“Way to good cop–bad cop me, Frank,” I laugh. “Go ahead. Rip off the Band-Aid.”
“Well, I met with the city,” Frank says, “and your fish house is a historic property.” He stops and looks at me. “A historic or an historic? You’re a writer. That one always gets me.”
My mind flashes back to college, and I recite the words of a beloved professor. “With words like historic and hotel, we now pronounce them with an audible h, so using a is commonplace today.”
“Told you,” Frank says. “You are smart. As I was saying—correctly—the fish house is a historic property that predates the construction of the cottage. The cottage is historic, too, but since it’s been altered over the years before these bylaws were put in place, the committee can’t do much about your plans. And, since the fish house is located out here on the lakeshore, it falls outside of the city’s historic district, which has much stricter laws on what can and can’t be done with historic structures.”
“My head is spinning,” I say. I look at the thermometer on the patio outside the kitchen, see the windchill and suddenly think of my dad’s long-winded stories. He could tell stories that contained no periods and went on for a half hour—swerving this way and that with no clear direction—no ending in sight. My mom would suddenly yell, “Land the plane, Jon!”
“Land the plane, Frank,” I say.
He laughs. “Sorry. The bad news is we do have to run everything by the city and the Preservation Committee, but we are only required to retain one of the structure’s original walls, and we have to keep what they term as ‘the integrity’ of the structure’s exterior.”
I sigh. “Sounds more reasonable,” I say. “But isn’t retrofitting exterior windows and redoing the wood exterior going to be way more expensive?”
Frank nods. “It is,” he says. “But, here’s the good news.”
“Warren Buffett is waiting to propose to me outside?”
“You like older men?” Frank asks, his bushy face twitching, a mischievous smile now appearing under his beard. “I never would have guessed. Good news is the state offers a tax credit up to 25 percent of qualified rehabilitation expenditures against state income tax or single business tax liability. Unlike the 20 percent federal tax credit, which specifically targets income-producing properties, Michigan’s state tax credit is eligible for owner-occupied properties.”
“Sounds like a nightmare,” I say. “And like I’ll have to spend time filling out paperwork.”
“You can get a quarter of your investment back, Adie Lou, and then it will begin producing income,” Frank says. “It’s worth the time and effort.”
“Any more good news?” I ask.
“Fresh out,” he says. “But maybe some fresh air will do you good. Want to go take a look at the fish house and talk about your plans?”
I start to shake my head no, but instead refill my coffee, grab a coat and follow Frank outside. The cold instantly sobers me, and my eyes water. We walk across the big patio—which will soon be jackhammered up for the new gas line to the kitchen—and head to the left. Frank opens the decaying wood door to the fish house and shuts it immediately to retain what little warmth is inside.
As soon as the door shuts, I feel as if I’ve gone back in time, personally and historically. The fish house is really no more than a shanty: two rooms, no more than a couple of hundred square feet total, with a pitched roof. Two windows are on each side, but the back wall—which faces the lake—has a huge window. Rough-hewn planks line the outside and inside, and they are weathered gray, almost bone-white. Gaps are present in the planks, and near the foundation, I can see through the walls to the snow outside. Wind whistles through the gaps, and the ancient, single-pane windows are frosted over, intricate, lacy ice patterns visible on each frame like powdered sugar on beautiful Christmas cookies. The floor is concrete, but my dad had scattered hook rugs here and there. On one side is where my dad says they cleaned the fish, and in the other room is where they used to ice the fish and produce.
“I can’t believe this place is still standing, to be honest,” Frank says. “Your father refused to touch it. Maybe he knew something.”
This place was my dad’s man cave before there was such thing as a man cave. He didn’t use it to run away from my mom, but she had her gardens and he had his fish house. And he did refuse to touch it: the only thing he’d added was electricity and plumbing, including a tiny bathroom in a back corner, barely big enough to turn around in.
I take a seat on my father’s beloved daybed.
“Be careful,” Frank says. “Mice.”
