Moon over Madeline Island

by Jay Gilbertson

  “Ruby…I’m lost for words. It’s so…generous, so amazingly, insanely generous.”

  “The thing is, you created this flourishing salon here.” She stands up, moves around the living room. “If we put our heads together, think of something we both could do…together. A bed-and-breakfast…a retreat center…a home for spinsters?”

  “Hmm,” I say, thinking. “There’s the cottage and the boathouse and…” I reread some of the fine print. “Ten acres. That’s a lot of land.”

  “Eve, darling, that cottage meant so much to Ed and me. We were something else there, I can’t explain it.”

  “I’ve always known how much Ed meant to you.” I rub her forearm. “A person would have to be blind not to notice how you light up when you just mention his name.”

  “Yes, I loved that man something dreadful,” Ruby says, remembering. She snaps back to the present, shrugging her shoulders. “But it’s time I went back there. Ed’s long gone, but I’m not. And by God, I feel like seeing it again.”

  “I think I understand why you let it sit there empty for all these years now. I waited three years before selling my folks’ place. Even kept Mom’s plants going. Heated the whole, rambling house for those damn plants. I do know about hanging on and then, all of sudden, it’s time…”

  “To let go,” Ruby finishes for me softly. We nod and something changes. The room shifts a little. We sigh and know that something new has begun.

  Grabbing blankets, I lead the way out onto my balcony and up the little stairs to the roof. Up here it’s very private, a secret world above the noise of Water Street below. Over the years I’ve hauled up several patio tables, huge wooden barrel pots, now bursting with geraniums, and assorted chaise lounges. I shove several together and spread blankets out so we can both plop down. The stars are hanging up in the sky and seem to be winking just at us.

  “I’m so grateful, Ruby. I really am. I mean…I guess now I’ll have to plan your murder, but…details,” I say to the stars. Ruby chuckles while smacking my arm; hard too!

  “Remember when Ed was doing so poorly. I couldn’t imagine leaving his side at the hospital. I wanted to be there should he wake up. I was so exhausted and lost, too. Overwhelmed, knowing the end was near. Then you show up…with that daft shopping cart.”

  “Oh Jesus,” I say, remembering. “I knew you wouldn’t leave. So I stole—borrowed—it from Kmart. I shoved it into my van and headed over to Woo’s Pagoda and filled it.”

  “I have never laughed so bloody hard.” We giggle. “I was so hungry too, since all I’d eaten were measly bites of dry sandwiches I bought from that ghastly machine down the hall. Couldn’t have what Ed was consuming, being tube-fed and all. He wasn’t much company either, seeing as he was in a coma. Poor love.”

  “There’s nothing like Woo’s Chinese food to get your mind off…well…things,” I reply tenderly.

  “You brought a tablecloth, dishes, everything. The point is, Eve, you did it. I felt so…loved. And the laughing…the kind that stays with you for a lifetime…and then some.” We sigh, remembering.

  “Can’t believe I tipped over his IV bag, though. My foot got caught in one of the wheels and before I knew it…What a mess, tubes every which way. I can be such a klutz.”

  “Oh heavens.” She waves away my words. “His brainwaves were long gone. Then the day came when we had to shut him down.” Ruby folds into herself, but only for a moment. Then she shrugs her shoulders in a movement I know so well.

  “There were so many switches, it seemed as though it took them forever. He had more wires and tubes coming out of every hole and…sorry.” I shake my head.

  “I loathed that ominous sound when his heart monitor made its final bleep. He slipped right out with his last breath. I’m sure he’s grateful to have been set free of that tired old body. It was all used up.”

  “I sure as hell hope so.” I imagine Ed, tubes and electrodes flying, running at me with a shopping cart. “For both our sakes.”

  “Of course he is, darling; he’s probably fishing somewhere right now.”

  “An island cottage,” I say to the sky. “I can’t imagine many people live there, not year-round anyways.”

  “No, mostly a summer getaway spot.”

  “So if we did do something, it would have to be something other than a service thing. I mean a salon wouldn’t work. Have to be a separate thing. An item, a tangible.”

