Back to Madeline Island

by Jay Gilbertson

“May I?” Dad asks and she hands him the care-worn note.

  He glances over it—he’s a speed-reader—and then tears start to roll down his face. Shaking his head, he sighs.

  “Oh, that’s right,” Helen says, “my mom recently came across this.” I can tell she doesn’t want to embarrass him. She pulls a yellow bundle from her purse, unties a ribbon and holds up a tiny yellow sweater. “Do you know anything about this?”

  “My God in heaven!” Dad turns pale; he sits back in his chair and pants for air.

  “Are you all right?” Helen asks with alarm in her voice. Both of us stand and start to head over to him.

  He waves us to wait; slowly his breathing resumes back to normal. “Eve’s mother knit that for the baby and you’re that baby—of course you are—dear child—you truly are Eve’s daughter.”

  “Okay,” I say, unwrapping another Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup. “So maybe I was a little hard on the guy, but he wasn’t exactly apologetic for his disappearing act either!”

  “What have you done,” Ruby asks, “with your manners? Now hand one of those over and be quick about it!”

  I hand her a Reese’s out of my stash. We’re sprawled on pillows, facing one another way up in the tower room. Rocky is making a lot of racket, chasing a ball he found, back and forth across the wood floor, and I am about to suggest he go find a nice juicy mouse.

  Even though it’s night, the moonlight is pretty bright, and there’s a beach ball–sized light way up in the center of the ceiling. It’s very odd in that it’s got stars punched out of the metal and light comes through them so the walls are covered and the thing is revolving! Who thinks of these things?

  “I simply can’t”—Ruby’s voice is garbled with chocolate—“get over the yellow sweater part—to think that your mum made it and you never knew a thing about it. Truly telling.”

  “I suppose—what do you mean?” I ask and force myself to put the cover on the tin I keep my precious hoard in. I’ve actually got many secret hoards of these around, but I’m not telling.

  “Even though your parents couldn’t completely accept the fact that you—their precious daughter of seventeen—was pregnant, they—your mum—took the time to create that sweater. Why, I bet the entire time she was wondering what her granddaughter would look like. Can you imagine anything more painful?” Ruby takes a sip of wine to consider this.

  “Yes,” I answer quickly. “I get your point and it really is touching of my mom, but the fact is…they never once even visited me! Not once. That’s hard to forget.”

  “Perhaps so, darling,” Ruby says in her kindest voice. So I listen. “But that was such a long time ago. Aren’t you tired of holding it against them—him? You’ve a newfound daughter, you’re at long last on speaking terms with your father, and—the best part—you have me.”

  I grin and we clink our goblets. “I’m beyond grateful for that.” I pause for a moment. “When we got back to the car, Helen said some really odd things about Dad.”

  “Oh?”

  “She couldn’t see any resemblance between us at all—and that’s not all that unusual—but the really weird thing is that she felt he was looking at me with resentment—and to be honest I felt it, too. I wonder if he always has, and I just never got that. Must be that I was so close to Mom or something.”

  “Perhaps she simply saw what she chose, or perhaps she did notice a bit of resentment in his eyes. I should think you were far more jittery than she and, oh, I wouldn’t give it another thought—Miss Worry Wart.” She pats my arm.

  But I noticed something odd, too. Like an uncertainty or—“Ruby—look!” We both stand up and look out toward the lake. “It’s snowing.”

  “What are we waiting for, then?” Ruby asks.

  We scoot down the narrow staircase into my bedroom. Ruby zooms down the hall to change and I get busy and rummage around in my wardrobe for something “snowy.”

  Minutes later we’re both down in the kitchen making an umbrella selection when the phone rings.

  “The boys,” we say in unison.

  I answer it on the second ring. “Hello?”

  “Can Eve and Ruby,” Johnny’s little boy voice asks, “come out and play?”

  “Get over here—meet us out on the dock and that’s an order!”

  Grabbing our umbrellas, zipping up our huge winter coats, and after stepping into our “snow booties” as Ruby refers to them, out the back door we dash. The snow is coming down in big fluffy flakes that glitter, reflecting the outside lamp’s glow. It’s beginning to accumulate, so a white carpet is quietly being put down. Rocky mournfully meows from the porch. He hates snow on his paws—who can blame him?

