Tales From The Loon Town Cafe

by Dennis Frahmann

“Who cares?” she said. She turned abruptly and walked back into the cafe, the door slamming shut behind her.

  “I mean it,” he screamed and let the gasoline dribble from the can. It trickled in thin waves, a glittering sheen in the sunlight. It splashed weakly onto his oily head and ran down around his ears, falling onto his shoulders. He continued to pour. The gas dripped over his head, falling down upon his dirty shirt. As the gasoline spread through the fabric, it transformed the dyes. In those wet spots, the shirt metamorphosed into a bright scarlet, as though blood were seeping through. The last drops of gasoline bounced onto his head and continued to drip down his body, soaking into the tops of his torn Levis, the wet stain slowly working down his crotch and thighs.

  His head looked like he had just washed his hair in oil. His torso appeared to be drenched in blood. And his jeans had the look of a little boy who had peed in his pants. Down around his feet, little puddles of gasoline formed, each growing slowly larger as more gasoline puddled down his skinny body.

  “Cynthia tell me you love me, or I’m going to set myself on fire,” he shouted at the top of his lungs. Cynthia came storming out.

  “If I can’t light your fire, then I’m going to light mine,” said Kip.

  “Do it!” she screamed. “Do me a favor and do it! I don’t give a fucking damn.” She swirled back into the restaurant.

  He stood there. A look of dull astonishment worked its way across his stupor. He shifted from foot to foot. He had voiced his ultimatum and now was perplexed as to what he could do. But just as he felt his words had no meaning for others, he realized they had no meaning for him. A lazy smile swirled up.

  “What the fuck,” he shrugged. “If she don’t care, neither do I. Fuck her. Fuck all of you! I’m walking to the lake and washing this shit off me. Fucking women. Fucking fags.”

  The tension flowed from my body. A disaster had been averted. Or so, we thought.

  At the party, hearing Amanda disparage her son was enough to break Rita’s controlled demeanor. “I find that quite a rude statement coming from you. You might do well to consider what else this town discusses before you denigrate my son. If Cynthia doesn’t enjoy his attentions, I believe it is as much her loss as his.”

  Through all of this, Barbara Trueheart looked tired and much older than she was. Over the years, she tried to set the pace for the town’s society. She was the first to use the talents of Amanda Manny. She frequently went to Chicago on buying trips. Despite Red’s just-one-of-the-boys facade, she spent the money that allowed her to swim among barracudas like Rita. But it was clear she didn’t enjoy the waters. For the first time, I sensed that much of Cynthia was derived from her mother.

  “I just want Cynthia to find true love,” Barbara said. “If it were your son she loved, then I would be happy for her and for him. But she doesn’t.”

  “No, she doesn’t love Kip,” I agreed. “But how many people find true love? Anyway, who even knows what it is?”

  Barbara had a faraway look in her eyes. “My grandmother used to tell me a story about our ancestors. Did you know that my family has been in Wisconsin since the seventeenth century? They were originally trappers and explorers, but even before that they were nobility in France. It was a many, many-great grandfather of mine who gave up his family fortune because of love and in the end he trapped beaver in these northwoods. No one has ever really found true love in our family, however briefly, since those days. Cynthia shouldn’t continue that sad legacy.” She looked so wistful that she seemed young once more, and I wondered about the state of love between Red and her. There truly was an astonishing amount of Barbara Trueheart in Cynthia.

  “If Cynthia were here,” I said, “she would insist that you tell this story you’re hinting at.”

  Barbara smiled, ”But Cynthia isn’t here.”

  “But I am,” Priscilla said, “and I want to hear it.” While Jacqueline smiled in agreement, Amanda and Rita were locked in their own small battle of wills and weren’t paying much attention.

  “I love telling it, so why not.” And Barbara began her family tale.

