Miss Dreamsville and the Collier County Women's Literary Society

by Amy Hill Hearth

  We were stunned by her honesty. None of us could look her in the eye. Women were supposed to get married and have children and feel blessed about the whole arrangement. Sure, there were some unhappy women, but they didn’t talk about it. They just drank too much or got a little too friendly with someone else’s husband.

  Those who’d never married were regarded as tragic old maids. I noticed the pity they had to endure, along with a rude assumption that they had time on their hands. The most unappreciated chores were foisted on them, like planting petunias beneath the “Welcome to Naples” sign. If you were divorced, like me, that was far worse. You were a failure. A failure as a woman and a human being. No matter what the circumstances, the divorce had to have been your fault. Women were supposed to stand by their man, even if he turned out to be the biggest jackass south of Tallahassee.

  We all just sat there, uncomfortable that Jackie was unhappy, and—more to the point—that she had shared her true feelings. None of us was raised to have this conversation.

  Mrs. Bailey White broke the silence. “I still think we should read a mystery or maybe some true crime.” Turning to Miss Lansbury, she asked, “Is there a book on how to find someone?”

  The rest of us exchanged glances. Find someone? Find who? “Well, I’ll look into it,” Miss Lansbury said with a professional air.

  Robbie-Lee had a talent for knowing when to change the subject. “Wait a minute! Why not read Breakfast at Tiffany’s? We’ve all seen the movie! I bet most of us haven’t read the book! And then we can compare the book and the movie. What do you say?”

  His enthusiasm won the day. He had pulled a switcheroo on Mrs. Bailey White’s weird ideas, but even better, he had diverted Jackie from making any more embarrassing confessions about her life. If there was one thing that made us flinch, it was a Yankee who didn’t understand that we not only don’t discuss our private business, we don’t want to hear about anyone else’s either. And yet Jackie’s tirade was, well, kind of liberating to hear. I had lived my whole life around people who were expert at the art of disguising their true selves. We always thought Northerners lacked manners and good taste. What they considered an admirable trait—being “direct”—just seemed like rudeness to us.

  But I saw that this directness, or whatever you wanted to call it, was not necessarily a bad thing. At least with Jackie, you always knew where you stood.

  Four

  Out of all of us in the group—and this surprised me—the two who became close friends, outside our regular meetings, were Jackie and Plain Jane.

  Of course, Jackie’s house wasn’t more than a shout away from Plain Jane’s. Their houses faced away from each other on separate streets, but the yards were back-to-back. All you had to do was pick your way through the maze of clotheslines to get from one patio to the other. Before long, Jackie was going over there for a quick cigarette and a highball every evening before she got dinner started for the kids and for Ted, if he wasn’t out on the road.

  So that is why Jackie learned the real story about Plain Jane long before the rest of us. Plain Jane said she was living on a widow’s pension, that her husband had drowned in some kind of fishing accident that was too painful to talk about, and that she spent her days reading poetry and making baby blankets for the maternity ward at the Negro hospital in Fort Myers.

  The story about the baby blankets was the only part that was true. Plain Jane had never married and was living in our quiet little backwater because she was a writer living, as they say, incognito. A very successful writer.

  This is how the secret came out. One day Jackie popped in and Plain Jane was acting a little funny, like she had something to hide, Jackie said. There, sitting on the dining room table, was a stack of typewriter ribbons and at least a dozen reams of paper. Jackie, as usual, got right to the point:

  “Are you writing a book?”

  “What if I am?” Plain Jane replied.

  “Oh my God! You are writing a book! What kind of book?”

  Plain Jane sat down at the dining room table with a sigh. “This has to remain confidential or I will lose my job,” she said.

  Jackie would have promised to give up cigarettes, chocolate, and her library card for a year to be brought in on a good secret. I bet she nodded up and down like a bobble-head toy on the back shelf of a Chevy. But when Plain Jane opened her mouth, what she said was the last thing in the world Jackie thought she’d hear. “Well,” Plain Jane said, clearing her throat, “I write romance novels. And articles about sex.”

  Give Jackie credit for taking this in stride. “Well—how exciting!” she said, apparently without a hint of irony.