  Off toward the boys’ cottage, we can see two bouncing lights headed our way. We trot down the path, pass the boathouse and head for the dock. The flakes hit the water with a very soft “pat” sound and then melt away. We fold up our umbrellas to enjoy the soft coolness as the flakes thaw on our hair and face. I hold out my hand and marvel at the complexity of each flake.

  “You obviously,” Howard pants out, coming up and standing with us on the end of the dock, “had the same thought as we did.”

  “The first snowfall,” Ruby informs us, “is simply not to be missed.”

  “So many firsts,” I say, facing out to the moonlit lake.

  “Trust me, darling. This is only the beginning.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  “Lord,” Sam says with awe, “you sure know how to make a beautiful black woman gorgeous—damn—I am the queen!”

  The four of us giggle. Lilly’s under the dryer with a stack of pink rollers piled artfully on her head. Ruby is in the chair next to Sam; we have color processing our gray away. Sam’s sitting “queen bee,” hand mirror in hand, admiring my handiwork. Nancy Wilson is singing “As Time Goes By” softly in the background.

  “Good thing,” Sam adds, “there ain’t no men in here…I’m too busy admiring my beauty to have the energy to fight ’em all off. How’d you braid my braids like that?”

  “Sheer talent,” I say, taking the mirror and then standing behind her.

  We regard each other’s reflections. I’ve taken all her shoulder-length cornrowed braids and woven them into a beautiful bun up on top of her head. It’s as though she’s wearing a crown. Then, using thin, black wire, I wove red and yellow glass beads into my creation. Her almond eyes sparkle with pride and knowing and such gratitude—I have to smile back.

  “If you’re done,” Ruby says, peering over the top of a magazine, “I for one would like very much to have this goop removed so I may once again face my public.” She dramatically turns pages and huffs a bit.

  “What I wouldn’t do,” Lilly yells, more than necessary from under the dryer, “to not have to go through all this hell and high water to achieve a sense of…of…”

  “Beauty, darling,” Ruby offers and tsk-tsks.

  “I was thinking,” Lilly says, “more in terms of height, actually. I will never be able to have my hair any less than a good foot up in the air and feel pretty. I know good and well that my hairdo style is long gone and been put to rest, but I like it and it’s the only way I feel attractive.”

  The three of us turn toward Lilly, who never has commented on her own beehive-to-heaven hair; now I’m not sure how to proceed. I mean it is the most outdated, crazy-looking hairstyle around, but it’s her, after all. I don’t know if I’d know her any other way, and really, what hairstyle hasn’t been and come and gone and then returned? The beehive.

  “Girl,” Sam coos, “if that’s what makes you you, why then—why in the world change a thing?”

  We nod, I look over toward Ruby, and she shrugs her shoulders.

  “I’ve looked and looked,” Lilly continues, “at all the latest styles, and I for one think that anyone who actually pays someone to look like they just crawled out of bed, well, count me out.” She pulls the dryer hood back down to put a period on things.

  I swirl Sam’s chair back around to the
mirror and the three of us chuckle.

  “You know,” Ruby offers in a low conspiratorial voice, “how about you finish up Sam, who’s the only natural beauty here, rinse me out and get some curlers in my hair. I’m feeling a ‘Lilly look’ coming on.”

  I regard myself in the mirror. My curls are parted down the center, the color has turned dark and is ready to be rinsed out, but it would be a riot to whip Ruby and my hair up to the ceiling like Lilly’s—what the hell?

  “Sure is a shame,” Sam says, heading over to a comfy chair nearby, “your Helen’s mama is so pigheaded about Thanksgiving and all.”

  “I guess I can’t blame her,” I reply, while shampooing Ruby’s head in my red sink. “I wanted her to know she’s welcome here with us, but I kind of figured her mom would want her home.”

  Ruby reaches up and pats my arm. “We’ll freeze a bit of our turkey feast and have her and Ryan over another time then, shall we? Speaking of freeze—could I have some hot water as well?”

  “Fussy fussy—you know, we really should do up our hair,” I suggest, wrapping Ruby’s hair in a towel, turban-style, and leading her back to my chair. “Have we heard back from Bonnie and Marsha yet?”