  “The first European that we know of to find his way to Wisconsin was Jean Nicolet in 1634. He was a young and strapping man on a mission from the governor of New France. And when he returned to France to his home that was very near the chateau of my ancestor, Pierre DuPellier, he was filled with tales of adventure. Pierre was just a boy that winter when Nicolet spent a week at the chateau and told of the wonders of his discovery of Lake Michigan, of the five thousand Winnebago Indians who had welcomed him at the foot of Green Bay, and of his enormous disappointment when he had to report back to the French Governor Samuel de Champlain that he had not found the northwest passage to China, that in fact the American continent must be far vaster than anyone imagined to have such great fresh water lakes within its midst.

  “What was such a great disappointment to Nicolet only excited a boyhood fantasy in young Pierre. They say that as he grew to an adolescent and then to a young man all he could discuss was his desire to explore the vastness of New France and to see these Indians for himself. By the time he was in his twenties, despite his father’s enormous objections, he had made his way to Quebec to be a part of New France. And there he hooked up with two young French gentlemen like himself–Groselliers and Radisson.

  “The three of them decided to retrace the route blazed by Nicolet. What did it matter, they thought, if this wasn’t the route to China? The trail could still lead to vast fortunes. It was theirs to discover, theirs to own.”

  “When was this?” I asked, sneaking a glance at Jacqueline and wondering what she might think of this tale. I knew how sensitive the Lattigo were about their connection to French voyageurs.

  “The year was 1656. It was a wonderful time for all of them. They discovered the Sault St. Marie and made their way into Lake Superior. Think of it. The first white men to do it. My ancestor was on that boat. What a wonderful feeling it must have been to be the first to see that great lake.”

  “My people were already there,” Jacqueline pointed out.

  “I don’t mean to suggest that they weren’t. In fact, this story will be as much your story as it is mine. Just wait.” Barbara was glowing. Amazing to think this was the same woman who appeared so tired just minutes earlier.

  “They followed the shoreline of Upper Michigan and came to a bay just above Timberton. Pierre’s journals talk about what a beautiful sight the islands in this bay were. Well, you know, you’ve seen the Apostle Islands yourself. The way the water’s waves have rushed against the soft sandstone to carve out caves that are more like ancient temples. Giant pillars of rock guarding mysterious entries. And the water and wind as it rushes in and out of those caves creates music.”

  “Legends among the Lattigo say that one of those islands was our original home at the very beginning of time, and that the sound you hear is that of the Great Spirit himself. For some of us it is the most holy of our places.” Jacqueline was beginning to enjoy the story.

  Barbara continued. “It was near that island that the tragedy happened. Storms are wild and quick on Lake Superior. Everyone knows how the Edmund Fitzgerald just cracked and sank without a trace, and that was a modern ship. What were our Frenchmen’s long canoes to do in such a storm? Somehow, and Pierre never was able to explain how, he was washed out of their boat by an unexpected wave and cast into the stormy waters in a day that was as dark as night. Radisson and Groselliers went on their way, perhaps not even knowing at the moment that Pierre had been washed overboard in the storm.

  “Storms can end as quickly as they appear. Soon Pierre found himself bobbing in a calm lake on a sunny afternoon. But you know how cold the lake can be–even in the middle of June. It will kill you quickly. He was too far from land to swim safely to shore. And in the chill of that icy lake’s water, he would soon have lost consciousness and sunk to the bottom.

  “And that is when she appeared in her canoe.”

  “Who?” I asked. �
��Who appeared?”

  “The most beautiful woman he had ever seen. Pierre had grown up in France and he always thought that angels would have a certain look. His savior did not have that look. Yet he still thought her an angel, even though her skin was dark, her hair black. Her tunic was made of the tawniest of leather and the sun shone from behind, creating a glow that transformed her. She was like no painting in the churches of his youth or in the illustrated books in his father’s chateau, yet to Pierre this woman was an angel descended from God Himself.

  “She was strong enough to pull him from the frigid waters to the safety of her canoe, strong enough to paddle the two of them to the shore of the mainland. There she built a fire and warmed him, and gave him food.

  “Pierre never learned her name. In his diaries, which my grandmother still treasured when she told me the tale, he always called her Fleur. She pulled him from the water and gave him life. Yet he never knew her real name. I remember clearly to this day how I would look at the faded ink in his journal, blotched by water and time, and trace out that finely written name. Fleur.” Her voice was nearly a whisper.

