Back to Madeline Island (3 page)

I pat Rocky's proud, purring head and then take the vegetable tongs and flamingo mitts from Ruby. “How'd I get this job—anyway?” I ask as the screen door smacks me in the rear.

“Sheer unadulterated—luck,” Ruby states from inside. I hear her tell Rocky what a brave man he is carrying around mean old mice.

I chuck the unfortunate victim (dead mouse-ee) over the balcony. Someone
else's
supper, I suppose. What if Helen is some famous professor—and here
I
am. I look around at the lake, the cottage.

Glancing through the screen door, I spy Ruby, she's still chatting with Rocky while readying the kitchen for tomorrow. Aprons of every color—some with wildflowers, others with frogs or cows or big eyes—all piled higgly piggly over tables and among the sewing machines. It's beautiful. I take in some fresh, lake air and remind myself that this wonderful place is my life and it's something to be proud of. I am grateful, too. Carefully retrieving the tongs and mitts, I pull the screen door open.

 

Up in my bedroom, I'm zipping up black jeans and then straightening my deep-blue sweater; I regard myself in the full-length mirror. Turning this way and that, sucking my tummy in as far as humanly possible, I still look fat.

“Damn gene pool.” Rocky rolls onto his back and watches me upside down from on top of my bed.

“Knock, knock.” Ruby sweeps in. She tosses a loose end of her snazzy gray shawl over a shoulder. “Damn Jean's pool? Who's Jean—and if she has a pool—why haven't
I
been invited?”

“Never mind. Let's hit Al's Place, and I'm thinking we deserve a cosmopolitan.”

“Good heavens—yes.”

We climb into my ancient VW van. Seeing as Ruby's still got more to learn about driving a stick—like when to shift—I'm at the wheel. Yes, it even has yellow fringe around the inside windshield, the kind with balls that jiggle as we zoom along. I reach up to adjust my leopard-covered rearview mirror and then pop the converter thing into my tape player in order to play CDs (compliments of Howard). I'm just not ready to take the technology leap and actually have one installed; CDs could just vanish, you know. I put in a new CD we found at Stone's Throw in Bayfield. Connie Evingson starts crooning, “Gypsy in My Soul.” We love that woman's bluesy voice.

Ruby pulls her door closed with a big bang. “Sorry love, so used to pulling closed those heavy doors of my Buick.”

When we moved up here not too long ago, the Buick stayed. She sold her fancy house in Eau Claire's third ward and I handed over the keys of my salon to a very dear employee of mine. She (her name is Watts) promptly moved upstairs into what used to be my apartment. I'm thinking that maybe I'll sell it to her someday. Hmmm.

“No problem,” I say, coming back to the fact that I'm driving.

I rev the motor, shift into one and off we chug down the winding, rutted path that opens onto the main road leading to the town of LaPointe. The town is really just a couple of blocks long, built next to the ferry landing that takes us back and forth to Bayfield. But at least we have some nice restaurants, several bars and a really great library.

We creep across the wooden bridge at the bottom of a deep gully; I slow the van down so we can watch as a lazy black skunk wobbles over it, into the woods. He disappears into a clump of ferns. The smell is awful. I open my window; Ruby does the same.

“Splendid time for a—”

“Smoke,” I say, and Ruby lights two Virginia Slims. Placing one in between my lips, I inhale the cancerous fumes.

“Lovely little creatures.” Ruby points her cigarette toward the ferns as we pass by. “But the smell—they must be such dreadfully
lonely
creatures.”

I pull us up to the gate that's latched closed. Ruby hops out to open it. I pass through and she hops back in, slamming the hell out of her door!

“Jesus, Ruby.”

“I'm just strong today, is all.” She takes a puff and lets out a perfect smoke ring, then swirls it away with the cigarette's tip.

I shift up, and off we float down North Shore Road. The leaves are bright yellows and oranges—making the woods seem as though lit from within. There's magic out there and fall on the island is looking so amazing.

“Would you
look
at that?” Ruby points to a group of five, no six, deer that are considering crossing the road in front of us. They don't.

“I wonder how long until I hit one of them.”

“Well, I hope never, darling. Think of the damage it would do to your van—not to mention all the Bambis.”

“Hey! What about me?”

“
You
have insurance—don't you?”

I nod my head, plop on my sunglasses and shift into higher gear. Madeline Island is such an oddity—how did all those deer get here? Imagine, an island off the tip of Wisconsin. I fell in love with this place the moment Ruby and I first came up here. Ancient, towering white pine trees are everywhere; when the wind blows through them, they whisper. The island is over fourteen miles long, but only three miles wide; that's the long and short of it.