  “Howard,” Sam offers, “that handsome thing—told Lilly and me they was planning on coming to our gathering seeing as Al’s Place is closed the rest of the week. ’Course it’s gunna just kill that woman to not be taking everyone’s money for two whole days.”

  “Nothing wrong,” I say, “with her hauling in some dough. After all she’s been through, I’m thrilled to see her doing so well. I wonder if she’ll bring over Charlie?” I raise my eyebrows.

  “I rang him up myself,” Ruby offers nonchalantly, “and he just happens to not be busy. I did mention that Bonnie would be joining us—and that seemed to help make up his mind a bit quicker. Imagine, Bonnie could very well be his daughter—really.”

  Lilly pushes up the dryer hood, clicks it off and then comes over to sit in the chair Ruby was in earlier. Her face is flush from the heat. The pink curlers remind me of when I first met Bonnie. She came here looking for a job, forgetting that she had curlers in her hair, and I had all I could do not to burst out laughing.

  All the stuff we women do, makeup and hair color, boob jobs and remember girdles? Yet, if it really does make us feel better, why the hell not?

  “I just trimmed your ends,” I remind Ruby. “So, if you’re serious—how high would you like this do to—do?”

  “Give that Lilly some competition,” Ruby chides. “Now get cracking!”

  Ruby and I are out back in the barn. We’re rummaging through stuff from our previous lives in Eau Claire, in search of a huge black trunk. Finally we locate the damn thing. I’ve got its enormous top thrown open and now I’m elbow-deep in Ruby’s vast collection of formal-yet-fun dresses, gloves, hats and all sorts of fashion accessories from times gone by.

  With a pair of long, silky black gloves and a foxtail tossed over my shoulder, I’m admiring a patent leather snap-purse.

  “I think you should stick with the red gloves,” I suggest, “seeing as you’re going to wear that skin-tight gown—the one that proves once and for all you’re anorexic. Really, Ruby, shouldn’t you consider getting a little flab somewhere? I mean, living with a size one can be so nerve-racking.”

  “Eve, darling,” Ruby begins in “the voice.”

  Lecture time. I take a deep breath.

  “I’m sure you’re aware…” she begins, pulling the red glove off each of her fingers as she says each word (majorly annoying), “that…for…my…entire…life…of…X…amount…of…years…” The gloves come off and are neatly folded in half and then tossed inside a smart purse, which is dramatically snapped closed. “I have had the dreadful embarrassment—not to mention tiresome—task of having to stuff my brassiere so as to appear to have a woman’s bust—not that of an undeveloped child.”

  She reaches over and closes my gaping mouth.

  “Now”—she lifts her chin with pride, her foot-high beehive follows—“I certainly don’t expect you to understand my position, but when it comes to filling out a gown, no one does it more lovely than you!”

  “Thank you—but…”

  She holds up a hand to silence me. “I am sick to bloody death of your yammering on and on about being overweight.” Now she leaps into her perfect imitation of Katharine Hepburn doing Ethel in the movie On Golden Pond. (A favorite video of ours; we know it by heart.) “You’re a grown woman now, Eve—aren’t you tired of it all? Bore Bore Bore. Life marches by.” Ruby smacks my thigh several times. “I suggest you get on with it.”

  She takes up the purse, tosses her red boa over a shoulder and marches toward the cottage. About halfway there, she turns back. “Well, don’t just sit there—get in here, we have a Thanksgiving feast to prepare!”

  God, I love that size one.

  “Howard was kind enough,” Ruby says while giving the big turkey a scrub in the sink, “to provide us with this gigantic bird. Why—we’ll have leftovers for years. Now tell me again, darling, how many are we?”

  “Let’s see,” I think while stirring together a big bowl of stuffing. “Howard and Johnny, Lilly, Sam, Bonnie and Charlie, Marsha and you and I make—”

  “Nine,” Ruby answers. “Perhaps I should ring Sam and have her think up one more pie.”

  Just as the words are out, the phone rings. I wipe my hands on my apron; it’s bright yellow with an endless design of colorful turkeys doing the rumba into an old-fashioned stove centered over my tummy. Lilly got creative with this baby. I pat my towering hairdo and lift the phone.

