The challenge at the press conference would be ke eping Jackie from speaking her mind. Judd and I made her promise six ways to Sunday that she wouldn’t say a single word, what with her talent for making bad things worse. “Jackie, tonight we are going to be flies on the wall,” I k ept admonishing her as we walked downtown from my cottage. “Yes, all we’re going to do is collect intelligence,” Judd added. “Judd Hart, you’ve been watching too much of that spy stuff on television,” Jackie scolded. “Mom, what I’m saying is that we should lay low and observe what happens. Then we can reconvene and plan our next move.” Jackie sighed and ruffled Judd’s hair. “Do you think the girls will show up?” she asked, referring to her twin daughters—Judd’s older sisters. “Not a chance,” Judd said. “Well, that’s good because I wouldn’t want to embarrass them,” Jackie said. “They think I’m embarrassing enough already.” “They’re girls, Mom,” Judd said soothingly. “They’re weird.” Jackie looked at Judd as if she were going to say something more but didn’t. Instead, she ruffled his hair again. “You’re not going to embarrass anyone,” I said firmly, trying to get back to the point. “You will be dignified, like Elizabeth Taylor in Cleopatra.” Jackie had insisted we go early and stand directly in front of the stage set up by the Chamber of Commerce on the grass next to City Hall. I would rather we stood in back but I soon realized what she hoped to accomplish. She wanted everyone to see her. She stood with her arms crossed, staring tragically into the distance. Judd put one hand on her shoulder protectively. I copied Jackie’s stance exc ept I planned to look eyeball-to-eyeball with Darryl once he started speaking. Just as I began to think everyone was staying home, folks starting showing up in little groups of two and three. By the time the press conference started, five minutes late, there were close to two hundred people there, all itching to hear what Darryl had to say. Of course, this being a small Southern town, we had to be patient. First, the mayor led us in the Pledge of Allegiance followed by the Sons of the Confederate Veterans performance of “Dixie.” After that, Little Miss Swamp Buggy 1964 sang “Collier County, I Love Thee” and a rousing rendition of “Yay! Rah! for Naples.” Yay! Rah! for Naples, Yay! Rah! for Naples, Someone in the crowd’s singing, “Yay! Rah! for Naples.” One, two, three, four, Naples, that’s us! Rah, rah, rah . . . And then came a string of announcements: The Garden Club needed volunteers to water the flower boxes near the train station (even though most people arrived by car or bus and hardly any trains came through anymore). And someone from the Naples Players announced that the new season would start the following week with Stop the World—I Want to Get Off, starring Bucky Holmes from the Esso station. By the time Darryl was about to speak, I had the embarrassing image of myself crumpling to the ground and being placed on a cot and resuscitated by the eager Boy Scouts who were manning the first-aid squad. Judd looked flushed and Jackie, a bit glassy-eyed, was having trouble maintaining her pose. The mayor spoke briefly. “I’m sure we all know Darryl Norwood, who grew up right here in Collier County, and is making it his personal goal to bring us into a new era.” I was relieved to hear grumbles in the crowd, and there was no applause when Darryl took the microphone. “I know why you all are here, and I’m grateful for it,” he began. “I’m glad for the opportunity to straighten out any misunderstandings. It’s very important that you all understand that Dreamsville Estates will be the best thing that ever happened to Collier County. And I want to assure all of you