Lake Superior, the largest of the Great Lakes, really is an inland sea—and it's fricking cold! I
do
enjoy dangling my toes off our dock, but the water takes some getting used to. I'm not really sure why no one's built a bridge to the mainland, Bayfield, but I sure as hell am glad there isn't one. Think of all the riffraff that would come here and take over. Are
we
riffraff? Whoever thought of that?

Like I mentioned, LaPointe is really small, but keep in mind there's not a lot of us living out here year-round—about two hundred. Not that many crazy people in Wisconsin.

We pass by a mailbox that's a miniature Victorian mansion; behind it is a field full of similar birdhouses perched on long poles. A handsome man, dressed smartly in faded jeans and a tight T-shirt with a Fedora hat askew, gives us a big wave and I honk back. A long, thick braid of hair snakes down his back; it swings with his every move.

“That Charlie,” I comment. “He's a looker—for his age—I mean…”

“I know exactly
what
you mean, Eve darling. It's amazing a man well into his seventies can look so—dashing. It's simply…”

“Tempting?”

“Eve Moss.”

“He's a widower—like you—handsome as hell, lives right down the street from us and I would think that you and he…”

Ruby lets out a guffaw and then smacks me on the arm. “I have no intention of having anything more than a friendship with the likes of
any
man. Even if the thought of Charlie is—quite
tempting
.”

“Here I thought that maybe you and he—”

“I was married more of my life than I was single—nearly
fifty years
. For the first time—for the last time, I should think—I'm having the time of my life and I want nothing more than—this.”

“To be honest, I totally understand, but don't you miss the sex? I sometimes do.”

“If it
could
only be sex. But you see, if Charlie and I were to be—intimate—well, then our relationship becomes about
that
and should I
tire
of him…” I glance her way. “Oh all right, if he got sick of
me
, well then, our friendship could jolly well end in the bargain and I simply don't want to take that chance. Besides, at my age, fantasy is fuel enough, I can take care of myself.”

“You're so right. Personally, for the longest time, I've filled my life so completely with owning and running my salon. Now…with our apron business…hanging out with the boys and just life up here being so incredible, well, it sure is enough for me—more than enough.” Okay, so maybe I
do
miss the sex, I'm not dead you know. But at my age, sex is not such a, what, obsession?

We're driving down “Main Street” LaPointe and it truly is something, a real Norman Rockwell. A knot of people are getting off the ferry; several groups are strolling along the sidewalks in front of the tidy storefronts that pepper the lane. A newspaper deliveryman peddles his bike along, handing out bundles and greeting one and all along the way.

I pull up in front of a pastel blue building. Its wraparound porch welcomes you with groupings of wicker furniture. A huge red neon sign blinks
AL'S PLACE
above the door.

We head in. The place is quiet, a few people are seated at the long bar, but no one's in any of the burgundy-colored banquettes that line the entire wall opposite the bar. We decide on the one up front, by the window.

“Look what the cat dragged in,” Bonnie calls out from the back and comes closer.

Her wispy hair is now scrunched, giving her “lost girl” face a sexier look. Gone is the harsh black eyeliner she wore when we first met and now she looks—fresh. The pale blue cotton dress under her crisp white apron (compliments of guess who) gives her slim frame some hips. I'd love to share some of mine.

She originally worked for us, rather pokey with the sewing machine, but recently her rotten husband—Al—fell dead. We, the women of Ruby's Aprons, helped her toss his extensive bowling trophy collection out—we're talking extensive here—and with some painting and lots of sweat,
voilà
, Al's Place was born. Bonnie's now a full-time restaurant owner and chef and bartender. Another past apron employee is her best, and only, waitress: Marsha.

“Actually”—I purse my lips—“Rocky
did
drag something in—wanna see it?” I pretend to be searching in my purse and Bonnie says she'll “pass, thanks.”

“It looks smashing in here, darling.”

“Thanks, I'm working like crazy, but it feels great to have a place to call your own, and thanks to Al's life insurance, I just paid it off today!”

“Well—don't just stand there,” I say. “Get three cosmopolitans from the bartender and get over here.”

Bonnie lifts an edge of the countertop up, crosses to the other side of the bar and says, “The bartender will get right on that!” And she does.

We clink and sip our tall, tall-stemmed martini glasses. “Crazy,” by Patsy Cline, purrs out of the jukebox.