  “Is that you, Sam?” I say into the mouthpiece, knowing full well it is.

  Her deep chuckle fills my ear. “I am impressed, child; Now jus’ how many pies is this girl needing to bake? And I have no idea how I’m gunna lay down to sleep with all this hardware you put in my hair.”

  “Ruby and I are going to sleep sitting up,” I reply.

  I mouth “Sam” to Ruby, who normally would be sticking a lit cigarette into my waiting mouth. Instead, I unravel the cord a bit, pat Rocky’s sleepy head and take a slug of wine.

  “Well, that’s just fine for you,” Sam replies. “But I do all my sleeping lying down—thank you kindly—and don’t even think a’ smoking, not one thought of the taste, that tiny little hit of happiness and peace that floods your mind and—”

  “Sam—Sam, get a grip, geez.” I shake my head. “I do not think we need any more desserts, two of your finest pies and you—of course—is all we’ll be in need of.”

  “Good,” Sam says. “I sure was hoping you’d say that on account of the simple fact that I just finished off lickin’ my mixing bowl and I’d hate to have to go through all that again.”

  “Right,” I giggle. “See you ’round one tomorrow then.”

  “Not if I see you first,” Sam replies and hangs up.

  “That woman,” I offer, then return to my task of cook’s assistant. “What in the world did we used to do with our time, when we lived in Eau Claire? I can’t get over how busy we are and yet we hardly go anywhere.”

  “You were just to your father’s,” Ruby reminds me. “Besides, as I see it, we were perhaps preparing for this life here—you know—paving the path, so to speak.”

  “Paving the path—what have you been reading?” I lift my arched brows.

  Ruby opens a cupboard door, selects a spatterware roasting pot and sets it on the stump table with a thump. Rocky leaps off a bar stool and takes off running into the living room. A record is playing Dr. Buzzard’s Original Savannah Band and I love the song “Sunshower,” so I hum along.

  “Actually, darling, I’ve been reading more of Ed’s old journal”—we found it when we were moving here—“and it’s quite fascinating. Of course I have my nose into a delicious Patricia Cromwell mystery and also an old touchy-feely book. What’s it called, oh yes—Think on These Things. Very deep.”

  “I doubt, with our new belly dancing–y
oga and all the apron orders coming in and we can’t forget eating and sleeping—well, there’s probably no time for a book club.”

  “You know…” Ruby begins rubbing the turkey with seasoned olive oil. “As much as I think it could be a lovely idea, I don’t know that I’d want to be told what titles to read. Seems a bit much like university to me and I’ve no interest in being that accountable.”

  “All the years of listening to my clients’ book club choices—it honestly helped me. I mean, it’s overwhelming when you go to a bookstore and there’s table after table of books. I really prefer the little book shops where the people working there actually read.”

  “Like that lovely shop in Bayfield?”

  “Now that season’s over,” I say, coming over to Ruby in order to scoop this yummy stuffing into the bird while she holds it open, “they’ve cut their hours to the bone.”

  “How dreadful, but my dear…there must be hundreds of titles in our library and I know there’s more to be found about the cottage as well. You’ll never run out, I promise. Now be a love and fetch that ball of twine over there.”

  I hand it to her and she expertly sews the hole closed. Then I pull open drawers until I locate all the different rolls of plastic wraps and wax paper and—bingo! I pull a long roll of foil out and hand it to Chef Ruby. She measures it this way and that and then ends up making a tent out of several pieces; this is one honking bird.

  “Pull open the fridge, would you, dear?”

  I do and then step back a ways.

  “My heavens,” she says as she huffs the foil-covered pan down and into the lower shelf. She hips the door closed. And dramatically wipes her forehead. “Good to have that lot done. Now on to the broccoli cheese casserole and we’re practically finished. Good thing we divvied up the menu to everyone. I love that kind of outsourcing. Then we’ll be in need of something to eat ourselves tonight—won’t we?”

  Normally I’d make some crack about how I really don’t need a thing to eat for, say, a year or two, seeing as I’ve got snacks hanging off my plump thighs like ornaments on a tree. But Ruby has a point and I really need to accept the fact that this is me and it’s okay. Did I just think that?