Tales From The Loon Town Cafe

by Dennis Frahmann

  My timer buzzed. Danny walked in. “They’re ready for more,” he said.

  “Well, we’re ready for them. Clear the tables.” I began pulling down the serving plates. On each I placed a serving of a wild rice and mushroom pilaf that had been baking for the past hour. Next to it, I placed a delicate carved tomato rose. From the oven, I pulled a parchment packet for each plate. The paper had browned from the heat of the oven. Juices from the veal had mingled with the herbs and bacon. Tiny wisps of fragrant steam escaped here and there from small air vents.

  Mrs. Rabinowicz was finishing lining her custard bowls, and had already poured the pudding mix and milk into a big Mixomatic. “Danny and Stephen,” I said, “I want your help on this. After we set the plates in front of each diner, we need to go to each plate, with a small scissors, cut a diagonal line across the paper and pull it back to expose the baked veal chop. Quickly but neatly. Ready? Let’s do it.”

  We entered the dining room and began setting down the main course. Henry Van Elkind was at one end of the long table, Rita at the other, with eleven guests on each side of the long table. Three large silver candelabras were filled with lighted candles, their flames wavering in the breeze. Large French windows at one end opened to the same stone terrace that fronted the living room.

  Snippets of conversation slipped into my mind during the frenzy of serving.

  “It’s an opportunity to transform the region,” said the Senator, “how could I not support it . . .

  “ . . . she’s getting so old. What can we do with her? She hates Chicago . . .”

  “Tell us, Kip, what are you planning to study? Medicine? Law?”

  “Buzz off!”

  “Reagan won’t let the stock market drop. This is the time to make investments like these. . “

  “ . . . so amusing, this town. Have I told you about the character they call the Revered Willy?”

  “It would be betraying my tribe . . .”

  “We should get Kip and Cynthia together. Like old royal times. It would cement the bond . . . “

  Back in the kitchen at last. Stephen and I had made the rounds, serving Chardonnay to some, a delightful pinot noir to others. If it had been my cafe, I would not have served another drink out of fear they would kill someone on the drive home and I would be stuck with the liability.

  “I need a cup of coffee before serving them dessert,” said Stephen as he slid into a chair. “Mrs. Rabinowicz, how are those desserts coming along?”

  “Finished,” she said. Indeed they were. Twenty-four custard cups, each topped by a cone of artificial whipped topping. Only the raspberries met my standards. I could never let Thelma know about this.

  “Wait a moment,” I said. “They need one thing.” I went into the cooler where I had stored my garnishes. “Kip didn’t get these.” On top of each cone, I placed one perfect luscious raspberry, and from either side I stuck a delectable leaf molded in white chocolate.

  “They look great,” sighed Danny.

  “They do,” I agreed. “Let’s see if they’re ready to have us clear the dinner plates and bring in dessert. You didn’t drink all the coffee, did you, Stephen?”

  All twenty-four custard bowls were placed on a single tray. I marched in, holding the tray aloft smartly. Stephen followed with two silver pots, one holding caffeinated and one with decaf coffee. Danny brought up the rear with a tray of after-dinner liqueurs. The group broke into applause. Admittedly, the desserts did look grand.

  Back in the kitchen, we collapsed onto pressed wood oak chairs around an old oak round table. Mrs. Rabinowicz was already there, a shot glass in her hand, and a bottle of schnapps to the side. Suddenly, it occurred to me. Why wasn’t she a guest in the dining room?

  Henry walked in. “Walter, I must talk to you about the dessert.”

  Fear rose in me. He wasn’t too drunk to notice the dessert’s shortcomings. Visions of the Loon Town Cafe sinking into the water of Big Sapphire Lake flashed before me.

  “Damn good dessert. Best I’ve had in years. Like a childhood ambrosia. Even Kip loved it, but then he’s always loved raspberries.”

  The bastard.

  chapter five

  My car headlights pierced ahead through the dark outlines of tall trees stabbing the night. Above us, the sky was top-heavy with diamond-sharp stars. Inside the car, our wheels battled noisily with the town road potholes once we left the smooth pavement of the Van Elkind camp. In Danny, there was a disquietude unusual even for him.