I yelp and stand quickly. Frank walks over and whacks the mattress a few times with his hands. “No takers,” Frank says, “not that I would blame them. It’s nearly as cold inside as it is out.”
The daybed has seen better days. Make that decades. The scrolling wrought-iron frame is badly rusted, and the mattress feels as if it’s made of bricks. But, oh, how my dad loved to take naps out here.
Are you sleeping, Jon? my mom would yell from her gardens when we’d all returned from the beach, and the sun and fun would make us feel as if we could barely stay awake.
No, my dad would respond. Just resting my eyes.
This fish house was my dad’s sanctuary and workshop, boat storage and smokehouse. He listened to Cubs games on the radio while he tinkered on his first boat before the Adie Lou, he’d fire up his smoker—to smoke whitefish and salmon, turkey and ribs—and sit in the door all day and watch it as closely as if he were watching a newborn, adding hickory chips and his own special concoction of “juice” to keep it all moist and tender. He cleaned his fish right outside the fish house, and at night raccoons would swarm the yard looking for remnants. I’d sit on my dad’s lap, and he’d pull out a flashlight and shoot it into the dark, the light paralyzing the raccoons in the midst of their midnight raids.
“There’s nothing to fear in nature, Adie Lou,” my dad would whisper to me. “Fear those who try to control it.”
The walls in the fish house are still dotted with my father’s favorite things: his prized catches from the lakes—big bass, menacing muskie, supersize salmon—vintage Helmscenes, lighted pictures of lakes and mountains from the 1950s, as well as my drawings, progressing from crayons to watercolors.
I learned a lot from my father in this tiny space, mostly that he was a good, simple man who loved me more than anything and believed I could be anything in the world.
“You haven’t touched this place since your parents passed,” Frank says, knocking me from my memories.
I shake my head but can’t bring myself to vocalize why I couldn’t change anything. How much it all meant to me. That I had to protect some sacred space as a way to protect myself from a world that was collapsing around me. Instead, I walk over to one of my father’s beloved Helmscenes, a pretty picture of a pristine lake surrounded by pines, a tiny canoe in the middle of the water holding a father and daughter who are fishing. I click the knob on the side of the picture. For a moment nothing happens, but then I can hear it click and zap, coming to life, and it flickers for a moment before illuminating.
“Still works,” Frank says. “Now, that’s amazing. So, speaking of bright ideas, what are you thinking out here? Honeymoon suite, for sure?”
“Yep,” I say. “Open concept, master bath, maybe a small kitchen if people want to make a meal and stay in... Keep the view out the back, maybe add a small porch on one side away from the patio.”
“I think it will be fairly easy to retain the integrity of the place,” Frank says, “but a bit costly to ensure it looks like it did back in the day. I can do some research and double-check what’s allowed and isn’t with the city, then double back with you on a final bid.” He hesitates. “But, as you know, this place is going to need a lot of work.”
“Any guesstimate?” I ask.
“I’m hoping twenty to th
irty,” he says, “since it already has plumbing and electricity.”
“Dollars?” I ask, dizzy.
“Sure,” Frank laughs. “New windows, a porch and keeping the exterior ‘historically significant’ will cost a pretty penny...”
“Again with the pretty pennies,” I say. “Big bills are pretty, Frank. Pennies, not so much.”
He laughs. “But remember you’re going to get some money back, and this is going to be your high income producer. What do you expect to rent it for a night during high season?”
I think of my business plan. “Four hundred twenty-five dollars a night.”
“That’s 3k a week,” Frank says, his bearded face now scrunched, doing quick math. “And 12k a month... With the tax rebate, you could be in the black by end of the summer.”
“Really?” I ask, perking up.
“Depending on how stringent the Preservation Committee is with your renovation, especially the exterior,” he adds. “They could be sticklers with the type of wood, windows, even nails that we use.”
Suddenly, the Dragoon Lady’s face fills my head, and I see red. I rush out the door, around the cottage and to Frank’s truck. I return with a sledgehammer.