“Hey,” Bonnie says, nearly toppling her glass when she smacks it down. “Heard you've found your daughter—that's great!”

“How did you…” I forget how damn small this place is.

“Heard it from Marsha, who ran into Lilly over at Andy's IGA grocery in Bayfield.”

“Right,” I say. “How's she doing—Marsha, that is.”

“Great, she's the best waitress ever and you would not
believe
the cakes and pies she can make.”

“Her time at Norske Nook,” Ruby adds, slurping her drink, “must have paid off.”

“That Darlene Kravitz of the
Island Gazette.
” Bonnie leans in. “She came in here a couple of days ago and told Marsha that
she
thinks her
husband
called over there looking for her.”

“
No…
” I dramatically say. Darlene is our biggest “island gossip.” Ruby knows I can't stand her. So she kicks me under the table to hold my tongue. “I thought that he up and left her and her daughter in Rice Lake, years ago.”

“He did, and the thing is, they never got a divorce. Marsha's afraid he's going to cause trouble.”

“But Darlene…” I protest a bit. “I don't know that she's all that reliable and why didn't he just call
here
?”

Bonnie shrugs. “You've got me. Hey, why not give the menu a look. The soup is egg drop, I have a great pot sticker appetizer, and I'm just putting the finishing touches on a fabulous salad Marsha had heard about—made with shredded cabbage and raisins and apples and—”

“Maple-vinegar dressing?” I finish. She shrugs her shoulders. Lilly must have told Marsha, who in turn told…See what I mean by small?

T
he early light of dawn is peeking into my bedroom. My Felix-the-Cat clock is showing me it's time to get my rear in gear. Finally, it's Thursday and I'm having lunch with my daughter! I'll never be able to eat, my
God
, my stomach cramps have cramps. Rocky moves from one of my pillows to the end of the bed and sighs into a ball. What a life he's got.

I slip into my floor-length terry-cloth robe and hunt around for my slippers. Giving them a good shake (in case mice are in there), I slip my freshly painted toes in and wiggle them for warmth. Patting Rocky, I push my curls around and head downstairs.

Being the first one up is such a treat. Recently, we switched from instant coffee to roasted whole bean coffee and what a difference in taste. I grind it the night before and then get the old tin coffeepot all ready; I love the sound the coffee makes as it percolates—that snappy rhythm helps me wake up. The coffee is the “fair trade” kind, so the money gets right to the farmer; must be why it's called “Farmer to Farmer.” Clever. Clicking on the stove, I take down several mugs and then slide open the shutters over the sink.

The sky is a cool lavender shade; looks chilly out. A cigarette sounds perfect, but I washed my hair last night and you know how important first impressions are. Smoky hair is just plain gross. Who am I kidding—
smoking
is gross. Sighing, I pick up one of the two rocks that live on the windowsill.

This one is cool and smooth, pink and white in color. It used to live on my sill in Eau Claire, Wisconsin. I put it back and take up the other. This one is real flat and oval; it's from the river that flows through Eau Claire. I spent hours along that river, watching it slip by, while thinking my thoughts.

Pouring a mug full, swirling in some milk, I turn back toward the living room. Since the wraparound porch has only screens, I decide the library would be cozier. Rocky joins me as we stroll down the hallway. Before turning into the library, we gaze at the floor-to-ceiling stained-glass window. Since the sun has begun to fire up the sky, the person-sized toad, with its golden crown, is ablaze in greens and yellow. Its winking eye has a human quality that's a bit unnerving. There are a lot of “toad items” around the cottage, from rag rugs to the bootleg in the hidden room behind the boathouse.

Every time I come in here, it's a surprise. One entire wall is knotty pine bookshelves; cupboards run along beneath them—so many titles to explore. Ruby's husband was quite the reader, and since this cottage is over a hundred years old, his father as well as his grandfather all must have added to the collection. I wonder if the women did, then I spy some books by Mary Stewart and Jane Austen and have my answer. Original chick lit, but since moving here, reading time has been taken up with so many other things. Maybe over the long winter I'll get better acquainted with some of these marvelous books.

I fling open the heavy drapes and curl up on the window seat. It's loaded with pillows in every shape and size; several have toads embroidered on them. Rocky settles into my lap and we take in the view of Lake Superior. It's great not seeing any shoreline, just water, on and on. I hope I can share this with Helen.

Sure am glad that Ruby and I repaired our roots. Am I too old to be a redhead? I was a
real
one—up until the gray showed up. I used to find it so funny when clients would tell me they couldn't remember their
real
hair color. I can't tell you how many times I wanted to say, “
Gray
, it's all this ugly
gray
and thank God you're here!” But I didn't.

