Moon over Madeline Island

by Jay Gilbertson

  She has on dangle earrings and bracelets that clang and chime. Her lipstick is bright pink, complementing her blue-blue eyes. They have a depth that holds you captive. Her accent is wonderful. Originally from a tiny fishing village in the north of England and proud as hell about it too. I’ve noticed how sometimes her Northern accent becomes more pronounced. Like when she wants something or has had a bit too much wine or if she simply needs to be heard. Wrapped like a glove in an earth-tone skirt and fitted top, she walks jauntily in, her high heels clicking across the hardwood floor to a Martin Denny tune, “Love Dance.” I smile and marvel at her amazing presence. She enters a room and the air just kind of opens up to her.

  “Jesus Lord our God, what’s that stench?” Ruby wrinkles up her pointed nose.

  “Dorothy is finishing up a perm. Keep your voice down—you’ll wake Mrs. Gustafson, who’s under the dryer. Now get over here,” I say in my take-charge voice.

  “I thought perms were totally out. Thank God they’re back. Sign me up. I miss the height. God I miss the beehive…now there was a style with attitude.” She checks her reflection in the flap, then clicks her purse closed.

  “Ruby…I used to give you perms. Used to. We do so much color as it is and really, when is the last time you saw anyone on Oprah with a poodle-perm?”

  “Relax. Only joking, darling. I’m loving what you’re doing now. Texture. Feels like we’re discussing the feel of carpet, not hair.” She’s poured herself a mug of coffee, greeted Dorothy and Watts, as well as their clients, and managed to shove a cookie into her mouth, all while heading to my station.

  I guide her over to my chair. “Thought cookies were on the no list. Someone skip lunch again?” I ask in my mom-voice.

  “Look at these roots of mine!” She points to the part in her hair, “I need a miracle here.”

  “You look great for being so near death…really,” I reply, deadpan as hell. “I bet people see you and think, wow, she’s still alive?”

  “I will be fifty-eight…again, so you better turn up my color a bit; I will not give in to this horrible gray stuff. Never. Stupid gray. Stupid!”

  “How many years have you been fifty-eight now?” I ask, both of my brows arched.

  “You know, you’re right. This year let’s shoot for fifty-six. Now get cracking.”

  I’m drying Ruby’s hair and it looks fabulous. She’s putting on fresh lipstick, swinging her shapely crossed-over leg while Sarah Vaughn croons, “What Is This Thing Called Love?” The lyrics inspire thoughts of Watts, which are busy crisscrossing in my mind. How different we are…yet not really. She’s looking. Me, I’m not. Wouldn’t mind if someone found me for a change. But then again, someone to pick up after, fuss with about the toilet lid being left up, twice as many rumpled clothes to wade through and farting in bed? I’ll stick with Rocky.

  “Earth to Eve. Hello there. You in there?” Ruby asks, while buffing her nails.

  “Sorry ma’am,” I say in my most nasally “hair expert” voice. “I was focusing on the completion of your style, as the finish is the most important aspect of the salon experience.”

  “I bet there’s not one woman who can do her hair like you hair professionals.” She shakes her head. “It’s simply not possible.”

  “It is possible. However, one must stand still more than three minutes, use some goop, and do as I have instructed you to do about nine hundred times! ’Course, if you did it as well as us professionals”—I wave a huge round brush around and arch my right brow only—“it wouldn’t be such a treat to come in. You’d miss out on all my worldly wisdom, not to mention the free coffee and cookies.”

  “You directing or making me look fabulous?” Ruby asks dryly.

  “If you’d stand still once in a while and put a little effort—”

  “You’re the one with magic fingers, darling. Entirely worth the outrageous prices you charge, but I wouldn’t give you squat for the wisdom. I should charge you!”

  We giggle, clink our chipped cat mugs and toss back final slugs of now cold coffee. I hand her the magic mirror in the shape of a lily pad and give her chair a spin for inspection. I lean against the wall, fold my arms over my chest and bend my tired head this way and that. It snaps and creaks, waking Rocky, who gives me a meow suggesting I quit my noisy creaking.

  “Damn. I look good.” Ruby steps down and hands me the mirror with a slight bow. “Let’s tidy up, then be off for dinner.”

