How else to explain Jill’s marriage to that man?
We wanted to talk to her alone, to find out what she saw in him and how she was really doing, without him around to intimidate her. She’d given us her new address, but we didn’t visit her because we couldn’t be sure Tony wouldn’t be there when we showed up. But a few days after the cookout, Linda and I went to the Hoffbrau, the bar where Jill worked.
“What are you two doing here?” Jill had asked.
Our friend was smiling, but I could tell she was also surprised to see us. Before Mary Lynn’s funeral, we hadn’t seen Jill in two years. Then there’d been the wake at Peegeo’s, the cookout at Andrea’s, and here the two of us were again, popping up at her job.
“We heard you added a deep-fried pickle to your menu,” Linda said. “Thought we’d come by and try one.”
Jill raised an eyebrow, but I had to give Linda some credit. As cover stories went, the pickle wasn’t bad. The Hoffbrau was twenty minutes from Peegeo’s, but the two places shared some of the same customers. If a whole dill wrapped in Swiss cheese and ham, then battered and deep-fried was popular at the Hoffbrau, it’d be popular at Peegeo’s, too.
Jill called our order in to the cook, waited on a couple people at the bar, then circled back to our table. The rest of her section was empty, no one was waiting to be seated, and she pulled out a chair and sat down.
Linda and I looked at each other—George would’ve had our heads on a skewer if we’d ever done that, no matter how quiet things were. His motto: If you could lean, you could clean.
“It’s fine,” Jill said, waving away our concerns. “The owner’s cool.”
I wondered how the two of us were going to work her husband into the conversation and make it look natural, but as it turned out, we didn’t have to. Jill did it for us.
“That’s where I met Tony,” she said, pointing across the restaurant at an empty barstool. “After his wife died, he came in here a lot and always sat right there.”
Tony’s first wife and the mother of his young son had died of cancer. He’d needed someone to talk to and that someone had turned out to be Jill. Before she knew it, she was dating him, then giving him advice on his son, moving in with him, and finally marrying him.
“Any chance of you coming back to Drummond?” Linda asked.
“I’d like to…,” Jill said.
But she said it the way someone might say they wanted to sail to Hawaii or spend Christmas in Paris. As something to dream about, but not something they believed they’d actually do.
“We miss you,” I told her.
Tears welled up in her eyes, but she wiped them away before they spilled over. Jill had enough maternal instinct for a dozen kids, so it didn’t surprise me that she’d married someone who already had one. Jill had been our muscle that night at the edge of the road, and I knew her as someone who wouldn’t hesitate to throw a punch at a bully or step in front of one, either. But our Secretary of Defense couldn’t ignore real suffering. Baby birds, lost dogs, motherless children, and now, grief-stricken men. There was room for all those wounded creatures in Jill’s compassionate heart.
“I miss you guys, too,” she’d said. “Just terrible.”
Tony was still mourning, she explained, and he didn’t even like it when she went to her parents’ house for dinner. That sounded more like control than grief to me, but my own relationship wasn’t one to emulate, so who was I to give her advice? Jill and Tony were building a house together, and every penny she made was going to buy materials. There was no way he’d agree to her leaving for a whole weekend with her friends. Even now that he’d met us.
Linda pulled enough cash out of her purse to pay for the pickle, our two glasses of pop, and a ten-dollar tip.
“Door’s always open, honey,” she said.
I’d been so disappointed when we’d left the Hoffbrau. It was good to see Jill again but we hadn’t accomplished anything. Then on departure day, when we were all still in Peegeo’s parking lot getting organized, icing the coolers and loading our bags into Linda’s Blazer and Andrea’s Bronco, a little black car with a loud muffler pulled into the parking lot. Operation deep-fried pickle had not been a bust, after all.
“My mom told me that if I didn’t start going with you guys again, I would regret it for the rest of my life,” Jill said, putting a stack of twenties in Susan’s hand. “If Tony doesn’t like it, well, tough titty.”
