Back to Madeline Island

by Jay Gilbertson

  “God—this place gets so small in the winter.” I clear my throat. “Now, as I was saying before that little diversion, Ruby and I found this.” I hand the map to Lilly. “It’s part of an entire operation that used to go on right here underneath this very building.”

  “Toad Tea,” Lilly comments. She takes her bifocals down from her hair and studies the map. “You know, I have an old Toad Tea bottle I put flowers in. I’ve just always loved the label and now I know where I’ve seen this. That huge stained-glass window in your hallway—well, I’ll be.”

  “Now—” I put my cutting shears down. “Where we’re headed might be a bit chilly, so get your coats and follow me.”

  The girls take their coats down from the row of old doorknobs Howard recently put up along the wall for our coats. Ruby tosses me my wrap and sends me a wink. Johnny helps Lilly with her enormous long wool coat. I’ve really taken to wearing shawls; adds a little drama to any outfit. I toss a corner of it over my shoulder and smack Howard in the face. See?

  I lead the troops back into the office.

  “Where in the world?” Lilly asks.

  “These folks been keeping a secret in their closet,” Sam chuckles. There are really no secrets from her.

  “Who hasn’t?” Johnny adds and we all laugh.

  I turn to face the group. “Before we opened our doors and officially became Ruby’s Aprons, we had to clean this joint up. It had been a long time since anyone had been in here, and besides, we really had no need for a guest house—anyway—I had asked Ruby where the furnace was, since, as you can see”—I point to the floor—“there are vents, but no furnace up here. So the search began. It eventually led us to—”

  On cue, Ruby slides open the closet door, pulls the chain so we can see in there and then gives the back wall a gentle push. The false wall snaps open. She reaches in and flicks a switch. (We planned this out for dramatic purposes; so far Lilly’s eyes are popping and Sam just grins.)

  I lean over inside the small room and lift up a trap door; the girls ooh and ahh.

  “Now watch your step as this spiral staircase is rather narrow,” I caution and head down.

  Everyone is now standing in a cluster in front of the whirring furnace; its vents and tubes reach for the ceiling, making it look as though it’s doing a dance. Reaching around it, I snap on more lights.

  “Lordie,” Lilly says, “I’ve read about places like this, but have never even seen a picture of one. So the entire boathouse has water underneath it all the time—I’ll be.”

  Ruby clears her throat and puts on her lecturer hat, one of her favorites, I might add. “My late husband’s grandfather, Gustave Prévost—as you know, he was the founder of this cottage—made a small fortune in the trucking business. During prohibition, he created Toad Tea. How it worked was late in the night, this wall in front of us was opened by that motor above, similar to the door system up at the barn. You would motor in your boat all the way back here, close the outside door that leads to Lake Superior and unload the booze into that room over there—shall we?”

  Ruby hands Howard the toad key and he and Johnny lead the group to the back of the small room.

  “Stay single file,” Howard cautions. “I bet that water is freezing cold and I for one am not up for a dip.”

  “Whoever made this here ledge we’re creeping along on,” Sam says, “they sure didn’t have my hips in mind.”

  “Check this key out.” Johnny offers it to Lilly and Sam. “That Gustave thought of every little detail, huh?”

  “A little toad head—Lordie,” Lilly says for the hundredth time and then hands it back.

  “Behind this door…” Ruby picks up the story while the boys give it a good noisy shove. It finally opens. “Is where the booze was—well, is—stored until they moved it on to other hiding places, or bottled it. We’re not clear if it was ever bottled here, but we’re about to find out, I should think.”

  Stepping up the metal staircase, I reach around the corner in order to snap on more switches. The storeroom fills with light from the old-fashioned steel hooded lights mounted high in the ceiling. On either side of the wall, stacked several high, are the huge wooden barrels I mentioned earlier.

  “My, my.” Sam heads over to one for a closer look. “All this booze down here, all this space, must have been caves at one time. Look how the ceiling is solid rock up there.”

  Everyone cranes their neck to have a gander.