“I didn’t mean to make you mad,” Frank says, his face very serious, his hands over his head. “What are you up to, Adie Lou?”
“I’m sick and tired of playing by everyone else’s rules,” I say, my voice rising. I think of Sonny. “I’m sick and tired of being everyone’s lapdog.”
I drag the sledgehammer over to the wall that separates the two rooms.
“Adie Lou,” Frank says, his tone a warning. “That’s one of the only walls in here. We have to keep that intact.”
“Do we?” I ask.
Frank’s face is a mix of amusement and astonishment, as if he’s just seen a unicorn cross the road.
“I’ve watched enough HGTV to know what I’m doing,” I say. “This is like demo day on Fixer Upper.” I stop and look at Frank.
He shakes his head.
I pick up the sledgehammer, and the weight of it nearly topples me backward. I picture the Dragoon Lady’s face on the wall—as if it were a bull’s-eye—and summon all of my power, like a strongman who can pull a locomotive or a stranger who can lift a truck off someone after an accident.
The hammer hits the wall with a resounding thud, reverberating through my body, and knocks me to the concrete floor on my rear.
There is hardly a dent in the wall.
“Give it to me,” Frank says with great reluctance. “We’re probably going to regret this.”
I sit up. “Smash the damn wall!”
Frank whacks it once, twice, three times, until there is a gaping hole in it. I jump in excitement. “Yeah, baby!”
Frank laughs at my enthusiasm. I stand and head to the wall, and begin tearing at the old lath and plaster, pulling off hunks and pieces of old wood—plaster literally crumbling around me—until I can see into the next room.
“Oops,” I say to Frank, who laughs.
Frank sets down the hammer, pulls his cell from his pocket and begins to shine the light into the wall. “Wow, this is old,” he says, turning to look at me, the light directly on my face.
“Watch it, Frank,” I say.
He turns the light toward the wall again.
“Hey,” I say. “What is that?”
“Where?”
“Down at the base of the wall.”
Frank shines his light down. “I don’t know,” he says. “But let’s find out. It’s too late anyway.”
He hammers repeatedly at the bottom of the wall, tearing pieces of wood away until there is a big, round hole near the floor. He shines his light back into it and says, “Here goes nothing,” before sticking his hand into the wall.
“What in the world?” Frank asks.
In his hands is an old tin, about the size of a small shoebox. He walks over and sets it on the daybed.
“Want to do the honors?” he asks.
The tin is warped and rusted, no visible marks or words apparent. It takes a bit of effort to pry off the lid, but when it pops free, Frank and I both gasp. The tin is filled with a delicate stack of papers, folded and tied with a ribbon. As gently as possible, I untie the ribbon, dust particles rising into the air, the ribbon disintegrating. I gingerly open the papers.
“It’s a letter,” I say, staring at the beautiful cursive, the ink faded but still legible. “From a girl.”
I look inside the tin, and then at Frank, my eyes wide.
“It’s a time capsule,” I say. “We found a time capsule.”
THIRTEEN
I am sitting in the middle of my bed, while Sonny sniffs the tin. His nose covers every inch of the rusting box before moving to the items I have scattered on the comforter: a yellowed, tattered newspaper with sections missing, as if they had just disintegrated; an illustration of four women at the beach, titled Gibson Girl, their entire bodies covered as if they were going to church; a drawing of a girl with dreamy eyes sporting a bejeweled hat, with Art Nouveau by Sadie written at the bottom; and a swatch of satiny fabric.
And, of course, the letter I am holding, which I now realize is trembling in my hands. I begin to read the letter out loud to Sonny, who stops sniffing, lies down, tilts his head and lifts an ear as if he’s intently listening to every word:
“May 1892
“Dear Sir or Madam:
“I embrace this opportunity to communicate a few sentiments to you. Papa would propose that I am being hysterical, but Mama and I would propose that female hysteria is a myth proffered by society.