that all of this needless fear about Seminole Joe is not helpful. Frankly, I’m surprised that in this day and age, y’all would get yourselves worked up into a lather over the idea that we could be disturbing a haint.” He paused, and laughed dismissively. “There is no such thing as Seminole Joe. There never was.” I had to hide a grin that was cre eping up the corners of my mouth. Darryl was handling this all wrong. I knew it before he did; I could feel it in the crowd. An old-timer with skin like cowhide elbowed his way to the front and struggled up to the platform. “Don’t you go talking down to us,” he shouted into the microphone. “We gonna believe what we want to believe. You’re a dog-gone fool. You’re playing games with the devil and we aren’t going to allow it!” The crowd cheered like their team had just scored a touchdown against Punta Gorda High. Clearly, Darryl was losing. If everyone continued on this path, the people of Naples were turning their anger from Jackie and the newspaper to Darryl, where it belonged. I peeked at Jackie and could see she was biting her lower lip. Poor gal, it was killin’ her not to get into the fray. Just when it seemed the sheriff might need to tell everyone to settle down, the mayor stood up and prevailed upon us to behave in a more Christian manner. “We are civilized people,” he scolded, holding the microphone so close that it screeched and hurt our ears. “Sorry about that,” he said. Then, “We must remain calm and listen to our speaker. These are the leaders of our community, and we should be respectful.” “Darryl Norwood ain’t a leader!” a youthful voice called from de ep within the crowd. “We never elected him to nothin’!” The Reverend Wesley Whitmore from Sweet Savior Baptist Church took the microphone from the mayor, who didn’t look at all sorry and retreated quickly to the back of the stage. “I have something I would like to say,” the reverend said in a voice de ep as a bullfrog’s in mating season. “Talking about haints and conjuring and black magic and whatnot is not worthy of this community.” He received a polite round of applause mostly, I noticed, from his parishioners. Darryl tried to take advantage of the preacher’s comments. “Thank you,” he said, leaning into the microphone, still in the clutches of the preacher. “Y’all should listen to Reverend Whitmore here.” But the good reverend snapped back. “Now just a moment,” he said to Darryl, “don’t presume to pretend that I’m endorsing your project. I’m just saying that folks should stop this nonsense about . . . well, about an Indian spirit. And another thing,” he added, “I don’t think it’s nice that you’re planning to call the place Dreamsville Estates when Mrs. Jackie Hart doesn’t approve. She’s our Miss Dreamsville, and it’s disrespectful to use a lady’s name against her wishes, and to profit from it.” This was a surprise. Of course, Reverend Whitmore was new here. He’d never heard Jackie’s at-times risqué radio show and had missed the uproar she had caused. Defending a lady’s good name was a surefire way to stir up a crowd anywhere south of the Mason-Dixon line, and it most definitely had that effect in good old Naples. The crowd applauded warmly. Jackie, seizing the moment, waved and mouthed, “Thank you.” Then another preacher stood up and the Reverend Whitmore handed over the microphone. “My name is Reverend John Mc Daniel,” he said politely, “and I’m the new interim pastor at Airport Road Methodist. I am from North Florida and I was educated in Chicago. I am in full agreement with Reverend Whitmore here, but I’d like to add something else, if I may. Last month, as I traveled nearly the length of our great state with my family to arrive here at my new appointment, I was alarmed at the pace of development in so many places. Why is this? I asked myself. Is it progress, as some would say, or is it worship of that false God, money? And, what are the consequences? These undeveloped areas are a gift from God, my friends. Remember your scripture—we are stewards of God’s earth.” The mayor jumped up from his seat and grabbed the microphone a little roughly from Reverend Mc Daniel. “Now let’s get back on track here,” he said. “This project is a mighty good thing for Naples. Dreamsville Estates will attract
people from all over the United States. The Chamber of Commerce has already agreed to sponsor Welcome to Dreamsville signs at every entrance to Naples. Our airport needs work, and we are fortunate that one of our most eminent citizens, Mr. Toomb, has agreed to oversee some improvements there. Neapolitans, we must think of the big picture! We already have two major assets—the fishing pier and the swamp buggy races. Three of the world’s great religions—Baptists, Methodists, and Presbyterians—are r epresented right here in our little town. We are a welcoming place and it’s about time we move forward into the nineteenth century.” “What? Don’t you mean twentieth century?” someone hollered from the back of the crowd, which exploded