  “Now,” I say, “according to this map—”

  “I suppose,” Sam interrupts, “that hallway in the back leads to your basement up to the cottage then? I seen Miss Eve go back in the office one time and then, when I went back there to ask her something or other, no Eve to be found. Clever woman.”

  “Very true,” I add and continue. “If we go over here, behind this row of barrels—hmm, it’s just wall.”

  “Let me see, darling.” Ruby takes the map from me, turns it completely around and then hands it back with an impatient harrumph.

  “Oh—well—in that case…” I rap my knuckles on the last barrel that’s wedged tight to the wall. “Doesn’t sound like the rest, sounds empty.”

  “Look here, girl.” Sam points to an edge that runs all along the side of the barrel. “Seems like it’s been cut right in half and then—”

  “Notice the floor there.” Howard comes forward, pointing down. “It seems worn a bit, doesn’t it?”

  “Oh for pity’s sake.” Ruby points to a place on the map and then taps her polished nail on the very same metal plaque right smack in the center of the barrel, about five feet up from the floor. “It’s the same on all those lamps we’ve up at the cottage.”

  “Maybe you just press it,” I offer and do. “Holy shit.” The entire group says shit together. (I’m not kidding.)

  The barrel, which, if you haven’t figured out yet, is actually a door. As it opens, a damp odor of stale air washes out and over us.

  I step forward, and then turn to face the group. “Does anyone have a flashlight?”

  “I have one of these.” Howard hands me his key ring, clicking on a powerful light hanging from it. “I just changed the batteries, too.”

  “My hero,” Johnny says.

  “This is so exciting,” Lilly lisps.

  “Let’s go,” I offer and head across the threshold. “There’s a wall of switches right here.” I snap on several.

  “Look what we got here.” Sam steps past me and begins to wander around. “A regular jazz joint—right here.”

  The crew comes in and starts to explore. The room is several times as big as the boathouse. I’m terrible at dimensions, but the ceiling goes up a good twenty, maybe twenty-five, feet. There’s a girder system that runs crisscross up there, looks like some kind of support or something. About six ceiling fans are attached to it, too; the brass blades are now a patinated green color. They slowly spin in the air. I must have turned them on.

  A beautifully carved wooden bar curves along the length of one entire wall; beveled mirrors reflect back the room, making it seem far larger. Twenty, maybe thirty, small round tables and lots of chairs are stacked against the opposite wall. You can make out the outline of a lily-pad-shaped dance floor in front of a half-circle stage that juts out from a corner. Dark velvet curtains hang and then sweep and swirl over and all around the stage area.

  “Just imagine,” Ruby gushes. “All the sophisticated people who must have come here. Why, I wouldn’t be surprised if all those pictures we just took down from the living room have other secrets inside them.”

  “It’s like Father Time just left this all for us to find,” Sam says, standing up on the stage. “There’s all kinds of energy in this room. I feel a powerful connection; I just can’t get clear on it.”

  “Oh, I do hope it’s not something horrid or dead or involves bones,” Ruby says, pulling her coat around her. “I’m so over boxes with bones inside them—really.”

  “No, honey,” Sam offers, coming down from the st
age, “more like one of my own people trying to get through.”

  “Look what we found,” Johnny says from behind the bar. “Must have been posters from here—”

  “I think they may have called them playbills,” Howard suggests. “Look at all these famous musicians, Glenn Miller, Billie Holiday, Louis Armstrong—”

  “My heavens,” Ruby says, “perhaps my money isn’t so dirty after all.”

  Sam clucks her tongue and pulls one of the heavy posters from the pile. “I should’ah figured—this here’s Bessie Smith and we all’s related. My land, the things us black women had to do just to get the jazz out of our souls. I say, this room used to be filled with music.”

  “Just imagine it filled with people,” Lilly offers while checking her do in the mirror over the bar. “I bet my father knew of this place.”

  “I should think,” I offer, “everyone who was anyone did. Good grief, what in the world will we do with it? I mean, it seems such a waste to just shut the door and pretend it’s not down here.”

