by Jeff Nania
“Again, let me thank you for looking out for my interests. I am not in any hurry to return home. After lunch, I want to take the keys and go out to the place and take a stroll down memory lane,” I said.
“Well, I wouldn’t want you to be disappointed. I’m afraid the place is in a state of disrepair. Your uncle was in an area nursing home for some time before he died. Your aunt Rose had died a couple of years before this, and there was no one to take care of the place.”
“Attorney Anderson,” I started.
“Please call me Derek.”
“Okay, Derek. What exactly happened to my aunt and uncle?”
“Your aunt died, I think, two years ago in February. She was a wonderful gal. Everybody in town just loved her. She was the first one to volunteer to help when help was needed. She ran the hospital charity event every year for as long as I can remember. She even wrote a little column, News from Spider Lake, every once in a while for the local newspaper. She reported on the happenings of the area: who was visiting family; who was sick; elk, wolf, and bear sightings. Everyone got a kick out of that column. As I remember, she had been feeling poorly for several months and finally decided to go to the doctor. It was cancer, advanced. She was gone within a few months. I think your aunt was 82, but she didn’t look a day over 60. I believe she’s buried over at the Town of Spider Lake Cemetery. I can find out for you.”
“Thanks. I would appreciate that. What about my uncle Nick?”
“Now your uncle. There was a different sort. He was a brilliant engineer. As a matter of fact, he held over a dozen patents for innovations in the timber industry. One, which by the way was sold on a royalty basis, produces income each month. In fact, that process and the machines that make it happen are used in over half of all the papermaking companies in the world. I’ll explain all this later. Like I said, your uncle was a different sort. Even after he retired, he was always working on something. Out at their place he built a huge shop area, heated and wired and the like. When he wasn’t out hunting or fishing, he was in his shop working on something. He was friendly enough, but Rose was the social one. It must have worked because, as a couple, they got on great.
“As far as what happened to your uncle, he would take a walk every morning between 5:00 and 6:30 a.m., just like clockwork. He hiked along a trail that led through the woods along Spider Lake and ended up at the highway. He would walk across the highway and have a cup of coffee at the Spider Cafe, chew the fat for a while, and then head back home down the trail. He was crossing the road one morning just like always when a truck came out of nowhere and ran him down. Everyone was pretty sure it was an accident. Some tourist driving too fast, but the driver didn’t stay around. The sheriff investigated and …”
“Two Fishermen burgers, two Leinies, and two orders of deep-fried cheese curds. Can I get you gentlemen anything else?”
“Nope, that will be fine, Amanda,” answered Derek for both of us. “Dig in, John. This is the best burger in Wisconsin.”
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.
“Wait a minute, Derek. Are you telling me that my uncle Nick died from vehicular homicide, a hit and run?”
“Not right away. He survived the accident but was badly injured. After they let him out of the hospital, he was transferred to an after-care center, kind of like a nursing home. I am afraid he didn’t last long after that. One night his heart failed, and that was it.”
“So, you said the sheriff investigated. What did he find?”
“I’ll tell you what, John, let’s eat these burgers and curds before they get cold and drink these Leinies before they get warm. Then we’ll go to my office, and I’ll answer any questions I can. If you want, we can call the sheriff up and get a copy of the accident report.”
So we dined on what turned out to be a great burger, and Derek filled me in on how people had been doing fishing and on general news of the area. He talked to me like a local would talk to a tourist, general chit-chat, not much substance. The fishing was good; people were getting some nice walleyes. Muskies had been spotty, but people have been catching them. He hadn’t heard of anyone getting any really big fish. He told me that the Musky Falls area was a great place to visit, but a tough area to live in year round.
“It’s a great place, but winter brings three things that send a fair number of would-be residents back to where they came: snow, cold and no winter jobs. That’s why I am so excited about the offer to purchase your property. Not many folks around here can come up with that kind of money. It is a real opportunity for you.”
After lunch, Derek suggested we adjourn to his office and go over the details of Uncle Nick’s will.
I responded, “Actually, Counselor, I would really rather go see the place, if you don’t mind.”
“No, no that’s fine. I just don’t want you to expect too much. I was not hired to be a caretaker, and you know how quickly a place runs down after it sits empty. I’ve got the keys with me, and I’d be glad to drive you out.”
“Tell you what. Why don’t I follow you out in my car? That way you can head back when you need to.”
We drove east out of Musky Falls past, of all things, a gigantic Walmart store. They truly are taking over the world. A mile past that joint and the beauty of the area again unfolded before me. It was a beautiful Northwoods day. I couldn’t help but put the window down. The air was fresh and clean, full of piney scents that triggered wonderful memories of times past. The two-lane highway was full of curves and hills bordered on each side by the dense woods and wetlands of Northern Wisconsin. It looked the same as it had in my youth, pretty and unspoiled. I remember as a kid looking off into those woods, thinking they probably never ended. As a matter of fact, Uncle Nick told me you could walk straight north to Lake Superior and never cross anything more than a fire lane cut into the forest.