  “Good Lord—I’ve got it!” Ruby sits up, twirling her glowing cigarette. “A psychic hotline. My classy accent and your…your…We’d have to re-create one for you, darling. Sorry, but a Midwestern twang would just get us hang-ups.”

  “You bitch.”

  “Snob, darling. Please,” Ruby huffs and lies back down. “Maybe a cottage-themed Martha Stewartish show. All shot live with Oprah boating over for a tasteful lunch every month.”

  “Good grief, give it a rest. I still think we’d have to make something that would then be sent out into the world.”

  “I could dictate my life story—it’s terribly fascinating—and we could do it all from the cottage and invite photographers to record the event. Me, sharing my life while you jot it all down, surrounded by trees and water and—”

  “I have an idea.” I sit up. “I can’t remember the last time I took a road trip. How about throwing some stuff in my van and you showing me the cottage this weekend?”

  “That sounds lovely, darling.”

  We look up as a falling star lights the sky. It leaves a trail of stardust that slowly fades to night. There really is such a thing as magic and possibilities, hope and being filled to the brim. No half-cups for these two gals; we’re beginning again.

  CHAPTER TWO

  It’s a great day for a road trip. Golden sunshine peeks out from behind puffy white clouds. The air is that nice early-morning, cool stuff, before the humidity sets in. We’ve packed my rusted yellow and red VW van with all sorts of goodies. She rattles and squeaks, but she runs and doesn’t guzzle too much gas. This was one of those “custom” jobs, complete with orange fringe around the windshield and, no, I don’t have an eight-track tape player. Anymore. We’re listening to “Soft Winds” by Dinah Washington while sipping iced coffee.

  We’ll be tooling through small towns all the way up to Madeline Island, making it a nice sight-seeing excursion. North up Highway 53 we go. I’m surprised at how giddy I’m feeling seeing Eau Claire fade away in my fur-covered rearview mirror. I’ve not been on an adventure for a long, long time. It’s so weird that I haven’t explored Wisconsin more. Mom never cared for the “road-trip” concept and I guess I’ve not stepped out of that, what? Role? Something so simple as getting in the van and heading north, leaving all that daily routine behind and not knowing what’s ahead. I like this.

  “Good God, Eve. What in the world is the rush? How fast are we flying?” Ruby asks, waving me off, but letting me know her anxiety all the same. “No…don’t tell me…I don’t need one more gray hair. Anyway, I’m insured up the—”

  “Relax. Enjoy the scenery,” I reply calmly, but slowing the van down to a reasonable seventy just the same. “I forgot how beautiful Wisconsin is. So many rolling hills and…I can’t get over all the dead deer rotting along the highway—pretty.”

  “I’m glad we brought Rocky.” She gives him a pat. “He’ll love all the nice fat mice we’ll need escorted out of the cottage.”

  Rocky likes to stand up every so often and look out the windshield. I brought his favorite wicker basket, the bottom made cozy with a beloved blanket. His makeshift home is wedged in front of Ruby’s tiny feet. His fur is flying since he’s forever shedding. The windows are rolled down and we’re being forced to bear witness to the bug splats on the windshield, which are slowly connecting and growing into shapes. I can’t stand it and turn on the wipers. That’s worse! Yuck.

  “Well…I don’t know if Rocky will chase the mice out or if they’ll suddenly have little micelike heart attacks. Either way, he never lets me down an
d I never ask questions. Don’t be too freaked out if he brings you a victim, placing it ever so lovingly on your foot. Just say, ‘Thanks, keep up the great work,’ and act as cool as possible. Sensitive.” I whisper the last word.

  “Oh, this is so exciting,” Ruby says. “I’ve not been up here for such a long time.” She reaches up just in time to snatch a map about to sail out the window.

  “Good catch,” I remark. She wrestles it back into its proper folds.

  I’ve got my hair down and it’s blowing all to holy hell. I’m wearing baggy shorts and a huge, loose-fitting T-shirt, deep red with big green cat eyes on both sides. My feet are a bit chilly because I washed my favorite Keds slip-ons, and they’re still a little damp.