  “Shut the barrel, you mean,” Ruby says with a glint in her eye. “Well, I can’t imagine. Certainly nothing much goes on up on the island in the winter, but come spring—why—all we’d need is to clean it up a bit, some paint and—”

  All eyes turn to Sam. “A jazz singer,” I finish and Sam blushes. Well, I think she does, I mean, seeing as she’s black. it’s hard to tell, but she’s gotta be blushing with that look on her face.

  “Oh, land.” Sam lifts the poster of Bessie Smith up and speaks to it. “What have you gotten me into here—hmm?”

  Since it is Christmas Eve and also seeing as we’re over feasting at the boys’ place, well, it just stands to reason that Johnny Mathis is crooning “Winter Wonderland” in the background, while a fire snaps and crackles in their fireplace.

  “Thank you both,” I say among fork-tender roast beef bites, “for helping us haul all those dead things to the barn—and for this great supper.”

  “So lovely indeed,” Ruby adds, setting down her wine goblet. “I’ve had a mind to take those dreadful creatures down before, but Ed wouldn’t hear of it.”

  “I was thinking,” Johnny says, passing the creamed spinach, “that it would look weird without them. I mean, your place has such a ‘lodge’ feeling, but now it feels a lot bigger.”

  “Doesn’t it, though?” I hold my glass out and Howard pours more wine. “Thank you. I didn’t know that Christopher Radco fellow made that many ornaments—my God—your Christmas tree must be worth a fortune! It’s really beautiful.”

  “So is that Christmas tree man.” Johnny singsongs this, grinning at me.

  I’m actually blushing. I don’t blush often. “Both Sam and Lilly,” I say, changing the subject, “are going to family stuff over the holidays. I’m glad we decided to shut down for the week in between Christmas and New Year’s.”

  “Let’s make some plans then,” Howard suggests. “There’s a ton of things to do up here that Johnny and I have never been here for.”

  “Yeah,” Johnny adds. “Right about now, we’d be working on our tan and making sure we had enough ice to get us through the time until the clubs open. Then there’s the parties and more tanning and—boring!”

  They used to head south to Key West for the winter—for the sun and all those men to look at.

  “Sounds quite nice,” Ruby says, “but I’ve never lain in the sun—not once. What sort of things, Howard darling?”

  “There’s the Apostle Island ice caves to explore,” Howard begins. “And dog sled rides and cross-country skiing and ice skating and—”

  “What about the ‘sitting in front of the fire’ part?” I ask. “Let’s not forget that, or reading a good book under a heavy blanket—and hot tea—not to mention chocolate, lots and lots of chocolate.”

  Johnny goes over to their kitchen area. “Howard dear,” he says, “would you lend me a hand with this? Turn the lights off on your way.”

  He does, leaving on their magnificent tree. They return moments later, carrying a cake in the shape of a tree; all around the edge bright silver sparklers are shooting out brilliant white light.

  “Merry Christmas Eve—and Ruby!” They both sing and we clap our hands and laugh and giggle.

  “Merry Christmas,” I say as a happy tear slides down my cheek. I straighten and say in a stronger voice, “Now let’s eat this tree before it melts all over hell!”

  “Well put, darling,” Ruby adds and we dig in.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  I awake to the quiet of the cottage, I’m sure it’s a bit chilly around the edges, but I’m warm and cozy under these quilt layers. Rocky stretches and yawns; he’s snuggled close beside me. Looking over, out my bedroom windows, I can see a gentle snow falling; the blue undertones with sun shining through are magical. I can’t get over how much it’s been snowing. But what would a white Christmas Day be without the stuff?

  Reluctantly, I slip out from the warmth and quickly fold myself into my thick winter robe: a fleece-lined flannel of metallic gray, with pink stripes. After slipping into my chilly bunny slippers, I trot downstairs with Rocky in search of a nice hot mugo-java. I study our Christmas tree on the way through the living room.