“Here you two are.” Ruby steps into the library. “With the sun on your hair like that, you look like an angel—but I know different.” She chuckles and sits down opposite me in the bay window.

She's wearing a fuchsia pink kimono with matching wide headband that she sleeps in. If it weren't for her hands being a little blotchy, it'd be hard to guess her age. Let's not forget she isn't naturally cinnamon brown either. Meow.

“Hardly slept a wink,” I sigh.

“Me either.”

“Why not?” I ask. “Are you reading another psycho-murder-mystery again?”

“Yes, of course I am. But no, that's not what kept me up. I was worrying you weren't sleeping because you most likely were worrying—too.”

“Good grief, Ruby. When in the world have I—queen of worry—needed any help worrying?”

“You have a point there.”

“What will I wear? Everything I own makes me look so—not slim. I'm not the slim type. Before I went to bed, do you know how many Reese's Peanut Butter Cups I had?”

“I couldn't
begin
to guess, darling.”

“I ate an entire six-pack!” I pull empty wrappers from my pockets and show her the proof.

“This
is
serious.” Ruby lifts her perfectly arched brows. “Does this mean you're not interested in what's for breakfast?”

“Maybe…”

“Since it is a special day,” Ruby pats her hair, “I was thinking of making my ‘house special' omelet.” She gets up and moves toward the door. “But if you're on this chocolate binge and…” She heads out the door.

“That wouldn't be your spinach, goat cheese and herb omelet—would it?” I'm a goner.

 

“Well, what do you think?” I turn this way and that. Modeling my final,
final
clothes choice. Favorite denim slacks (not those faded kind) over semihigh black pumps, pea-green-colored silk blouse and a roomy tweed jacket. Hair is down and soft; makeup, too. Have to reapply the lips—again.

“I believe you're glowing.” She orders me to turn around, then she attaches a pearl necklace and gives my shoulder a pat. “There, now you're dressed proper.”

I start to tear; we hug. “You make me smear this face I spent all morning on and you're in big trouble.”

“Trouble's my middle name, I should think.”

“Damn it…” I say, checking my watch. I give the stump table a smack, but carefully, so as not to chip my nails—Ruckus Red. “I missed the ferry, I can't be
late
, what was I
thinking
?” It's not like me to be late—ever. Can we say, “nervous wreck”?

“Take the duck,” Ruby suggests. “Could be a real conversation starter.”

The duck is our other “vehicle.” It's a World War II bus that also can be driven into the water. We recently replaced the old awning over the top with a snappy red-and-white-striped affair. It's a riot, but not the kind of thing you arrive in to impress the daughter you've never met. Wait a minute. Who am I trying to be here?

“You're right.” I take the keys off the peg and reach for the door.

For some reason, I part the lace curtain on the door and peek out. Over next to the barn, all in a line, are Sam and Lilly, Howard, Johnny, Marsha, and even Bonnie. I spy Charlie at the wheel of the duck, driving it out. He parks it outside the back door.

Turning to Ruby, I croak out, “You guys are too much—how'd you know I'd miss the—never mind.”

“Sam may have mentioned…yes indeed, we
are
too much. And so are you—love.” Ruby reaches up and touches me ever-so-gently on my cheek. “Your makeup looks like hell, you know.” She grins.

“I look fabulous—coming?”

“Certainly.” She loops her arm through mine and we head down the porch, out the screen door, to the “send-off” team.

Everyone gives me hugs and back pats and kisses galore. You'd think I was taking a trip to Madison or something!

Sam pulls me aside and says, “Child, now I know I made you a promise—and I've done my darndest not to share any psychic seeing far as Helen's concerned, but there's one thing you need to be ready for.”

“If Helen's a lesbian, I could care less…”

“She's gunna want to know about your folks and things are…”

I catch my breath. “I've thought a lot about that. Maybe it's time to make amends.”

“It's time, honey.” Sam clears her throat. “I know your mom's passed, but your dad, he's not doing too good. All I can see is it's something to do with his breathing.”

“He's not going to die—is he?” Why'd we ever drift this far apart?

“No, far's I can see, not his time—yet.” She looks deeply into my eyes.

“Thank God…”

“Eve—you doing this, meeting Helen and all, it's the
right
time. Your daddy's gunna have
two
surprises. Now get on out of here.” Sam looks away and a startled expression passes over her face. “Oh my land, you both sure are in for—”

“Stop.” I hold up my hand. “I want this to be a surprise to remember.”