“The leaves are just budding out here in Michigan, tender Sprigs underfoot, and I expect this to be my final summer at Cottage.
“My name is Sadie Collins. I am seventeen and to be married this fall, and I want to weep not from Joy but Despair. I endeavor to study at University but Papa protests. He concludes I will not be Lost to the ‘Naughty Nineties’ but shall be a Wife. I find myself to be in a pickle.
“I also find myself, dear Sir or Madam, to be astonished by the World. It is in change just like the trees and the lake I spy coming to Life outside the Turret. But I feel as Frozen as the fish and the peaches Papa keeps on Ice here to keep our Family prosperous.
“I conclude I am Bless’d and that too many are poor as church mice, but should I not want to be a New Woman as Henry James writes? But, at night, when I gaze beyond the Turret, I know my Stars are cross-grain’d.
“Should you find this, dear Sir or Madam, remember me fondly as the Girl in the drawing and not as the one in Leg O’ Mutton sleeves. I humbly implore and petition you to care for this Cottage as if I still retired here every evening. Papa built this Cottage to be my Castle. It is now my Prison. Still, please, do not weep for me. That is not worth a button. Instead, I propose you paint your Cheeks with rouge, I Pray that you may seek your own Stars, and I endeavor that a Smile is forever upon your face.
“Yours very humbly,
Sadie”
“You wanted to look at life for yourself—but you were not allowed; you were punished for your wish. You were ground in the very mill of the conventional.”
—Henry James, The Portrait of a Lady
I am weeping uncontrollably. One fat tear plops onto the bottom of the letter, immediately crumbling the paper and the tall, stiff cursive upon it.
“No!” I wail, which startles Sonny, who stands and begins to lick my tears.
I look at the remnants of a young woman’s life that was not entirely her own.
What became of her? I wonder. Did she find happiness? Was it possible to find happiness?
“I am not a victim,” I say out loud to Sonny. “We are no longer victims.”
Sonny barks.
I slide off the bed and gently lay the letter on the dresser in the
newly painted bedroom. I glance up and see my reflection in the mirror.
“You are not conventional,” I say to my face. “This cottage is your castle. Seek your own stars.”
I stop and pinch my cheeks like my mom used to do before someone would take a photo, so it looked as if her face were flushed and full of life.
“Paint your cheeks with rouge,” I suddenly laugh, my face as bright as the sunshine filtering into the bedroom. “And endeavor that a smile is forever upon your face.”
* * *
I awake that night with a start. I have been dreaming of Sadie.
In my dream, she is trapped in the turret of the cottage, standing at the window, her breath steaming the glass. I am standing on the front lawn, staring up at her, my arm stretched out toward her. She holds her hand to the window and then, suddenly, pushes it open. I gasp. She is just a girl, her skin dewy and pale, raven hair falling from beneath a bejeweled hat. Sadie stares at me: her eyes are dreamy, hopeful, just like the one of herself in the drawing.
It is nighttime, and stars fill the sky and illuminate the earth in soft light. But in my dream, the world is split in two, like two halves of a film. My half of the world is in full color—modern-day CinemaScope—while Sadie’s is in black-and-white.
Sadie steps up onto the bench seat and smiles at me. I know she is going to jump. I know I must catch her. I hold out my arms. Just as she is about to leap, a man’s hand reaches for hers from behind. Sadie stops, turns, nods and steps down. As she does, her outfit changes: her hat disappears, and her body is draped in a formal dress with leg o’ mutton sleeves.
I take off running toward the lake and don’t stop when I reach the water. I swim far out in the lake and when I turn back toward the shore, I can see Sadie waving to me from the turret before the lights in the cottage go dim. As it does, my world changes to black-and-white, and I am swimming in the lake in the dress Sadie was just wearing. I try to swim, but the fabric is heavy. When I extend my arms, the leg o’ mutton sleeves weigh me down, and I begin to sink into the lake. I scream, and that’s when I wake with a start.
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