We passed the Spider Lake church and took a left on the next road. It was a narrow stretch that meandered through the woods and crossed Spider Creek. The driveway was marked by two stone pillars about four feet high built by Uncle Nick. A sign hanging from a wrought iron frame read “Nirvana” and underneath it “Cabrelli.” As I drove down the long driveway toward the house, I was a kid all over again, with the same excited feelings. I wanted to jump in the lake, take the boat out and cast for muskies, pop popcorn over the fire, listen to the sounds of the night through the screen of the window by the bed where I slept.
We pulled up in front of the house. Based on what Derek Anderson had told me about no caretaker, I had expected the place to be overgrown. That was not the case—the yard was neat, and there was no evidence of any disrepair. In fact, except for a few zillion pine cones and needles, the place was immaculate. Off to the side was a big steel sided building with colors that matched the house down to the shutters. It looked to be at least 40' x 60', and I guessed right that it was my uncle’s shop.
We got out, and I took off around the house to the lake side. There it was, the sparkling expanse of Little Spider Lake, one end of a chain of lakes. It was even prettier than I remembered. Out on the water a guy was drifting along in his boat, casting the shoreline for hidden behemoths. It was like a scene from a painting. I walked down to the shore and out onto the dock. Blue flag iris in the height of bloom grew from the shore, while white and yellow lilies covered the water. The air was permeated with the smell of sweet fern, the perfume of the north.
I was just staring, taking it all in, just wanting to saturate myself with all before me, when the lawyer piped up, “It is a beautiful spot, John. Like I told you before, there are not many properties around like this anymore. The offer you have is very good, and I don’t think we’ll have any problem turning this into cash. You can sell this and head back to your life in the city with a solid nest egg. Yes you could.”
At that point, Anderson had begun to become a significant irritation. I just wanted him to go. I needed to be alone and share this moment with myself and my memories.
“Counselor, I appreciate you coming
out here with me and all your help, but I just want to look through the place by myself. I’ll let you know what I decide about selling when I decide about selling. Right now I just want to be here.”
“I have a very light schedule today. I’d be glad to stay with you and help you go through the place. I can show you what all the keys are for. You know, just give you a hand.”
“Counselor, that won’t be necessary. I will figure this out myself. Thanks anyway.”
“Your uncle would have wanted me to stay and help. I wouldn’t want to let him down.”
“Were you a good friend of my uncle?”
“Well, everybody knew him. Like I said, he kind of kept to himself. He was a man who valued his privacy.”
“That didn’t answer my question. Was he a friend of yours? You know, a guy you went out of your way to say hello to?”
“Your aunt was a sweetheart. Everybody loved her, that’s for sure, but your uncle was kind of a difficult man. Friendly enough, but not the easiest guy to get along with. He was very demanding, wanted things his way. I remember the dog he had, a big old Chesapeake. Every time I stopped out here that dog just glared at me like it was waiting for me to move wrong. It was friendly to most everybody else. He and the dog were kind of alike.”
“Derek, do you have any kids?”
“What, kids? Er … no I don’t. The truth is, I don’t like kids all that much.”
Uncle Nick had taught me a lesson long ago: kids and dogs are one of the best indicators of character. If kids or dogs don’t like someone or if someone doesn’t like kids or dogs, watch out. I got the keys and sent Attorney Anderson on his way, promising to catch up with him later.
As the noise of his car disappeared, I stood silently. The silence was beautiful, broken not by the honking of horns or cars vibrating with rap as their owners speed on the way to joining the ranks of the hearing impaired. Bird songs and the distant putter of an outboard motor were the only sounds, blending into the landscape.
I knew I was putting off the inevitable and walked up to the back door of the house. I looked through the bail of keys Anderson had given me, and I found one marked back door. The trained investigator I am deduced that this would likely fit in the lock and grant me entry to a place so special. I was a little apprehensive. I did not want to burst the bubble. You know how sometimes those things that are most special to you turn out to be not what they seem. I remember one time when I was young, there was this kid’s TV show that was on Saturday morning. I thought the guy was the coolest thing since sliced bread, and then I found out he was arrested in an adult theater. Definitely an image dimmer.
As I opened the door and walked in, I saw that little had changed. The truth was that although my buddy Derek had told me the place was not kept up, it was as neat as a pin. Windows clean, floors swept, no dust anywhere, and it smelled like flowers, gently sweet but not overbearing. It was as I remembered. The stone fireplace dominated the main room. I had helped Uncle Nick collect many of the stones along Lake Superior the summer he had rebuilt it. Each stone was like a piece of a puzzle; each stone fit into a special place. The wood rack that sat next to the fireplace was filled with white birch, neatly split and stacked, ready to take the edge off the first hint of winter blasts.
In front of the hearth was a big old stuffed chair with a footstool covered with fabric that depicted bears, deer, and wolves. Next to that chair was a rocker made of cherry, the arms worn shiny. I could see my aunt as she rocked back and forth, always busy, mending something, cleaning wild blueberries, or reading. I could see her and Uncle Nick by the fire on a cold winter night. Partners forever, content with life, watching the fire dance as the winter wind howled outside the large picture window.