Sam mutters something about
how it's going to be, sister
as I climb up the ladder into the duck. I pull the seat
way
up (Charlie's tall), push my hair around and put it into gear. Waving to the smiling group—my family—I head around the cottage and down toward the lake.

Passing the boathouse, I look up and spy Rocky perched on the balcony rail. He gives me a cat smile and I wave back. I hit the gas and splash into the lake. While drifting out a bit, I switch to the outboard motor, light up a cigarette and push in a CD. Soon soft flutes float out of the speakers; The V.I.P. Club sure knows jazz. Turning left, I head the duck toward Bayfield; toward her. With all this wind, my hair shouldn't get
too
smoky. I hope.

A V of geese sails across the sky and it makes me wonder. I mean, they don't use cell phones and look at the perfect flying they do. Right about now, I honestly wish I could just stretch time out a bit, you know, make this moment—longer. Funny how you wait and wonder about something or someone and then, when you're about to see that person, you want just a few more—what—hours? Like Sam said, “The time is right.” Tell that to my stomach.

I put the pedal to the metal and can begin to see Bayfield. Even though it's only two-and-a-half miles to the shore, I feel my bladder saying, “Many cups of coffee in here!” Great. Pulling down my visor, I redo the lips, give the hair some scrunching and snap it back up, the visor, that is. I think I'm pitting out. Double great. I remember when I was packing up some of my mom's stuff; I found a package of armpit pads. At the time I thought they were really silly—now, I could use some extra protection in there.

Chugging to shore, I flip a switch for the duck to become a land vehicle and drive up the boat ramp at the City Marina. I make a sharp right onto First Street. Several people turn and stare; this is
not
your typical SUV. Clicking on the microphone, I singsong, “It's a beautiful day in Wisconsin.”

Since the restaurant is only a block away, in moments I'm about to turn into Greunke's parking lot, then remember the duck is too long to park in there. I pull up along the curb on Rittenhouse Drive and push down the parking brake. Here I go. I climb down the ladder, not an easy feat with heels.

Pushing into the restaurant, I slip off to the left, into the world's tiniest potty. But thank God it's here—relief—and one more opportunity to make sure nothing's about to leap out of my nose and no lipstick on the teeth; hate that. I reenter and look around.

The walls are amber-colored pine and they're covered with cool stuff. Mirrors, plates and platters, old movie-star photos, newspaper stories, you name it, the walls are packed. Judith, the owner, breezes by and sends me a “Hello, Eve” on her way to answer the phone.

She hangs up, then turns to me. “You're looking great, two for lunch?”

“I…” Stammering I say, “Yes, and could I have that corner, the one with the little church pews?”

“It's all set for you.” Judith gives me a knowing look and I follow her around and up several steps into a favorite nook. “Lilly and Sam stopped in on their way over to your place this morning and—”

“There aren't any photographers or…” I slide onto one of the pews, shaking my head.

“Of course not, wish I'd thought to call the
Island Gazette
—I'm kidding.” She sees my “raised to heaven” eyebrows. “It's lucky for you I'm busy; otherwise I'd be hard to get rid of. I'll send Helen over the minute she comes in…I'm so excited for you!” She gives my shoulder a squeeze and flits away. Here—there are no secrets.

Judith has run this place for years—that's her classy vintage Cadillac parked out front—and I wonder who's doing
her
hair? It always looks great. If I have to sit here for long, I'm going to die. Or order a glass of wine—a bottle with a straw?

“Excuse me, Eve—Moss?”

A tall, slender woman, dressed in a tailored gray outfit, is extending her lovely hand. Her straight blond hair is streaked with strawberry and gold. That's my nose! I slowly stand and she steps forward and—we hug and cry and laugh, too. The small crowd behind us claps and cheers and then—thank you, Judith—they're led away.

“You're just
beautiful
,” I gush. “Nice color job, but you have
got
to eat more. Sit down, I'm about to faint.” My eyes will not stop tearing.

She sits opposite of me and I notice the freckles marching across her nose.
My
nose. Her eyes are mine, too—green. But that's all the resemblance I can see, so far. I'll be checking further, though.

“This is so incredibly—emotional,” Helen says. “I've not often considered this actually
happening
, you know? I mean, I knew since I was young that I was adopted. ‘Chosen' is the word my father preferred. He made us promise never to look, but—”

“Ah, well…that's understandable—really.” I
suppose
it is.

Judith swings by and takes our drink order. We both are getting wine—thank the Lord. Or Allah or Buddha or…