  Jackie said Plain Jane shot her a look and said, “Are you making fun of me?”

  “Of course not!” Jackie said. “How completely wonderful! How long have you been doing this?”

  “Oh, for years,” Plain Jane said. “Years and years.”

  “And why would you lose your job if people knew?”

  “Because if my editors in New York ever found out that I’m a fat, wrinkly fifty-five-year-old lady, they’d dump me in a minute. I mean, look at me, Jackie. I was never greatlooking even when I was young! People would expect me to be young and gorgeous.”

  “Would they? Yes, I suppose they would,” Jackie said, answering her own question. “How terribly unfair. I’m forty and fat, so I guess they wouldn’t let me write for them either.” This thought, no doubt, made Jackie very sad.

  “You’re not fat, you’re plump,” Plain Jane told her. “And you’re curvy. My editors would accept you better than me. They’d have a heart attack if they saw me.”

  “And of course, the people around here—well, they’d go crazy,” Jackie said, thinking aloud. “You’d have to leave town, I suppose. Tarred and feathered, isn’t that the expression?”

  Plain Jane winced and folded her hands in her lap. Jackie knew she’d gone too far. “Fear not, my friend, I shall keep your secret,” she declared. “Perhaps someday you will tell our reading group. But I have one question for you—how do you maintain this secrecy? Haven’t you ever met with your editors in New York?”

  “No,” Plain Jane said, “they’ve never met me in person. I have a mysterious persona. It’s part of my image. I just communicate with them through the mail. I keep a post office box in Miami.”

  “Brilliant! Simply brilliant! Would you allow me to read something you’ve written?”

  Plain Jane hesitated. “Well, actually, right now I’m working on an article for a new magazine, Sophisticated Woman. They asked me to write a piece for them. The market is supposed to be independent-minded, sexually aggressive, gorgeous young gals working in a cosmopolitan setting.”

  Plain Jane left the room and returned with a typewritten draft, which she presented to Jackie. “Go ahead,” she said with a shrug. “Tell me what you think.”

  “Should I read aloud?” Jackie asked.

  “Whatever you want.”

  Jackie began to read slowly, articulating each word, starting with the headline. “ ‘Sex on a Desk: Your Boss’s Ultimate Fantasy. And the Best Way to Get That Raise. By Jocelyn Winston.’ Jocelyn Winston—that’s you?”

  Plain Jane nodded her head. “I don’t think Jane Wisniewski has quite the same impact, do you? I mean, Jocelyn Winston sounds like someone who might actually have sex on a desk. And Jane Wisniewski doesn’t.”

  “Right,” Jackie said, before continuing: “ ‘What happens behind closed doors in Manhattan after hours? Ask Debbie, a twenty-five-year-old confidential secretary to a powerful Manhattan attorney. “Sex,” she says. “That’s what’s happening. Sex in elevators. Sex on the floor. And sex on a desk. That’s what men really want. That’s what everyone’s doing, all over town.”’”

  Jackie looked at Plain Jane. “Sex on a desk? That doesn’t sound so great to me. I mean that doesn’t sound very comfortable. How did you find out about this? How did you do your research?”

  Plain Jane blushed and looked away. “You did
n’t actually do this, did you?” Jackie said.

  “Of course not.” Plain Jane sounded annoyed.

  “Well, then, who told you about this?”

  “No one told me. I made it up.”

  “Made it up?”

  “Sure.”

  “Do your editors know?”

  “Of course not. They think it’s real.”

  “Oh my God.” This was a lot for Jackie to take in. “You mean there are no sex-starved females having sex on their desks? With their bosses? In Manhattan?”

  Plain Jane shrugged. “Not that I know of.”

  The two women sat quietly, trying not to look at each other, or at least that’s how Plain Jane remembered it later on. Finally, Plain Jane glanced directly at Jackie. A smile was beginning to appear at the corners of Jackie’s mouth and got wider and wider until it turned into an ear-to-ear grin. Jackie then made a sound like a hiccup that was, in fact, an attempt at stifling a chuckle. The chuckle finally exploded into a howling, knee-slapping, fist-pounding belly laugh that sent Plain Jane’s cat skittering under the couch.