  Ruby’s in a faded jeans outfit I’m sure she paid a fortune for. Her hair is tucked into a yellow scarf I gave her on one of her countless fifty-eighth birthdays. Both of us have our dark “movie star” sunglasses on, but mine keep sliding down my oily nose.

  We’re heavily doused in perfume; I read in Martha Stewart that certain aromas keep mosquitoes away. I’m lavender oil. Ruby is Chanel No. 5. Or did Martha say not to wear perfume? We could be in serious trouble.

  “Did you have to move a lot of clients today?” Ruby asks. “Always thought Saturdays were your busiest day.”

  “Well, actually, I had Watts re-schedule all my clients and since it’s so rare I shift people around, everyone was fine with moving. Except Mrs. McCallister…gave Watts hell on the phone.”

  “Didn’t she demand a house call to fix her bangs a while back?”

  “The old hag. I tell all my clients they get one free bang trim in between haircuts. So, what does she do? Cuts them herself. What a mess.”

  “Isn’t she blind?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well?”

  “Well…I rushed right over, she sounded so pitiful on the phone—a real hair emergency if I ever…Too late. She’d cut them so short they went clear up into her hairline on one side. All I could do not to laugh out loud. Wasn’t a damn thing to do with what was left, so I snipped some hair off one of her countless wigs…glued them right to her scalp.”

  “Very resourceful.”

  “Love a challenge.”

  Ruby pauses a beat or two, rearranging her seat belt. She seems to be searching for the right words. “Last evening I had this dream,” she says thoughtfully. “I wanted to think about it for a while until I told you. Before you analyze it to death.”

  “I promise I’ll keep an open mind…really.”

  “Good. Ed and I were sitting on the end of our dock up at the cottage. Like that picture I catch you staring at in my hallway.” We look at each other, smiling. “I don’t recall the exact words, he said something having to do with spirits and passageways. Isn’t that odd?”

  “Hmm.” I wrinkle my nose and then unwrinkle it quick since I don’t need any more damn lines. “Maybe you’re on a spiritual passage.”

  “I imagine, yes, that’s quite possible,” Ruby replies, checking her lips in the visor mirror, again. “Spirits. Ed never was much for church, but that man loved his scotch.”

  “Sounds like Ed was giving you some hints about something. Maybe there’s an evil spirit in a tunnel and he’s—”

  “You really can be a smart—”

  “Ass,” I say, and she swats me on the arm.

  “Think what you wish, darling,” Ruby huffs. “There might be something to it. I just don’t know what it could be. Perhaps he meant message instead of passage. Like how life is full of messages, you know?”

  “I guess that could work. I think next time Ed pops into your dream, you need to ask more questions.”

  “Speaking of questions, darling, would you consider turning off at the next exit? Since it’s only you and me, I’ll put it in plain English. I have got to pee!” On “pee,” Rocky leaps over Ruby’s shoulder, heading to a quieter spot in the backseat and I floor it.

  I pull off the highway at every wayside in order to read all the Wisconsin Historical Markers. So while making our way north, we learn about lumber barons clear-cutting every white pine as far as the eye can see and who fought what Indian war and when. It’s also a necessity, since neither of us has much “cargo space” in our small, dainty bladders. Coffee goes in one end and oh, man, does it whiz right on out the other!

  Actually, it’s not a long drive at all, four hours, give or take. The time zips by, seeing as we’re presented with vista after vista of Norman Rockwell farms and meandering creeks with the occasional well-placed cluster of cows lazily chewing cud. They look up as we pass. Sometimes I moo back and Ruby occasionally joins in. Rocky’s flying fur sticks to our lipsticked lips, so we’re constantly pulling it off. Eventually I say screw it and wipe mine off. Ruby follows suit, but I know she’ll have it reapplied in no time.