  While still in the lodge’s kitchen, I asked him if something was wrong. He just shook his head and aggressively polished Mrs. Van Elkind’s precious silver forks. The butler Stephen caught my eye as he put away dried china and simply shrugged his shoulders.

  It had been an evening of success for my food and my cafe. The extravagance of the flowers and the meal—despite the reasonable rate I gave Henry Van Elkind—combined with the jewelry and fine clothes of the guests suggested more money that I had made all summer at the cafe. Amid the plentitude and chatter, you could feel the spark of being in a place of importance. For me, the aura of the dinner elicited a nostalgia for those nights in New York when I was someone, when I was still with someone. Yet a glimpse of Rita or Hank would remind me of my place. I was nothing. They didn’t even see me, nor did their guests. I became a nothing, a ghost, and a non-existence even as I filled their glass with wine or served them dessert. I was just a piece in their jigsaw backdrop for a festive evening in Thread.

  Had Danny felt that? Or was it something else? As Danny cleared the dinner plates, he was close enough to hear some whispered words between two guests. His face reddened, and I thought he would tip the plate with its greasy parchment still surrounding a gnawed-upon veal bone onto the Yves St. Laurent peasant skirt of the Senator’s wife. But he caught himself and went on, yet his face burned brightly for many minutes.

  What did he hear? So many things it might have been. Ghosts can hear, and this one had listened to the meaningless gossip of the night. The belittlement of the town. The challenges of isolation. And the more personal jabs, like tittering over Reverend Willy or a laugh at a townsman who so missed his dead wife that he spent each afternoon at her grave. I hope it wasn’t that Danny had overheard his father’s love turned into an anecdote. Whenever I thought of Toivo, I liked to focus on how he and Lempi for years had walked each evening along Highway 17, hand in hand. Until that day that for some reason she chose another path. If I learned that Henry or Rita had joked about Danny’s father in any way, I vowed I would never work for them again. No matter how much they paid. No matter who their guests might be.

  The car bucked through a particularly bad pothole. I looked over at Danny to check on him. In the glimmer of starlight, I quickly looked away from his face scarred with silent anger.

  “Tell us all about the party,” Cynthia demanded breathlessly. “Wasn’t it just grand?” On this stormy Sunday morning, my faithful coterie gathered within the cafe’s warmth. Mr. Packer, Bromley Bastique and Claire Moon sat at the counter with their respective morning beverages. Officer Campbell, the town’s sole police officer, made it a sipping foursome. He had taken to frequent visits at times he thought Thelma might be about. Outside, dark clouds were rushing across the skies. A brisk wind whipped up small eddies of dust in the square.

  “Tornado weather,” declared Officer Campbell. “Reminds me of that time twisters came through and cleared a path halfway from here to Timberton. Back in ‘66.”

  “No, the cyclone was in 1965,” stated Mr. Packer. “Came within one quarter mile of the Van Elkind camp. Too bad it didn’t just blow the place away.”

  “Mr. Packer, you don’t mean that,” said Cynthia. “Danny, please tell me about the party. I would have gone, but I can’t stand that Kip.”

  “Cynthia, warm up my cup of java here. And forget about that party,” demanded Bromley. “Couldn’t have been much of an event. They didn’t even bother asking me.”

  “But the senator was there,” Da
nny broke in. He had arrived for the morning shift on time, but his outlook seemed as troubled as the stormy skies outside. Yet as the morning went on, the cheerfulness of Cynthia seemed to uplift his mood. Even if he normally paid her little attention, he was always positively affected by her lack of gravity.

  “If the Senator was there, he must have dropped in unexpectedly. I obviously would have been invited otherwise. As the mayor . . .”

  Claire looked up from her muffin. “You’re not really the mayor, you know. You can’t have a head without the table.”

  Mr. Packer added. “Bromley, for there to be a mayor, there must be a city. And to be quite accurate Thread is not anything. You only head the township, and that makes you chairman, not mayor.”

  “So what? That makes me the head of something bigger. All the more reason I would be invited.”