  For a fraction of a second, Plain Jane thought Jackie was laughing at her. Then she realized it was more of a “you’ve got to be kidding, you’ve fooled the whole world” kind of laugh. Plain Jane started giggling, and before long, the two of them were shrieking and howling loud enough to wake the dead. Then Jackie slipped off her chair, which made them laugh even harder.

  They were carrying on so loud, they didn’t hear the knock on the door. They didn’t notice Jackie’s son, Jude, until he’d let himself in and was standing there gaping at them. “Mom, you gotta come home,” Jude said, when they finally noticed him. “I burned the pot roast.”

  “Oh my God, the pot roast!” Jackie shrieked. Then, to Jude: “Did you take it out of the oven?”

  Jude looked bone tired. “Of course I took it out of the oven,” he said. He was a strange kid, wise and patient and world-weary for someone who was only twelve. He was like a little old man wearing a kid suit. “Mom,” he added, “we need to talk.”

  “Where are the twins? Did they set the table?” Jackie asked.

  “No,” Jude said. “They haven’t done anything. They’ve been fighting over that stupid curling iron again.”

  “Well, Jude, is this something you can talk about right now? Or should we wait till later?”

  “Now is okay,” he said, glancing at Plain Jane.

  Jackie looked pale and serious. “What is it, Jude?”

  “Mom, I have to change my name. I can’t live here with a name like Jude. All the kids are calling me Judas.”

  Jackie was quiet for a moment. “Changing your name because other people don’t like it is not worthy of you, Jude. Your real friends will accept you, whatever your name is.”

  “I don’t have any real friends.” Jude looked really angry. “How could I have any real friends? We just moved here. I hate it. I hate my name. I hate this place. And sometimes, Mom, I even hate you.” This last part was said calmly, which was even more chilling.

  Jackie’s lower lip trembled. “It’s normal to hate your mother sometimes, Jude.”

  “It’s your fault we moved here!”

  “Are you out of your mind?” Jackie was suddenly angry. “It was your father’s idea to move here! You should blame him, not me! Do you think I ever would have left Boston for this place? Don’t you know how much I hated moving here? We’re in this together, Jude.”

  “Don’t call me Jude.”

  Jackie cleared her throat like she was trying to calm herself down. “Perhaps what you need is a nickname. Like Skip or Biff or something like that.”

  Jude scoffed. “Those are northern nicknames, Mom! They’re worse than Jude!”

  “How about Judd?” said Plain Jane, the first time she’d spoken since Jude arrived. “Judd sounds like a good ol’ southern boy.”

  “It does?” Jude sounded hopeful. “What do you think, Mom?”

  “If it makes you feel better, I’m all for it,” Jackie said. “Now let’s go home and see if we can rescue that pot roast.” She stroked his hair, red like hers except for blond streaks from the sun.

  I’ll say one thing about Jackie. Nobody was ever going to mistake her for one of those sweet, tireless, patient TV moms like June Cleaver on Leave It to Beaver. By comparison, she was a catastrophe. But once in a blue moon, she got it right.

  Five

  From the minute we started the Women’s Literary Society, people began asking questions. Because I worked at the post office—especially when I was stuck doing counter duty—people grabbed the opportunity to quiz me down. A day didn’t go by without a customer asking, “Can I have a four-cent stamp, please? And by the way, what is this Women’s Literary Society you belong to?”

  They didn’t want to join us. They just wanted to know what the heck we were doing.

  I felt defensive. I liked my new friends and I didn’t feel it was right for people to expect me to defend them or explain why I spent time with them. It was my business. We were a little band of oddballs trying to survive in a time and place where sameness was revered. Because of my divorce, and the mean way I’d been treated, I had more compassion and was more open to different kinds of people. And I had less patience for small-town people who thought they knew everything and wanted to tell everybody else how to live.