Advice wasn’t the only thing she’d received from her mother. The money had come from her, too. Jill told us she had mixed feelings about accepting it—she’d been paying her own way since she was fifteen. But all her earnings went to Tony now, to their house, and to provide for her stepson. The cash was a gift to Jill, but knowing she’d be back with her girlfriends was a gift Jill’s mom wanted to give to herself, too. When she put it that way, Jill said she’d decided to come.
I didn’t know Jill’s mother, but I loved her just the same. The idea that a woman from a different generation understood what Drummond meant to her daughter filled me with gratitude. For my Drummond sisters, for my gender, for mothers in general, mine included. It was my mother, and my father, who’d stayed with my husband the year our son was still a baby so I could go.
Without Mary Lynn, having Jill back seemed all that much more important. We couldn’t lose another girl. We just couldn’t.
As we drove north on US 31, I looked up ahead at Linda’s car and couldn’t help but think about the empty seat. I had planned for us to observe Mary Lynn’s death up on the island, but in the excitement of Jill’s return I hadn’t yet mentioned it. Our departure and the ride up was for anticipation, not reflection, and when we arrived at the Fogcutter, Linda ordered seven shots of Tequila Rose.
“To Mary Lynn,” she said, and we raised them up high.
Even with Jill along, the ride had been somber. It was as if we thought it’d be disrespectful to laugh too loud or have too much fun. We’d skipped the Jell-O shots at the Welcome Center, ignored the walkie-talkies, and hadn’t even played any Led Zeppelin. When Linda made the toast, we all held that pink liquid in our hands as if it was something pretty to look at, but not to actually drink.
It was Bev who broke the spell.
“If I miss my mouth,” she’d said, pointing to her pants, “it won’t matter.”
I looked down. Bev was wearing a pair of corduroy jeans the color of Pepto-Bismol.
That strawberry-flavored tequila slid down easy then, and we gave ourselves permission to laugh. Bev had been the one to lead us through Mary Lynn’s funeral, and now she was the one who let us know, just by being herself, that it was okay to have fun again. Not in spite of Mary Lynn’s death, but perhaps because of it.
Time was short, Mary Lynn was gone, we missed her terribly and always would, but that didn’t make Bev stop being funny.
That night we splurged on dinner at Bayside Dining, the only upscale restaurant on the island, but instead of going out to hear the band at Northwoods or to play pool at Chuck’s, we all went back to Fairview and played a few rounds of euchre, then ate everything in the refrigerator instead. Being out at a bar among people we didn’t know, where it was loud and everyone would be drinking and laughing, didn’t hold the attraction for us it usually did, and we went to bed early.
At Fairview, Bev and I shared a bedroom. Down the hall, Susan had shared hers with Mary Lynn, and although some nights Bev and I talked and giggled like teenagers, until we were both too tired to speak and were forced into sleep, that night I’m pretty sure we both just lay there, silent, listening to each other breathe.
I really felt for Susan. She was the closest of us to Mary Lynn and I didn’t even want to imagine the loneliness I’d feel inside if something were to happen to Bev. I wondered if Bev was thinking the same thing about me, but it seemed too morbid to ask.
Saturday morning arrived, bright and clear. Because Drummond is surrounded not just by water but by big water, when the sun was out, yellow light sparkled a
nd bounced everywhere, reflecting random beams of glare in odd places. On a tree branch but not on any of the others next to it; sideways on the waves close to shore but not out deep; on your right leg as you took a walk with your friend, yet no matter which way you went, your left one stayed strangely in shadow. It wasn’t anything I’d ever noticed before, but since we’d lost Mary Lynn I’d started trying to be more aware.
Bev was already up and dressed when I came downstairs to get a cup of coffee. She drank only decaf, yet after my obligatory two cups of regular she was still more awake than I was.
“Walk?” she asked me.
It was one of those exceptional October mornings that felt like a gift; there were always a few, but you never knew how many more of them you’d have before winter. Sunny, no wind, and a little warmer than the forecast called for. Morning walks were our Drummond tradition, hers and mine. Sometimes, one or more of the other girls would go along, too, but often, it was just the two of us.