  I’m touching up my lips for the zillionth time. Nothing stays on these babies very long. Ruby rinses out our mugs, then waters my huge fern. It’s bursting out of an old round pink washing machine that sits in a corner by the front window. Rocky jumps onto my throne-of-miracles chair to watch as I try to powder away sneaky wrinkles.

  “How long have you been here, darling?” Ruby asks, her head disappearing into the fern. I can hear snaps as she trims and fusses. It’s the same upstairs—if I have dirty dishes sitting in the sink, she just pushes up her fancy sleeves and gets on with it.

  “Let’s see, I opened this place in nineteen eighty-one….” I lipstick my lips and count on my fingers. “So that would make it—gee-suzz—twenty-four years. As long as I’ve known you, you know?” I kiss the mirror, adding to the collection of lips there. If you look in Ruby’s purse, she has balled-up Kleenex covered with different-colored lips. She keeps them until every inch is used up. I love that.

  But I don’t love this feeling that’s been nagging at me. Oh, not a big deal, really. Just a worry, I suppose. Another one; I’ve got a whole slew of them. I don’t want to do this forever, I don’t. But what the hell should I be doing? I glance around and wonder if it’s a “where” thing. If not here, though, where? Good grief.

  Way inside, inside the secret self I share with no one, there’s this void, a hushed sadness I keep locked up. My high school sweetheart and I had a daughter and on my thirtieth birthday, well, I tried to find her—but no luck. I sigh back into the room.

  “Have you thought about retiring?”

  “I’m forty-seven. Just. People don’t retire at that age. Do they?” Not my kind of people anyway.

  “You’re right, darling. I cringe when I hear that word…retire. Sounds like you pick out a porch, sit down and rock your life away, filling your pants, drooling. Waiting to take your last breath.”

  “I’m getting a strong visual here.” I shake my head.

  “You work so hard, darling. I suppose it’s selfish of me even suggesting, but I enjoy our time together—when you’re not abusing me.”

  “I hope I don’t have to work this hard right up until I do retire. An old-lady hair-burner with tresses piled high, orangey foundation, eyeliner and sagging boobs. Good Lord. Besides, I sunk all my inheritance from my mom into this place. You’re looking at my retirement,” I say, arms open wide.

  “I’ve an idea, Eve. Push your curls around and let’s blow this pop stand.”

  “Pop stand?”

  Ever since Ruby danced into my shop all those years ago, well, my life has never been the same. Thank God. We fluff Rocky’s fur and give him noisy air kisses since we mustn’t smear our lips. I flip the metal sign hanging on a hook by the door to CLOSED, and off we stroll down the sidewalk to our favorite watering hole, Mona Lisa’s.

  “Hey ladies! Right this way,” the owner, Zed, says, leading us to a nice table by the window. “I’ll bring you wine.”

  Zed is a fifty-something, sexy little Italian number with bulging biceps and the thickest mustache you’ve ever seen. This restaurant is his pride and joy and it shows in the way he claps customers on the shoulder and greets everyone walking in the front door.

  “Did you see who Darcy Laming was all cozy with? The little tramp.” Ruby spits “tramp” out while rooting around in her designer purse for a smoke.

  “Her husband has been dead for over a year now. I’m happy to see her out and about and yes, I did see, and he’s quite a hunk.” We laugh a bit too loud, as usual. The gray-haired, tanned-to-leather golf-c
lutch of women nearby glance our way over their highballs.

  “Here you are, ladies. Sure do love your hair, Ruby. Going over to Minneapolis to have it done?” He grins, plunks our goblets down and before I can say something smart back, is gone.

  “Little bastard,” I mutter. “If he didn’t fill those jeans so well…”

  “I hadn’t noticed,” Ruby says, noticing. “Besides, no one pours a glass of wine like Zed. Let’s make a toast, darling: to a couple of classy broads with naturally beautiful hair.” She shoots a look toward the ladies. We clink, take a nice long sip and settle in.

  We’ve been coming here for so long, it feels like an extension of my living room. The smells of garlic, fresh breads, cigarettes and Zed’s energy all swirl in concert. There’s a roar of laughter mixed with talking that always gives me pause as it rolls over us in waves, then recedes.