  “When he was recovered, Fleur somehow convinced Pierre to travel with her. But what else was he to do? He knew none of her language. She knew none of his. His own compatriots thought him dead. He had no way of returning to the safety of Quebec. So he followed. She brought him to her own village, where her tribe still lived in their winter birch round lodges.

  “Pierre stayed with the tribe for two weeks–two weeks that he described as the happiest days in his life. He felt he owed his life to Fleur, and she in turn took tremendous interest in everything about him. The others in her village did not seem to share this interest. They let the two of them wander through the woods. Fleur showed him how her tribe caught the mighty muskie, let him taste the foods they harvested from the woods, introduced him to the dark grain we now call wild rice. It all seemed so much more wonderful to Pierre than his predictable life in France.

  “He knew he was falling in love with Fleur, and he sensed that she was falling in love with him. The whole village could see that this was happening. And even without a shared language, Pierre and Fleur soon learned to communicate their love for one another.”

  “So what happened?” Priscilla wanted to know. “Did he stay? Did he marry her? Are you part Native American?”

  The business dealings of Red and Van Elkind off in the corner of this modern home receded from our minds. Today’s Lattigo tribe members became just another part of the evening’s background. Every one in the circle surrounding Barbara wanted to hear how love had emerged across culture and difference to blossom in the summer of that long distant year.

  “Love was not to be,” said Barbara. “Pierre was torn by the duty he felt. Duty to the other explorers who by now thought him dead. Duty to Champlain who governed New France from Quebec and had given his imprimatur to this exploration. Duty to his father in the far distant Loire valley who had given his blessing to his son’s trip to the New World only after extracting a vow from this son that he would return.

  “Pierre knew he wanted to stay. Yet he knew he had to return.

  “Somehow, and I can’t imagine how, he found the courage to let Fleur know that he must return to his homeland, that he must leave her. Somehow, he convinced the tribe to give him both a canoe and sufficient provisions to make the long trek back across the Great Lakes and up the St. Laurence. He needed to start while the summer was still young. If he did not reach Quebec by winter, he would be unlikely to ever make it.

  “It was the dawn of midsummer’s night when he was finally ready to leave–the longest day in the year. Fleur and others from her tribe traveled with him to the banks of Lake Superior to wish him off. He settled into his canoe at the first breaking light, balancing upon the misting waters as the sun rose over the ancient Penokee hills and skipped across the waters. The lake was unusually placid. The other tribe members retreated into the woods. Only the woman Pierre called Fleur remained on the shore.

  “There was no wind that day. Only sunlight on a cloudless day. Only blue sky over blue water with one small canoe and one brave man. And another brave woman standing on the shore. Pierre paddled away, unwilling to look back, fearing that if he did then he would be unable to continue paddling. He knew it was his duty to return–duty to his family, to his friends, to his France. A duty that impelled him, but a duty that he hated.

  “As he turned around a bend, he knew that if he did not grab hold of one last look at that moment, that he could not retain her image for all eternity in his memory, but he was afraid she was already fading. He had to take that look. He had to turn around and retrieve one last glimpse of Fleur.

  “I have imagined it so often. He sees her. She is there in the distance, standing on the edge of the lake, her feet wet in the gently lapping waters. She stands watching him. A small tower of strength at the periphery of his vision.

  “He froze that image in his mind, and he turned back to his purpose. He continued to paddle throughout that long day. He wrote nothing in his journals about what he thought, about the regrets that must have played through his mind on that windless day. He left it to me to imagine. And I have imagined it many times.”

  Unlike Barbara, I have imagined that earlier day in the square with Kip many times, but never with a wistful longing. At first, Danny and I leaned back against my cafe window in relief, certain that Kip had come to his senses. “Should we go back in?” I asked Danny.

  Then Kip reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a package of Camels. He stuck one cigarette in his mouth, but it apparently had been drenched in gasoline and he spat it out. He tapped the pack and drew out another. This time he left the stick dangling in his mouth. He reached into his pants pocket, and pulled out a Bic lighter.