I remember once I went fishing with Uncle Nick in the late fall. I had reached over to pull my lure where it had stuck in a tree along the shore. I fell over the side up to my neck in fresh, freezing lake water. Uncle Nick pulled me out and gave me his coat, but we still had a long boat ride home. By the time I got out on the dock my teeth were chattering. We went inside and Aunt Rose was quick to get me some dry clothes and throw another log on the fire. “Johnny,” my uncle said, “you can never understand the value of a warm fire until you have been really cold.” I will never forget how good that fire felt.
The kitchen was off in one corner divided from the living room by a big table whose top was made of pine planks pinned together and finished to a satin sheen. Eight chairs surrounded the table, two at the end showing a little more wear than the others. How many stories told and dinners eaten by people sitting around this table, I could only guess.
It had been a long day, and I decided to sit in Uncle Nick’s chair just for a minute. The chair welcomed me with its softness, and the footstool beckoned me to take off my fancy shoes and put my feet up. I could hear a light breeze stirring outside and only gave passing thought to why the window would be open before I fell asleep.
9
Cabrelli
I slept the sleep of those at peace, something I rarely enjoyed. I was dreaming of swimming through the lily pads, dive mask on my face, trying to catch a glimpse of the ever-elusive giant musky that lived off the dock.
I was brought back to reality by a kick that knocked my feet from the footstool and brought me instantly awake. Old habits die hard as I leaped up, ready for whatever. I stopped cold when I saw the two huge holes at the end of a double barrel shotgun pointed directly at my head.
A voice yelled with menace, “If you don’t sit back down right now, I am going to blow your head off.’’
So I sat.
“What are you doing in my house? Who are you? What do you want?” the voice asked.
As the sleep left my eyes, I began to focus and saw that I was faced by a woman who was holding a shotgun rock solid, her finger on one of the triggers. There was absolutely no doubt in my mind that she would shoot me if I didn’t comply.
Again she demanded, “Who are you? What do you want?”
“Give me a chance to answer, and I will, but I’m afraid that if I even breathe you’re going to shoot me.”
“Start talking. Just don’t move anything but your lips.”
“First of all, I think this is actually my house, not yours. Second, what I was doing here was sleeping in this chair. My name is John Cabrelli. This used to be my Uncle Nick and Aunt Rose’s place.”
“John Cabrelli? Your name is John Cabrelli? Let me see your driver’s license.”
“It’s in my wallet in my back pocket. I’ll be glad to get it out, but I don’t want to do anything that’s going to make that shotgun go off.”
“Shut up and get it out. Just don’t try anything.”
As I moved my hand toward my back pocket, I could see her tense. She was intent on her purpose, but I sensed she was also scared, a bad combination. All she had to do was jerk that trigger and my head would cease to exist. I got my wallet out and handed it toward her.
“Throw it on the table.”
Again, I was glad to comply.
She wasn’t taking any chances and walked around to the other side of the table before reaching for the wallet, keeping the table between me and her. I sat as still as I could. If her goal was to shoot me, I would have already been dead. There was something else going on. I hoped if I could bide my time and let things tone down a little, I could try to use my innate charm to try and defuse the situation.
She looked down at my wallet and up at me. Then down again, up again. Then she just stood there staring at my face.
I took a chance, “Look, I don’t think you want to shoot me, and I know for sure I don’t want to be shot. Why don’t you put the gun down and you and I have a conversation? Try to sort this thing out. You can always decide to shoot me later after you’ve heard me out.”
“I am not putting the gun down, so if you have something to say, start talking.”
I told her my story, and I could see that she believed me; her shoulders relaxed a little, and
her finger moved off the trigger. When I finished, she looked at me with what appeared to be disgust and said, “John Cabrelli, the prodigal son returns.”
“Actually, kind of a nephew, but yes, I have returned.”
“Yeah, to pick the bones of Nick and Rose. I should just shoot you anyway, probably do the world a favor.”
“Maybe it would be a plus for the world, but I would appreciate it if you didn’t.” I continued, “You know my name now. Any chance you would share yours?’
“Julie, Julie Carlson.”
With that, she put the gun down on the table and headed toward the kitchen. She reached into a cabinet and took out some tea, filled a pot with water, and put it on the stove to boil, moving around like she owned the place.
“Would you like some tea?”
“I would, if you don’t mind. Is it okay for me to get up now?”
“Get up, do whatever. After all, like you said, it’s your house.”
It was my first meeting with the indomitable Ms. Carlson. A woman unlike any other I have ever met. Beautiful blue eyes that could spit fire. Slim, fit, durable. Pretty but in a way that would not land her on the cover of Vogue. She was a better kind of pretty. Healthy with just a sprinkle of freckles across the bridge of her nose, with blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail. Her jeans and flannel shirt attire the perfect match.
We sat facing each other. She added milk and some honey to her tea, stirring it slowly. The tea tasted like it was brewed from lawn grass, but I decided to drink it anyway. We didn’t say anything. At one point she got up and grabbed the shotgun, only to place it in a corner by the back door, the same resting place used by Uncle Nick. Now that the potential prowler had been neutralized, the steam seemed to be leaving her, and by looking at her face, I could see that she definitely had something on her mind.
“Julie, right? Can I call you Julie?
“That is my name. Most people I know are called by their name.”