied. “I hate that term, ‘boogeyman,’ ” Jackie said, lighting a cigarette. “And I don’t believe in ghosts,” she added between puffs. “You live around here long enough, you’ll believe in ’em,” Mrs. Bailey White said under her breath. “Well, what does this have to do with Darryl?” Jackie asked. “You said something about Seminole Joe catching up to Darryl. It may not be necessary after my lawyer gets through with him.” “Oh, it was just wishful thinking,” Mrs. Bailey White said. “I mean, that would solve all our problems.” Jackie said nothing. I could see she was taking this all in, though how she was interpreting it, I wasn’t sure. “Don’t you want to know who Seminole Joe was, I mean is?” I asked. “Okay, I’ll bite,” Jackie said. I looked at Mrs. Bailey White. Since she brought up the subject, it was her story to tell. Mrs. Bailey White took a ladylike sip of iced tea, cleared her throat, and began. “A long time ago, when white folks first showed up here, the Indians didn’t know what to think,” she said in a tone that reminded me of a schoolteacher talking to her pupils. “They were Spanish, and they showed up one day in their sailing ships. Before long they discovered there was a fresh-water spring on Marco Island and they’d stop there, regular-like, on their way to whatever they were doing. Exploring, I guess, but also raisin’ Cain. “Anyway, an Indian named Joe was killed by a pirate. Some say the murderer was the famous pirate Gasparilla, but no one knows for sure. After that, the ghost of this poor Indian fellow, Joe, started to attack them in their sle ep and feed their body parts to the alligators. Or so the story
went. After a while, the Spanish started avoiding Marco Island and the area we call Collier County altogether. As long as they stayed away, Joe was at peace. “During the War of Northern Aggression, deserters from both sides— Mr. Lincoln’s army as well as our Rebs—found their way to South Florida. They hung deserters in those days. The more skeert they were of getting caught, the farther south they ran. So here in Collier County we had the worst ones—the kind that had gone plumb jack crazy. In the First World War, they called it ‘shell shock’ but I’m not sure they had a name for it back in Mr. Lincoln’s War. And that’s when the stories about Joe’s ghost started up again. From that time on, folks started referring to him as Seminole Joe. “If you were in the swamp after dark, he might come after you with a hatchet. Lots of folks went missing on account of old Joe. He didn’t seem to bother the Negroes. He only went after the whites. Especially our Confederate soldiers, because they reminded him of General Andrew Jackson from South Carolina. If there was one person the Seminole Indians hated, it was General Jackson. Before Jackson became President of the United States, he made his name fighting the Seminoles. To this very day, don’t ever hand a twenty-dollar bill to a Seminole Indian or he will refuse it and spit on the ground, because Andrew Jackson’s picture is on the twentydollar bill.” Mrs. Bailey White paused for dramatic effect, then went on. “Old-time Collier County folks don’t like to talk about Seminole Joe because it was considered bad luck to say his name aloud. He was still roaming around when I was a young girl. The most famous case in my day was when a moonshiner named Gerry Brevard made the mistake of setting up his equipment right where Seminole Joe and his people are buried. Normally, Seminole Joe wouldn’t bother with a loser like Gerry Brevard but Seminole Indians are mighty particular about their burial grounds. Gerry Brevard had to go. “My daddy and Judge Harvey P. Decker are the ones who found him. He ran straight out into the road, and they almost hit him, but he was halfdead anyway. In his final breaths, he pointed to the swamp and said, ‘Seminole Joe.’ There was a sound in the swamp and my daddy looked up and there he was—the old Indian haint hisself, watching them. Next thing they heard was Gerry Brevard’s rattle of death, so they turned their attention to him. When they looked back at the swamp a moment later, Seminole Joe had vanished.” Mrs. Bailey White picked up her knitting, which was her way of letting us know she had finished her story. Jackie looked at me, started to say something, but changed her mind. I was trying to hide my excitement. Mrs. Bailey White had told the story of Seminole Joe in more detail than I’d ever heard it. After a few moments of silence, exc ept for the little clicking noises from Mrs. Bailey White’s knitting needles, I couldn’t stand it any longer. “Mrs. Bailey White,” I said breathlessly, “I can’t believe you knew someone—your own father—who saw Seminole Joe!” “Oh, well, I saw him, too,” Mrs. Bailey White said, pausing in her knitting. “I was in the car. In the backseat.” “Sweet Jesus!” I said, jumping to my feet. “Oh, for Pete’s sake, Dora, cut it out,” Jackie said. “It’s just a story.” Plain Jane came back down the stairs, having finally settled Dream for a late nap. “What’s going on down here?” she asked. I filled her in, and noticed that she was watching Jackie carefully. “So, Jackie, what do you think of all this?” Plain Jane asked, although surely she anticipated the answer. “I don’t believe any of it,” Jackie declared, “but I suppose it would serve Darryl right if he ran into old Seminole Joe.” She laughed at her own little joke. Mrs. Bailey White and I looked at each other, a little alarmed. No matter what Darryl did, he didn’t deserve that fate. Plain Jane, settling back in her favorite chair, sighed and shook her head. “What book is that you’re reading?” I asked, hoping to change the subject. Plain Jane held up the cover for me to see. “To the Lighthouse by Virginia Woolf. I’ve been hearing about this book for years and years, and then Jackie suggested we read it.” “It’s a book club pick?” I said, feeling left out once again. I had wondered if the three members of the club who’d stayed in