  It’s only five feet high, or so. We put it in a cat-safe corner (we hope) and covered it with every ornament we could. Its overburdened fraser fir branches are drooping under the strain, but it looks so fabulous, as Johnny said. I look up and smile at the empty rafters way up there—no more damn glass eyes looking back and creeping me out. The banister running along the open hallway above and sweeping down the stairs is wrapped with pine garlands, hand-made by Mr. Tree Stud his sexy-ol-self. We baked tray after tray of pinecones, just until the sap turned to clear, and now they’re tucked every so often among the garlands and look tasteful as hell. Smells good, too.

  I head into the kitchen. Rocky is taking a drink out of the Christmas tree’s water; what is it with that cat? I give him fresh well water and he prefers that. I give up! Now we make sure that the Christmas tree skirt is open a bit to one side so Mister Rocky can have his pine-tree-flavored water.

  Taking down the tin of coffee, I greedily inhale the earthy smell, then load up the coffeepot with heaping scoopfuls. What is it about that delicious smell that just takes you away? I click on the stove’s burner, marveling at how Ruby keeps its yellow and chrome parts so shiny. Coffee—another addiction that I can’t imagine doing without.

  Since it always takes a bit to get perking, I empty the fish-shaped ashtray of all the different-colored butts; we certainly have a variety of lipstick colors around here. Too bad we couldn’t keep away from the evil things (dreadful, as Ruby would say), but I swear, I was gaining too much weight. I know, I know, poor excuse. But at least we’re smoking less.

  I go back into the living room and plug the Christmas lights in. The tin foil–covered star on top is perfect. Ruby’s handiwork. I reshake several of the hastily wrapped gifts to me from Ruby that are tucked underneath. Ruby just hates to take too much time wrapping. Me—I love it.

  One, I know what’s inside; Ruby’s been giving me a blank journal for years. Ever since I read (and reread) what has become a favorite book, Elizabeth Berg’s Pull of the Moon. The main character, Nan, writes in this beautiful journal and has all sorts of “deep and meaningful insights.” I figured it couldn’t hurt, so Ruby has taken on the job of keeping me in fresh journals. Probably hoping I’ll have a “breakthrough” and share the wisdom. Thank goodness she does give me something to write all this down in; my memory is the pits, but I’m full of wisdom.

  I crawl under the tree (something I love to do) next to a now snoozing Rocky and look up through all the ornaments and twinkling lights. I sure can understand the attraction of why he likes it under here; it’s really magical—just don’t get caught by another human. I reach up and plink a glass star; it jiggles a bit too much. I slow its swaying, but my hair is stuck in something, and when I lift my head, it pulls like hell! So I try and
inch my way out and then I realize I must have hooked a wad of curls around the screws that hold the tree up and—

  “Holy shit!” The entire tree—in slow motion—falls on top of me! Rocky takes off; I can hear him dashing down the hallway toward the library. Big help he is.

  “What in the world are you doing, darling?” Ruby yells down from up above.

  “I’m checking the lights—what the hell does it look like? Get down here and help me out of this mess!”

  It takes some doing, or undoing rather, but eventually Ruby and I untangle me from the fallen disaster. Once I’m able to sit up again, she reaches into my hair and lifts out an ornament that was hanging in there and carefully puts it back on the newly righted tree. Then we burst out laughing. Thank God it fell slowly. Not an ornament was broken, and it really only took a bit of fussing to rehang the things that did slide off. Do you think Rocky helped us? Not on your life, I think he’s hiding for the rest of the day. But I did wrap up a new toy stuffed with catnip. Maybe that will coax him back out here.

  “Now that you’ve redone the tree”—Ruby blows on her steamy mug—“perhaps we can open our gifts—or did you already, while you were under there?”

  “Smart ass.” I blow a smoke ring and it sails up into the rafters. “That was so much fun last night over at the boys’. I thought we had decorated a lot.”

  “Perhaps the boys are making up for all the years of being down in Key West for Christmas. That enormous village of light-up houses all over their dining room table does seem a bit much, though—really.”

  “Why not go a little crazy,” I say, looking around at all our fancy work. “If it makes them happy.”