  “What is the idiot doing?” I asked. Danny took off in a flash.

  Kip brought the lighter up to the tip of his cigarette. He pressed down on the lighter. The flame burst forth. It jumped to his shirt. Kip erupted.

  Danny lunged from the edge of the park, and at the same time, Frozen Bear appeared out of nowhere. Together, they tackled Kip so the burning boy fell to the ground, where they quickly rolled him in the dirty snow. The flames were out within moments. A smell of charred cloth and burnt hair wafted by.

  Kip sat up and smiled goofily. “I guess I should have waited for a smoke” and then he tumbled back unconscious.

  “Call an ambulance,” I screamed to anyone listening inside the cafe. Cynthia had emerged from the cafe during the fracas, and she stood just outside the doorway staring across the square at Kip’s prone body in its burnt clothes with disgust. She turned and walked into the kitchen without making the call. Both Danny and Frozen Bear looked with more concern at her than at the scorched boy in the snow.

  “Please tell me this Frenchman saw his Fleur again,” implored Priscilla.

  Barbara sighed, “Duty is powerful and can catch any of us in its demands. He reached the safety of Quebec. He returned to France. His father had died while he was in the new world. Now as the heir to a vast fortune and master of many who lived on his lands, he had responsibilities: his mother to care for, his sisters to marry to suitable husbands, his younger brothers to obtain appropriate commissions from the King. Yet he thought of Fleur. In the years that followed, he never married. He always said he would return to America to find once more his Fleur.

  “In France, they thought him daft to want to marry a native. But he was rich and so they tolerated his fancies.”

  “But he did return, didn’t he?” Priscilla pressed. “He came back and found his angel.”

  “Yes, Pierre came back. Over twenty years had passed before he could free himself from the binding ties of his duties. By then, trappers were throughout the region. Wisconsin, Michigan, Ontario. There was even a small settlement and French fort in Green Bay. The trip was much easier this second time, but it needed to be, because Pierre was nearly an old man.

  �
�Much, of course, had changed. There had been many Indian wars. In the intervening years, the Potawatomi, the Iroquois, the Menominee, the Fox and the Lattigo had made warring incursions on one another’s territories many times as they tried to adjust to the westward pressures of the greedy Englishmen from the colonies along the Atlantic.

  “Finding Fleur after all that time could only be an old man’s fancy. A dream that only a demented man would have followed.

  “No, Pierre never found Fleur. Yes, he did marry here, and he fathered two children before he died. It started a new generation that has led to me and to Cynthia. But his remaining years in Wisconsin were bitter ones. As a young man, Pierre had chosen duty over love, thinking he could find love again, that love would wait for him.”

  Rita broke in, “But love never waits, does it.”

  Amanda sighed in agreement.

  “I think it’s a perfectly marvelous story, even if it didn’t have the happiest of endings,” declared Priscilla. “In fact, it could be the basis on an attraction at American Seasons.”

  “What’s that?” jumped in Jacqueline. Amanda quickly tried to change the subject. Rita seemed eager to help. Barbara was merely confused.

  In all of the interaction of these women, I was the only one who glanced out the window and noticed moving shadows on the snow-covered lawn that were cast from the bedroom on the second floor. Two people standing by the window above us with a lamp behind them were casting their shadowy images to spill out the window and across the snow a story below.

  Two shadows, a man and a girl supposedly on a tour of a house, but actually standing in the bedroom, with their kisses stretching across the snow into the darkness of the wooded night.

  chapter SEVENTEEN

  Spring was nearing. And all of Thread could sense it.

  Little trickles of water began to form in the snow beneath the heat of the rising sun. These merged into tiny capillaries that slid into the small arteries of streams that formed in roadside ditches. At dips and hollows, the tiny rivulets gurgled as they fell through the metal culverts, and then streamed into the true creeks, which eventually reached the Lattigeaux. Eventually, a mountainous rush of frothing water crashed through the Lattigeaux Gorge on its way to Lake Superior.