That morning was like that; the rest of the girls slept, cooked a late breakfast, or worked with Linda on the puzzle she’d brought along and now had spread out over the dining room table.
“How’s everything at home?” Bev asked me when we were well past the cabin and a fair ways down the two-track angling off the main road.
“The same,” I told her. “How’s everything at work?”
“The same,” she’d said, and we looked each other in the eye and made synchronized crazy faces. Eyes crossed, tongues sticking out, heads cocked goofily to the side.
Mine was meant to depict my marriage; hers her stressful job at a law office. I’m not sure if it was the facial muscle workout, the belly laugh afterward, or breathing the fresh air, but something about those walks with her made the troubles of home seem less important.
“When I retire, I’m going to travel,” Bev said. “I’m going to get myself a little keyboard and learn to play the piano, and I’m going to find somewhere fun to volunteer. Forgetting some appointment or losing some stupid paperwork won’t even be in my world.”
The year Mary Lynn died, Bev was fifty-eight, and although she’d said she planned to work until she was at least sixty-three, I’d noticed she’d been beginning a lot of her sentences the same way: “When I retire…”
Retire? The word made me think of blue hair rinse, crocheted afghans, and facial moles. Not one of which had any relation at all to Bev.
That night at the Northwoods there wasn’t a band, so Bev and I played pool. We enjoyed the game enough to have joined a weekly eight ball league back home and we played together on the same team. The league met every Tuesday night at a pool hall connected to a bowling alley. It cost eight dollars an hour to play unless you were on the league; then, during the day at least, you could play for free. A perk I often took advantage of when my sons were at school; sometimes, I’d even take my youngest to the pool hall with me on the days he didn’t have kindergarten.
My other friends were aghast, but not Bev. “It’s good for him,” she’d said. “Balances out the other boring half of his parents.”
After hours and hours of practicing eight ball, I’d occasionally want to play something else. Bev knew how to play nine ball—you use balls one through nine, the cue ball has to strike the lowest numbered ball first, and whoever sinks the nine wins—and sometimes she’d meet me at the pool hall after work and we’d play a few games just for fun. The rules called for the balls to be racked a particular way, with the one up front and the nine in the center. No matter how many times I showed her how to do it, though, she’d never remember.
She didn’t forget how to shoot, ever, and would gleefully kick my ass. Nine ball was definitely Bev’s game. Whenever she knew she wasn’t going to make her next shot, she had an uncanny ability to slow roll the cue ball into a confusing cluster so that you couldn’t make your shot, either.
At the Northwoods I was just explaining to her again how to rack the balls when a man and his friend approached, asking if we’d like to play partners. I’d been in this exact circumstance with her before on Drummond, so I knew it wasn’t me, or my pool skills, that had attracted their attention. It was Bev, the human testosterone magnet, who had.
When I asked a man where he was from, I was asking him where he was from. When Bev asked the same man the same thing, her happy tone, casual hip placement, and winning smile conveyed all the promise and fizz of a beer commercial. Complete with cheerleaders, acceleration, and hearty toasts to winning sports teams. Of course we wanted to play partners, she told them, and the two challengers were soon vying for Bev’s attention, obviously in her thrall, and completely unaware of the three ESPN-highlight-quality shots I’d just made.
“How do you do that?” I asked, when the game was over and the men had raced each other to the bar to buy her a drink.
“Do what?” she’d asked, genuinely unaware.
Was it possible to be jealous of something you didn’t even want? Perhaps, because that was how I felt about Bev’s ability to attract the opposite sex.
While we played, the rest of the girls were scattered around the bar. Susan was holding the orange plastic gun of a turkey-shooting video game; Linda, Jill, and Pam were sitting at a table, talking; and Andrea had gone to the bar to order another beer. I saw a man approach her, they chatted a bit, and then I overheard him ask, “So, where do you ladies stay then?”