  “Where’s my wild strawberry jam?” Claire asked.

  Cynthia slammed the coffee pot down on the counter. Just then a loud clap of thunder reverberated through the town. Everyone but Cynthia laughed. Cynthia was running out of patience. To protect my business, I was going to have to describe the event. There was no way that Danny would ever give her any details. But there seemed to be a righteous anger building in her. Her desire to be liked would only go so far, before being overtaken by her need to tour an imagined romantic life.

  Officer Campbell looked at Cynthia with affection. “Girl, forget about those rich summer folk and their fancy ways. I got a project for you. It would make up for the time you broke the police light at the prom.”

  Cynthia suddenly looked abashed. We all knew the reason why. A year ago, she had convinced her classmates that, after eighty years without such a fete, the school needed to host a prom. She selected the theme, designed the decorations, hired the band, and pretty much told everyone they were going to attend. The highlight of the decor had been an eight-foot tall lighthouse, constructed of old two-by-fours, chicken wire and dozens of boxes of white tissues. Its crowning glory had been a rotating red light borrowed from the town’s only police car, because her dad Red had the power to make such things happen, a power that didn’t turn out so well when the light fell in the middle of prom’s king and queen dance and broke into a myriad of pieces. Officer Campbell still didn’t have a new light for his car, because Bromley wouldn’t buy him one.

  “Forget your old parties,” said Officer Campbell. “Help me figure out what to do with that giant muskie down to the Sapphire lakes.”

  “You’re smoking dope,” Bromley scoffed. “Just like those kids who claim a nine-foot muskie is trying to attack them! Nonsense!”

  “You know,” I broke in, “a few days ago, Mr. Packer and I were at the lake when a group of small kids dashed out of the water claiming they saw it.”

  “Group hysteria,” Bromley replied.

  I had an idea that I thought Bromley would like. “Mr. Packer suggested that publicizing the fish would lure people to Thread. Think of the challenge we could promote: reel in the world’s largest muskie.”

  “Not exactly what I said, young Pearson,” Mr. Packer noted, and then took another sip of his steaming coffee.

  My mind was on a creative burst. “We could be the Loch Ness of Wisconsin. Sponsor a festival. I could have another grand opening of this cafe. Serve muskie as one of the main courses. That could be fun. Eat the fish before he eats you.”

  “Interesting idea,” mused Bromley. “God darn interesting.”

  “You betcha,” said Officer Campbell. “These kids ain’t making this fish story up. There’s something big in that lake.”

  “Well, I will just ask my little men the next time they visit.” Claire paused, as if frightened by her thoughts. “Oh, what if my men accidentally dropped one of their fish into the lake? It could be an alien fish. What if it’s still a baby?”

  “Stop talking nonsense!” shouted Cynthia over Claire’s din. “None of you people listen to me. I’m always listening to you. It’s not fair. I want to hear about the party. Danny, please tell me everything.” She ignored the rest of us.

  “Don’t badger the boy,” Officer Campbell said. “I think you should listen to your boss here. Plan a festival. Get your Dad to fund it. It would be good for the town. We should get Thelma out here to tell us what she thinks about our giant muskie.”

  Another clap of thunder, and the rain started down in fierce sheets. With a rush of damp air from the opened door. Chip Frozen Bear dashed into the cafe, his clothes dripping wet, his dark black hair plastered back against his skull, giving him a particularly ominous, if handsome, look.

  “Talk of a giant muskie?” He seemed amused. “Don’t you think we should honor our land and the spirits that live within it? Perhaps this giant fish has been sent as a sign that we must live in harmony with nature.”

  “What B.S.,” Bromley said. “Your reservation’s a god darn dump!”

  Frozen Bear held up his hand as though to stop an expected protest. He had very strong hands. “Bromley, please. You’re happy as can be to keep us there. Don’t deny it. You know the state wanted to combine the Thread and Lattigeaux school districts. Both districts are too small to serve our children well. But together, they would make a better high school and a less expensive one to run.”

  “We don’t want our kids to travel so far,” said Officer Campbell.

  “Nonsense. Some kids are already bussed twenty miles from resorts way back in the woods. Distance and time has nothing to do with your decision. Only the color of our skin.