into laughter, the kind with a mean edge to it. Emboldened, the heckler added, “Just what century do you think we be livin’ in, Mayor? I thought this was 1964. Are you saying this is 1864?” The mayor looked upset and ruffled like a hen that’s being bothered by a rooster. “Aw, heck, you know what I mean!” he said. Now that even the mayor had been set back on his heels, it was fair to say that Jackie, the Naples Star, and Seminole Joe had won the day, with Darryl the loser. So far, so good. • • • JUDD TOOK OFF FOR CIVIL Air Patrol, and Jackie and I, feeling a little triumphant, went to Mrs. Bailey White’s house. Our good mood soured immediately, though, because, of all things, Mrs. Bailey White was peeved that Jackie had mentioned her in the newspaper column. Jackie admitted that the line about the “model citizen who has lived in Collier County for all of her eighty years” and who feared the return of Seminole Joe was indeed a reference to Mrs. Bailey White. What I didn’t get—and I could see that Jackie was puzzled, too—was that Mrs. Bailey White’s name had not even been mentioned. “I do not like the whole world thinking of me as eighty years old,” she said, brushing a piece of lint off her skirt. “But no one will know it’s you,” Jackie said, trying to sound reassuring. “Well, I know it’s me, and that’s enough,” Mrs. Bailey White sulked. “A woman should never reveal her true age. Do you know what they say about a woman who will reveal her age? That she’ll reveal everything else, too! And I wasn’t raised like that.” Plain Jane, who had been reading the final pages of To the Lighthouse, set down her book.“Mrs. Bailey White, I don’t see why—” “And I’ll tell you something else,” Mrs. Bailey White interrupted. “A woman should only be in the paper two times in her life—when she gets married and when she dies.” “But Mrs. Bailey White,” I started but stopped short. What I wanted to say was, But you must have been in the newspapers plenty of times when you were arrested, tried, and convicted for shooting your husband back in the day. “Please believe me, Mrs. Bailey White, I am very, very sorry,” Jackie said, as I prayed silently for an end to this uncomfortable conversation. “It was stupid of me. I should have thought of it. And it won’t happen again.” “Well,” Mrs. Bailey White said slowly, “I guess maybe it doesn’t matter. Maybe I’m being too thin-skinned. All this talk about Seminole Joe is getting on my last good nerve. And, yes, I know it’s my fault because I’m the one who brought him up—” “Oh, no,” Jackie said quickly. “This is my fault.” “No, it’s not,” I said, wondering why women were always quick to blame ourselves. “It’s that no-good, good-for-nothin’ former husband of mine. That’s whose fault it is. He started all this mess and everyone’s in an uproar because of it. And you know what? The louse is getting married again.” There were sighs and groans enough to fill a graveyard on Halloween. “Oh, Dora,” Plain Jane said, speaking for the rest. “That’s too bad. Or, at least I think it must be . . . Oh dear, how do you feel about it?” “Not great, especially because she’s a Northern gal,” I said miserably. “Why does that make you feel worse?” Jackie asked. “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe
because I just assume she must be smarter and prettier than me,” I said. “She’s probably meaner than a wet hen,” Mrs. Bailey White said. “Where’s she from?” “Some town in New Jersey called Basking Ridge. That’s what Darryl said.” “Oh!” Jackie said. We looked at her in alarm. “Basking Ridge—that’s the place where Darryl’s investors live! That’s what Ted said.” We were puzzling through the implications of this until Plain Jane finally put it into words. “So maybe Darryl is marrying into the family that is paying for his real estate development?” she said aloud. That was a disgusting thought. The possibility of Darryl marrying for money could mean he was even more of a low-level cre ep than I thought. I hadn’t even thought of bringing up the topic of Darryl and his remarriage but I was glad that I had. Sharing my distress about Darryl’s remarriage reminded me that I loved my friends. I needed my friends. And, despite the d epressing reason for my return, at this moment I was thrilled to be back. I was still a member of the Collier County Women’s Literary Society, and it felt awfully good.