Andrea didn’t answer. Since our run-in with Dick the off-duty cop, we’d kept that information to ourselves. We were friendly and didn’t mind volunteering certain details—that we were from Traverse City, that Peegeo’s was our home base, that most of us were married, that we didn’t hunt or fish, just hiked, rock picked, and enjoyed each other’s company. But we never told anyone where we stayed.
“I’m not trying to find out any state secrets here,” he’d said, holding up both hands in surrender. “It’s just that I have a new house I’d like to rent out. It’s on the water. Sleeps ten. And,” he added, gesturing toward Bev and me, “it’s got a pool table.”
His name was Dave; he lived in Whitehall, a coastal town on the west side of the Lower Peninsula. He was a builder, the house he had for rent had a name—Mariner’s Passage—and someday it would be his retirement home. He needed to work a few more years before he could afford to move to the island permanently, and while he did, he’d be renting the place out. It was right on the St. Marys River, had a big deck, a hot tub, and other luxuries he was sure we’d like.
“How much?” Andrea asked him.
“Eight hundred and fifty dollars for three nights,” he said. Which was way beyond our budget. We were paying $630 for Fairview, and even that seemed like a fortune. Andrea asked if he’d take $800.
“Nope, but believe me,” he said, “it’s worth the eight fifty.”
Linda and Susan overheard the conversation, drifted over, and peppered him with questions. Where was the house? What was it like inside? How close were the neighbors? How many bedrooms?
Dave explained how to get there. Back toward the ferry dock on East Channel Road (M-134), then a right turn on Dix Point (no, he wasn’t making that name up), and the driveway was two miles down on the left. Tonight he was headed to DeTour to pick up a new washer-dryer set, but would be happy to give us the full tour the following day.
Linda was just about to arrange a time when, from across the room, Jill selected that moment to remind us she’d returned.
“I’ve got too much blood in my alcohol system!” she hollered.
Dave looked at Jill, watched her dance happily in place for a minute, and then looked back at Andrea.
“She with you?” he asked
Andrea nodded.
“Yeah,” Dave said. “Definitely eight fifty.”
After he left, Bev and I played a few more games of pool, Andrea chatted up some other people at the bar, and by the time the three of us returned to the table where the other girls had been sitting, only Susan and Jill remained. Linda and Pam had left to see if they cou
ld find Mariner’s Passage and, if the door was unlocked, look around. In the dark and without permission from Dave.
When they returned an hour later, they were both excited.
“You have got to see that place!” Linda said.
“It is pretty nice,” Pam agreed.
We paid the bill and drove to Dix Point to see what $850 could buy. The answer was a lot. Mariner’s Passage was spectacular. Back in Traverse City, we were seven grown women and, for the most part, acted like it. Inside that beautiful house, we ran around like little kids who’d been left at home alone for the first time. Feet pounded up carpeted stairs, water splashed from the gold faucet into the whirlpool tub, canned lights flashed off and on. Whenever someone made a new discovery, they called it out. Did you see the hot tub? The pool cues are good. Not like the crappy ones at the bars. Check it out, there’s a dishwasher nicer than the one I’ve got in my house. Look at the size of those windows. I bet you can see the freighters go by. Well, duh! That’s what the telescope is for.
Mariner’s Passage was a log A-frame made of huge timbers, with a two-car garage, second-story balconies, and an extensive deck. On the first floor was a tiled kitchen with an island, a dining room, two bedrooms, a great room with views of the water and a stone fireplace, a big screen TV, leather couches, and an open staircase along one wall to the upstairs. On the second floor were more bedrooms; the top area of the A-frame was open, with huge exposed logs, a foosball table, an electronic dartboard, and something else.
“Come upstairs, come upstairs!” Bev said, grabbing my wrist and pulling me toward the second floor. “Look at that!”
If there were any angels around with a hankering to sing the “Hallelujah” chorus, that would have been a good time for them to let it rip. Sitting in the center of the open room was a nine-foot hand-carved Brunswick. A rack on the wall held two dozen brand-new cues. Unlimited pool, for free, with no men to mess it up. After a weekend in this house, I could die happy.
The Drummond Girls Page 19