There’s something I need to tell you, Miss Witherspoon,” Judd Hart was saying, and I noticed he
wouldn’t look me in the eye. When he heard I was back in town, Judd made a beeline to my cottage to
say hello. With his red hair and blue eyes, it was easy to see that he was Jackie’s son. He was thirteen
now and about four inches taller than when I left. We were sitting on the bottom st ep of my porch,
feeding pieces of honeydew melon to my snappers. Of course, this meant having to scold Norma Jean
from time to time. She was such a piggy, and I could see she hadn’t changed a bit. “Judd,” I said, “you
don’t have to call me Miss Witherspoon. You can call me Dora.” “I can’t call you Dora. You’re a
grown-up.” “Well, then, call me Miss Dora,” I said. Judd frowned. I guess that was too Southern.
“Well,” I prompted him, “what is it you want to tell me?” I tried to hide the nervousness from my
voice. “Is it about all this business with my former husband and the development he wants to build?”
“No, not that,” Judd said. “I just wanted to warn you that when you see my mom, she’ll look a little,
um, different.” All I could think of was that maybe Jackie had changed her hair, or gained weight.
Judd looked away. “She’ll be wearing black,” he mumbled. “What?” “Black. You know, mourning
clothes.” “Oh, Judd! Someone in your family went to Glory? No one told me! I’m so sorry! Who was
it?” My heart went into a tailspin of pity and sorrow. Poor Jackie! “Well, no one in our . . . family.”
Judd looked miserable. “Then . . . who?” I asked.
“President Kennedy.” Hmmm. Jackie had been wearing mourning clothes—for President
Kennedy? Since the previous November? In three months it would be a year. I had figured she took it
hard but I didn’t think she would carry on this long. “She says she’s going to wear them for one year
and a day,” Judd went on. “I just didn’t want you to be surprised.” “Judd, let me ask you something,
and it might seem like a silly question,” I said. “You know I’ve never been up north. What I want to
know is, is this something all Yankees do?” In my head, I was picturing everyone in Boston walking
around in black. “Nope,” Judd said. “I don’t think so. I’m pretty sure she’s the only one in America,
other than the Kennedy family, of course. This is just Mom being Mom.” “Oh,” I said, at a loss for
words. So wearing black for a year, for a president not everyone liked (especially in the South), would
be considered odd even in Boston. There were times like this when I got a hint that Jackie was over
the top even for a Yankee. “Well,” I said, finally finding my voice, “as the saying goes, ‘To each his
own.’ ” Judd suddenly seemed defensive. “I guess with her being from Boston and all, and she’s such
a fan of Mrs. Kennedy, and all that . . .” His voice trailed off. He tried to grin but it came off as a lame
little smile, so he shrugged instead. “I didn’t want you to be, you know, caught off guard. Because
when I told her I’d heard you were back in town, she ran to get dressed and I know she’s headed over
here any minute now.” We’d run out of melon strips to give the turtles. Castro and Myrtle had gone
into the shrubs to take naps. Norma Jean was still begging for goodies. She stared at us and made
munching movements with her mouth. “Yes, we see you, Norma Jean,” I said, laughing. It was hard to
miss an Everglades snapping turtle the size of Mama’s divan. “You know what, Judd?” I said.
“You’ve done a fine job here, looking after my friends.” Judd beamed at my compliment. “I really
mean that,” I added. “I wouldn’t have gone off to Mississippi if you hadn’t been here to take care of
my turtles. And check on my little cottage. But everything looks swell. Did you have any problems?”
“No, ma’am,” he said, and I was pleased to hear the “ma’am” roll off his tongue, since a Boston
boy wouldn’t survive down here for long if he didn’t learn the basics. Seems like he’d settled in fairly
good. And then he asked me a question I didn’t know the answer to. “How long are you going to be
back for?” “I don’t know, Judd.” I sighed before continuing. “I’ve still got something I need to do
back in Mississippi. But I’ve got to see if I can help Robbie- Lee’s mother. She’s going to lose her
home if my stupid former husband”— I paused for a moment, regretting that I had referred to Darryl
in such a mean-spirited way in front of Judd—“uh, if my former husband fills in the swamp over
there.” Judd was quiet for a moment. “But where would all the turtles, and the gators and everything,
go?” he asked. I was thinking Judd might be a great ally when we both heard brakes squeal. Before
you could say “Sweet Jesus, protect me from whatever that is,” Jackie’s convertible slid to a halt in the
wind-driven sand that always seemed to pile up on the street directly in front of my cottage. There was
no one else in Naples who drove quite like that. And, there was no other car like that south of Tampa:
a completely impractical, two-door, bananayellow 1960 Buick Le Sabre for which she had traded, in a
moment of pure rebellion, her dull and matronly station wagon. We loved that car. Oh, how we all
loved it. No one else in our book club owned a car, and Jackie had enjoyed driving us around. It was
wonderful to see her again, right behind the wheel, which is how I usually pictured her in my mind
although the effect was altered somewhat since she was indeed wearing black. A black head scarf.