  “Now Eve…I’ve been thinking…”

  Whenever it starts like that I know something’s brewing. Last time Ruby started out with one of her “I’ve been thinking” segues, I ended up with a new set of fall-pattern mixing bowls, a complicated programmable electric mixer, a blender stick with all the attachments and a Crock-Pot covered with geese. I don’t need any more kitchen items.

  “You know…” Ruby fiddles with her expensive necklace. “I still own the cottage on Madeline Island, but I don’t get up there since it’s such a drive. Frankly, I’ve had so many memories of Ed and I together there I simply couldn’t. Hell, he’s been dead since two thousand—I do need to do something with it, don’t you think?”

  “He has been dead for a while now, but I didn’t think you really liked the cottage. Damp and old, I believe are the words you’ve used to describe it.”

  “It is damp and the old part is true too, but you know…it’s also lovely. I think I needed to let go of Ed first.”

  “You’ve invited me up there so many times and I always meant to…I work too much,” I say, realizing that’s about all I do.

  “You do, darling, you do. I could have gone alone over the years, but I’ve realized I was keeping it to myself until I felt ready to let Ed be…well…dead,” Ruby replies. She blows a huge smoke ring as if to circle the word “dead.” It slowly fades and then disappears altogether.

  “I totally understand. Until my mom died, I hadn’t ever really felt that kind of loss. And you and Ed…all the pictures you have around your house…you two together.”

  Ruby pats my arm, her tiny hand warm and soft. “We always spent our summers up there.” She has a distant look in her eyes. “Up until Ed got too sick, that is. One good thing about being a professor, we had summers off….”

  I feel softness for this woman, knowing how much they loved each other. Sadness too since he’s gone. There’s a black-and-white picture of them sitting on the end of a dock, holding hands, water glistening all around. A younger Ruby is looking into Ed’s eyes with such tenderness. Looking at the picture you feel as though you should look away quick, it’s so personal. But you don’t.

  Ruby says, “How long have you stood behind a chair, listening to the likes of me, women wanting to look younger, prettier, sexier? Certainly it must drain the zip out of you, darling.”

  “I was seventeen when I got out of high school. Tried becoming a professional waitress, then spotted an ad for a new beauty school opening in what used to be a funeral parlor. It was called Carol Greckner’s Professional Cosmetology School of Beauty. Oh Jesus, was that a trip. Been behind a chair ever since.”

  “You are an expert. Professional, I mean. You are. But all you do is give—all day long. You need to take better care of you,” Ruby lectures, leaning way in when she says “you.”

  “You’re right. I am tired, doing hair day in and day out. Who wouldn’t be after twenty-nine years? Love my clients, the stories and the laughs. That’s what keeps me going. But—and I haven’t wanted to admit this—I’ve been feeling restless…bored maybe.”

  “With the salon or…?”

  “Business is fabulous. I’m booked weeks in advance, months during the holidays. It’s my own fault, but I’ve not taken a vacation in years. I’m going through the forties thing. There, I said it out loud.” I take a nice long slug of wine. “Tell me more about the cottage,” I add, wanting to change the subject. I’m terrible when it comes to talking too much about me. But really, should I be more concerned here? Great, something else to worry about.

  “Well it’s on a point, the very tip of Madeline Island—which is located off the very top of Northern Wisconsin. This tip is called Steamboat Point and the cottage faces Lake Superior, a lake that seems the size of an ocean.”

  “I’m embarrassed to admit this, but I’ve never been that far north. I honestly had no idea Wisconsin even had an island large enough for a cottage.”

  “It sits up on a hill overlooking the lake. An exquisitely charming, two-story log cottage with a lovely barn out back. There’s also a boathouse with a flat on the second floor and a little creek, too.”

  “Good Lord, Ruby, I had no idea. How the hell could you let it just sit there is beyond me. You said a barn? Was it a farm or…?”

  “No, it’s more for storage; it’s big and airy with a loft upstairs. The cottage is super—a rock fireplace, wraparound porch and so much sunshine in the summer.”

  “Sounds dreamy. Like the cottage in On Golden Pond, and on an island.” I marvel at the idea of an island and see myself in a straw hat, making sandcastles next to a long wooden dock.

  “Just talking about it brings back so many memories. It sits there, all closed up, waiting.”