  Even with the part-time job and our literary society gatherings, I sensed that Jackie was still not happy. I was beginning to worry that one day she’d be up and gone. But then one little event intrigued her. Of all things, what captured her attention was the fall fund-raiser for the Lions Club. For a two-week period each year in Naples, women could walk up and kiss any man, single or married, who grew a beard or mustache. Since the men who kept shaving during those two weeks had to pay a “fine,” this meant there were a lot of hairy faces available to be kissed.

  Most of the ladies of Naples did not, of course, partake of the opportunity. It was just a game. But then along came Jackie. At last, something about Naples that Jackie could like, and she took full advantage. One of the men she had her eye on happened to be the owner of our one-and-only local radio station, WNOG, “Wonderful Naples on the Gulf.” His name was Bill McIntyre, he was in his late twenties, and Jackie had remarked on more than one occasion that he was “Cary Grant cute.” She walked right up to him and planted one right on him, almost knocking him over. This happened right under the bank clock. She told us later that his mustache tickled. Anyway, he must not have minded, because after the initial surprise, they ended up having a conversation. He knew she worked part-time at the newspaper, because the Naples Star was right next door to his radio station and there was some sharing of information between the two, like calendar items and ad copy. So he had seen her around.

  But he had never heard her voice. Suddenly he was all business. “Has anyone ever told you that you have a wonderful voice?”

  Jackie thought he was flirting. “Why, yes, they have.”

  “I mean a wonderful radio voice,” he said.

  “Oh,” Jackie said. “No, I don’t believe they have.”

  “Well, you do.” Jackie said you could practically see ideas hatching in his brain. “I’m looking for someone to do a late show—midnight to two a.m.”

  “Is that so?” Jackie asked.

  “The show would be taped. You would come into the station anytime and record your intros and voice-overs. My station manager doubles as the sound engineer and he would handle the rest.”

  “Well, that’s a lovely idea, but haven’t you noticed my New England accent?”

  “It’s your voice I’m talking about. If you speak slowly enough, you should be able to hide the accent. Come to the station and we’ll do a test.”

  Jackie liked the sound of that. It seemed glamorous and adventurous.

  “Okay,” she said. “But what kind of show? Would I be introducing music?”

  “Yes, sort of a Good Night, Naples show.”

  “Would
I get to pick the music?”

  “Sure,” he said.

  “And could we keep my identity a secret, just to keep people guessing?” If there was one thing Jackie loved, it was intrigue.

  “Wow, great idea!” he said. “So the only people who would know are me and the station manager! Now come by the station and let’s do that test.”

  Jackie had to go to the Winn-Dixie to get the fixin’s for a birthday dinner for the twins, but she didn’t think this was a good image for a budding radio star. “I have an important errand I must do,” she said. “How about later, like four o’clock?”

  “Make that four thirty, ’cause everyone else will be gone by then.”

  “Oh,” said Jackie. “You mean so we’ll have some privacy.”

  Jackie admitted later that she’d gone too far. That poor young man blushed so hard, he turned purple. “I mean, if we’re going to keep your show a secret,” he stammered.

  “Right,” Jackie said. She was beginning to regret the kiss. This needed to be a professional relationship. A tenminute conversation under the bank clock had turned into an extraordinary opportunity.

  Well, four thirty could not come fast enough, and once she was seated in the sound room behind a microphone, she was in her glory. With coaching from her new best friend, Bill, Jackie did her sultry best to ditch the Boston accent.

  “It’ll get easier, and we can always retape,” said the station manager, a wiry fellow with a deep tan who had once served in the Canadian Air Force, where he had learned his trade. Around town he was always referred to as “that guy from Canada who works at the radio station”—or, for short, “Canada”—even though he’d lived in Naples for twenty years or more. Jackie, who could not bring herself to call him Canada, learned that his real name was, in fact, Charles and became the only person in town who used the poor man’s given name. Apparently thrilled by this development, Charles took an immediate liking to Jackie. Since she had already bonded with Bill, she now had the approval of the only two people she needed. The truth is that in a few short hours—somewhere between the bank clock, the aisles of Winn-Dixie, and a stop at home to put food in the fridge and leave a quick note for the kids—she had fallen deeply, desperately in love with the idea of having a radio show.