  “To the Lattigo, muskies are virtually sacred. Don’t make a mockery of this giant fish, or, you never know, we Lattigo might claim it as our god.” He smiled broadly, his white teeth perfect. Cynthia momentarily forgot about Danny and the party.

  A lightning bolt pierced through the sky and a giant peal of thunder shook the town. The rain pounded against the windows like the tom toms of war.

  “Who are you? Chief Thunder Water?” laughed Bromley. “Anyway, it’s our god darn town. We can have a festival if we want one.”

  “Of course you can, I just came by to compliment this man on his food at last night’s event.” He held out his hand, “Wally, I know we had a rough meeting once before, so let’s start fresh. Thanks for bringing a great restaurant to this town.” His handshake was warm and his grip was strong. It was all better than a peace pipe.

  “And, Cynthia, while I’m here, can you bring me a cup of coffee and a cinnamon roll? Might as well try the place out.”

  Cynthia beamed. “You got it. And then you can tell me about the party last night, because Danny won’t.”

  Danny suddenly erupted. “Because the party was shit, the people were shit, the night was shit. The only thing that wasn’t shit was Wally’s food. So be glad you weren’t there. Just forget about the god damn party.” Danny rushed into the kitchen. I could hear the big pots being banged around the sink.

  “The boy’s probably right,” Mr. Packer said. “That camp has always been filled with unhappiness.”

  Cynthia, who had momentarily been caught between the excitement of Chip Frozen Bear and the dismay of Danny’s reaction, perked up. “What do you mean? Are there some stories I haven’t heard? Have you ever been there?”

  “Oh, yes, I used to be a frequent guest,” Mr. Packer paused. For a second it seemed to me that he grew younger, as though in reflecting on his past, his own youthful appearance reemerged. The scraggly beard, the missing arm, the unwashed body transformed in a momentary shimmer to a younger, handsomer man who hadn’t yet become a town eccentric. “In those days, it was still owned by the family that built the camp, by the daughter of the old lumber baron. A beautiful woman. Her life was a tragic one, as the family’s life was filled with tragedies and tied to the very woods of this area.”

  Cynthia was thrilled by a potential romantic story of the past, completely ignoring Chip’s order. “Mr. Packer, you have to tell me about this.”

  “No, I don’t think I will,” he replied.

&nbs
p; “Why not?” she pouted. “Well, Grandpa John can tell me. He knows everything about everyone in town.”

  “Not everything,” said Mr. Packer enigmatically. “Go ahead and ask him.”

  Thelma came out of the kitchen, “What happened to Danny?” She stopped suddenly, seeing Officer Campbell was at the bar. Her ample cheeks were flushed.

  Some days, I felt as though I ran an amusement park for the people who worked for me. Did the restaurant exist to make money so I could pay both them and me? Or was its reason for being simply to give everyone in town a stage on which to parade for one another?

  “He got mad because I wanted to know about the Van Elkind party. And Mr. Packer was just about to tell us a story about the Van Elkind camp, back in the old days, when some mysterious family still owned it.”

  “Would that be the Oxfords from down south?” asked Thelma. Mr. Packer raised his coffee cup in admiration toward Thelma. Cynthia looked at the cook with round eyes.

  “What do you know about the Oxfords?” Cynthia was happy, sensing another source for this mysterious story.

  “Who cares about these old families anyway?” asked Bromley. “None of them are going to help us pay the bills around this town. We should get back to our big fish and do something about it.”

  Claire broke in hurriedly, as though she didn’t want anyone to continue talking about the Oxfords, whoever they might be. “I could have my men radiate the lake the next time they visit and kill the thing.”

  “Now why would you want to do a god darn thing like that? Who’s going to come to Thread if the thing is dead? Claire, where’s your brains?” Bromley had gotten up and was starting to waddle around the cafe in excitement. “You know I like young Wally’s idea here. Let’s make this fish an asset to this town. Who needs a giant loon? We could have a giant muskie.”

  “Doesn’t Hayward over to the west already have a giant muskie outside their town limits?” asked Mr. Packer.