  “Waiting. I wonder if that’s what I’m doing.” I absently twist and untwist a curl around my finger. “Sitting around waiting for my life to begin. I told you about Watts and all. At least she has her foot in the water—you know? At least the girl has something she thinks she wants.”

  “Maybe all you need is a push.”

  “You know, you’re right…I did open my salon. Yet for all these years…that’s all I’ve done.” I feel like humming a few bars of “Is That All There Is?” Smart-ass Ruby beats me to it.

  She hums a bit, then says, “Opening your salon, employees that adore you, money in the bank, you’ve done amazing things. Now, drink up love, I’ve changed my mind. Let’s go back to your flat. I hope to high heaven you have something we can eat in that fridge of yours.”

  We leave some cash on the table, grab our purses, dash out the door, down the alley behind my building and up the rickety stairs to my second-floor apartment.

  “I thought you were taking me out to dinner,” I say, switching on lights, patting Rocky’s head as I pass him stretching on the sofa. “But it was getting busy in there.”

  “Too busy, could hardly hear myself think. Besides, I love it up here.” She kicks off her heels on her way to root around in my fridge. “You have all sorts of leftovers in here. I’ll get busy and whip something together. Here…put the kettle on, darling.” She hands me my battered teapot.

  “I’m stuffed.” Ruby blows smoke into the air. We survey the kitchen table, now covered with assorted containers and bowls of reheated Chinese take-out, which Rocky is checking out.

  “Me too.” I start clearing things away. “Wash or dry?”

  “Wash. You get everything so damn hot I nearly burn my fingers off!” She reaches for the rag I use to plug up the sink.

  “What did you mean when you said that maybe something should be done with your cottage?” I take a dripping-wet platter from her.

  “A thought. Does seem silly not to make use of it. There’s a quaint town on the mainland called Bayfield and—”

  “Ruby! I smell a rat. What’s going on here? I’ve got that you have a cottage most of us only dream of, it’s all closed up and…”

  She holds her sudsy hands up. “I am so horrible at this kind of thing…I…Here, dry this bowl. Hey, this is mine. Let’s have some coffee. I have something to give you.” Ruby hands me her bowl. Turning it over, sure
enough, I see that it says, “property of Ruby Prévost” on faded masking tape. I dry it and put it back in my cupboard.

  Since we’re done tidying up in the kitchen, I fire up the coffeemaker. We sit down on my huge, over-plumped sofa to wait for the sputtering and spewing to stop. Rocky joins us, so we both pet him. He purrs and purrs, spoiled rotten.

  “Eve, you’re my dearest friend. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you. You could go on doing what you’re doing and that would be that. There’s not a thing wrong with it either…not a thing, darling.” She straightens her blouse. “I’ve been racking my brains trying to come up with a good idea. I want to give you something special for your birthday. So…here it is and happy, happy birthday, my dear wonderful friend.” Ruby hands me an envelope, then sits back, folding her arms, watching.

  “What’s this?” I tear open an official-looking envelope. “What in the…It says, ‘I, Ruby Prévost, a resident of the state of Wisconsin and city of Eau Claire, and being of…’” I read on, the color rising in my face, my heart racing as it all sinks into my brain. “Your cottage? You’re willing me your cottage? For my birthday? You’re not…Are you sick?” My voice reaches an all-time high and my hands instantly are damp and clammy. I think I’m going to pee my panties. I start to cry.

  “Oh for heaven’s sake, darling, of course I’m not ill and please don’t cry, darling, I’ll never forgive myself. Besides, I haven’t any children and let’s face it, you’re my family and, well…happy birthday and it’s too late. The place will be yours and you know how stubborn I am.” We’re hugging and I’m crying, even laughing a bit.

  “I don’t know what to…” I sniffle, feeling very loved. “I’ve never even seen it and you’re going to hand it over to me? Just like that?” This is so Ruby.

  “Not until I croak, of course! You need to have some security, dear, for the future. Besides, it feels right giving it to you. I’ve been going through a lot of Ed’s papers lately and thinking about life and death and all.” She wipes her eyes and then digs out some tissues, handing a few to me. Opening one up, I show her the lipstick prints all over it and we both chuckle.