Black gloves. Black cat-eye sunglasses. And, of course, a black dress that was tasteful but not
especially demure. Probably, from that store she was always talking about, Filene’s. Black is not an
easy color to wear in Florida under the best of circumstances and, in Naples, it was always a signal
that someone had up and died. Black was for grieving and condoling only. Of course, that might not
have been true, say, in Miami or some other place where they had bona fide nightclubs. Here in
Naples the only place was the Shingle Shack, and I doubt any woman ever wore black unless she was
coming straight from the kind of funeral that drives a woman to drink.
Jackie leaned on the car horn, a Yankee habit that made me want to reach for smelling salts. Why
in the name of Our Sweet Savior did she think this was necessary? Did she think we couldn’t see her?
She was smiling and waving her arm with the kind of jaunty Northern confidence that annoys the
beeswax out of Southerners. Plain Jane, the poet from our book club, was sprawled in the backseat
like she was sunbathing on a chaise lounge. I almost hadn’t noticed her. “Woo hoo!” I called out, once
I had recovered from the car horn. “So great to see y’all! Git yourselves out of that crazy car and come
set on the porch with me and Judd for a spell!” But as soon as I raised my voice, I could feel Mama’s
disapproval coming straight down from the Spirit World like a bolt of lightning, since hollerin’ was
“not nice.” Mama was always talking about things that were either “nice” or “not nice.” That was
pretty much how she saw the world. Judd, Jackie, and Plain Jane were probably wondering why I
sprang up, rabbit-like, rather than shout again, but I knew better than to disrespect Mama. It didn’t
matter than she was six feet under at the Cemetery of Hope and Salvation over by the Esso station.
Jackie and Plain Jane had both climbed out of the car, and I thought we were going to have a bear-hug
reunion, but when I got to the gate and started fussing with the latch, Jackie started screeching like a
banshee on a coconut-milk binge. “Don’t open it!” she pleaded. I had plumb forgot that Jackie was
scared to pieces of my turtles. It was a wonder she let Judd look after them while I was away. For the
sake of friendship, and to ke ep Jackie calm, I climbed over my own fence. Jackie, Plain Jane, and me
had a three-way hug like a football huddle. You know you like someone, and truly missed them, when
you don’t mind embracing them in the suffocating heat of Florida in August. I wasn’t sure about other
book clubs, but making a decision, even with just three of us present, required more discussion than
Khrushchev and Kennedy probably had during the entire Cuban Missile Crisis. Plain Jane wanted to
sit on my porch and sip iced tea and get caught up. Jackie balked on account of my turtles which (a
little rudely, in my opinion) she k ept referring to as “those dreadful things.”She suggested we go to
her house and drink mimosas. I knew what I wanted to do, but I waited for the two of them to talk
their ideas to death. Finally, there was a lull. “Where’s the baby?” I asked. “I’m dying to see her.”
Instantly, it was agreed that we would all go to Mrs. Bailey White’s house, where the baby spent
most of her time. Judd was obviously relieved that we were leaving. Jackie called to him, “Honey, I
made some chili for you and the twins. Go ahead and eat if I’m not home in time for supper. And
there’s a special honeydew melon that I bought just for you.” As we were driving away, two things
occurred to me. One was that the aforementioned honeydew melon was, in all likelihood, the same
one Judd and I had just fed by hand to “those dreadful things.” The second was that I was thrilled to be
back with Jackie and Plain Jane in the Buick. On the radio, the Supremes were singing “Where Did
Our Love Go?” and for the moment, all was right with the world.