Naples would ke ep choosing and discussing books. “Why, Dora, we should have told you what we’ve been reading, and you could have been reading it, too,” Plain Jane said guiltily. “It’s okay, I read it anyway, a few years ago,” I said, adding, “I thought it was beautiful.” “Aw, everyone says they love To the Lighthouse,” Jackie complained. “You didn’t like it?” I asked, surprised. “Not as much as the others did,” Jackie sniffed. “I think it’s one of those books you’re supposed to love.” “What do you mean?” Plain Jane cried. “It’s one of those books people talk about at cocktail parties,” Jackie said. “Everyone trying to sound so terribly sophisticated says, ‘Oh, To the Lighthouse is my favorite!’ but half of them haven’t even read it.” “Oh, Jackie!” Plain Jane said. “I think you are so wrong. I just read it again and frankly it is unforgettable. There’s a passage I’m looking for . . .” “Dora, Plain Jane is right—shame on us for not letting you know what we were reading,” Mrs. Bailey White said. “We just thought you were busy with your adventure in Mississippi and we didn’t want to interfere.” “Ah, yes,” Jackie said. “Speaking of your adventure in Mississippi, are you going to tell us what you found out about your family?” “Oh,” I said, completely off guard. I started to say something evasively Southern but stopped myself. I could learn something from Jackie, couldn’t I? So I tried my hand at Jackie’s signature bluntness. “I’m not ready to talk about that yet,” I said, and although it sounded Yankee-rude it also felt surprisingly good to say what I meant. The others looked a little surprised. “Well, Dora dear, whenever you’re ready,” Plain Jane said, rescuing me. “For the moment, we need to figure out what we’re going to do about Darryl, anyway.” “What, other than hoping Seminole Joe goes after him?” Jackie chortled. “Seriously, I’m beginning to think that old ghost could help us in some way.” “Jackie, you are going to get us into some serious trouble,” Plain Jane said uneasily. “Oh, don’t be silly!” Jackie said, lighting yet another cigarette. “What do you think I’m suggesting? Summoning the ancient spirit of Seminole Joe and asking for his help?” “Well, I suppose one of us could dress up like Seminole Joe and sneak up and bop Darryl over the head, not to hurt him but just to scare him,” Mrs. Bailey White said thoughtfully. “Maybe then he’d be afraid to go ahead with his project?” I swallowed hard. “I don’t think that’s funny,” I said. “I wasn’t joking,” Mrs. Bailey White r eplied. I looked at her for a long time, trying to reconcile this sweet-looking little old lady with the woman who had done time in jail and was now suggesting that we hit my former husband over the head “just to scare him.” “Mrs. Bailey White,” I said, my voice all squeaky and trembling, “this is out of the question, and I do not want to be part of this conversation.” “Oh,” Mrs. Bailey White said, looking a little chagrined. “Sorry I upset you, Dora.” “Now, girls,” Jackie said, trying to diffuse the situation. “I have a better idea. You know how I used to do some copyediting over at the newspaper, before I had my radio show? Well, I’ve been asked to do some writing—a column, as a matter of fact!” “How exciting!” Plain Jane said, and I might have detected a touch of envy in her voice. “Jackie, you’re just full of surprises. Why didn’t you tell us?” “I’m telling you now. And, besides, they only just asked me last week.” “What’s the column going to be called?” Plain Jane asked. That was a question I wouldn’t have even thought to ask but, after all, Plain Jane had written for some of the big-name magazines in New York. “Chatter Box.” “Chatter Box?” “Meaning little bits of news and delightful gossip,” Jackie said. “And my byline will be Miss Dreamsville.” After a pause, she said, “The owner came up with the Chatter Box thing. I’m not sure I like it, either. But I won the more important battle. It will not be on the Women’s Page! It will be on the Editorial Page.” “What’s wrong with the Women’s Page?” Mrs. Bailey White asked innocently. “No, no, no, I will never write for the Women’s Page,” Jackie said crossly. “It’s all weddings and gardening tips and all that junk. No, no, no! I don’t want my
column to be stuck there!” “But everyone reads the Women’s Page,” Mrs. Bailey White said softly. “Men don’t!” Jackie cried out. “If it’s on the Women’s Page it implies that my column is for women only or about women’s ‘concerns’ and that’s not what I’m going to write about.” “Well, what are you going to write about?” asked Plain Jane. Jackie smiled, and to me it seemed a little mischievous. “The agreement is that I get to write my column about anything I want. My first column is supposed to run in two days and I couldn’t decide what to write about. The editor suggested a piece about how Collier County seems to be forgotten at the statehouse in Tallahassee. But that seems deadly dull, doesn’t it? Now I’m thinking I could write about Seminole Joe.” “What?” I asked, realizing I was at least one st ep behind Jackie’s thinking. “Well, what if I wrote a piece about Seminole Joe, pointing out that he haunts the area where Darryl is going to do all that construction? And maybe get everyone in Naples all scared and stirred up, so there’d be opposition to the project?” This was either the best or worst idea I ever heard. I’d have to think on it overnight to decide which. In some respects it was brilliant. It might even work. On the other hand, it was one of those ideas that could have consequences we couldn’t anticipate. Jackie had a history of getting herself, and everyone else around her, in over their head. She was good at coming up with creative ideas but her strong suit didn’t include fixing up the messes that sometimes resulted. She saw our hesitation. “Aw come on, girls! What could go wrong?” Not the words I wanted to hear, but I admired her confidence just the same.