  A road sign made of long logs sawed in half, charmingly informs us we’re five miles from Bayfield, “Best Little Town in the Midwest,” written in white sloppy letters. Last night I did some research and learned that Bayfield is a port town; moreover, it’s a tourist favorite, teetering over the edge of Wisconsin and sloping dramatically into Lake Superior. Ruby informs me we’ll be catching a ferry from there in order to cross the lake over to Madeline Island.

  My favorite sign so far is a huge green and white trout leaping out of a rowboat. In big, snappy, dancing-red letters you’re informed that in three short miles one can have the pleasure of visiting the world’s largest live bait and tackle shop, cheese house and a taxidermist to boot. Who needs Target?

  “What a gorgeous town Bayfield is, right out of a movie set,” I dreamily reply, slowing down in order to let a huge rust-colored dog lazily strut across the lane in front of us. “You hungry? Must be around lunchtime.”

  “No thank you, darling. Honestly, my stomach is a little knotted.” She pats a stretching Rocky. “All the excitement of seeing the old place.”

  “Mine too.”

  “Besides, we brought enough food to double our sizes in one weekend!”

  “Oh boy, just what I need—to grow a size. What’ll that make you? Size one and a half?”

  “Smart aleck. Keep your eyes on the road now,” Ruby orders. “Follow on down to the pier. Pull up to that little drive-through booth. Get a ticket and we’ll catch the next ferry.”

  “Isn’t it weird? An island up here in the great Northwoods?” I question into Rocky’s ear while he leans over to look out my window. “According to the sign hanging on the side of the booth, Lake Superior is the greatest of the Great Lakes. A genuine inland sea.”

  “Someone’s honking. We’re next, darling.”

  We buy our ticket and drive onto the ferry. A huge metal gate clunks into place behind us, some orders are yelled, and then the entire boat lurches from the pier and we head out onto the lake. I give Ruby a wink. The anticipation of actually seeing this special, hidden-on-an-island cottage is setting in. I can just barely see an outline in the distance and it’s something. I take a puff from Ruby’s cigarette.

  We’re watching an unbelievably overweight kid, clad in a stretched-to-busting striped T-shirt, ram a gigantic corn dog into his ketchup-splotched face. His mom sits primly next to him, dabbing at his bloody-looking lips with a flowered napkin. She’s skinny as a rail; a breeze could knock her over. I don’t get it. How could she let him eat that junk?

  “My goodness, children are plump these days, aren’t they?” Ruby asks, tsk-tsking.

  “Well, not all kids.” A puff of smoke wafts from my lips. “Just every one we’ve seen so far.”

  “Ed and I used to bring Adeline, his mother, up to summer with us,” Ruby says as we watch mother and child. “Poor dear, she could hardly make it up the stairs. Thank goodness for the general store—Lori’s, I believe it was called. She was constantly running low on suppositories—hemorrhoids,” she whispers. “How she could use so many—”

  “Thanks for the fascinating information.” I squirm in my seat a bit.

  �
�You know, I found an old casserole left over from Ed’s funeral—way in the back of my freezer.” She clucks her tongue. “Can you imagine?”

  “You dumped it. Right? That sucker’s over five years old. Talk about a left over.”

  “It’s in the cooler. Guess whose name is masking-taped to the bottom.”

  “I will not eat a five-year-old casserole.”

  “It says, ‘Created by Eve Moss, return this dish or suffer the consequences.’ In bold letters, I might add. Now how in the world could I throw that out?”

  “Girl…there comes a time when letting go can go beyond one’s memories.”

  I’m amazed at what she hangs onto. Peek into any of Ruby’s kitchen drawers and you’ll find hundreds of assorted plastic bags, refolded tinfoil, a choice of twist-ties in every color, rubber bands and pencils in different stages of use, banded together according to color. Every corner’s tucked with several mini–tissue packets. The kind you have several of in the bottom of your well-stocked purse. I do.

  “Perhaps some of them…darling,” Ruby retorts with an “air.” “Except this is your scrumptious Tater Tot Surprise casserole. What’s more, food frozen in my freezer stays frozen!” Her chin held high. She’s very proud of her appliances.

  “Well…what the hell. We’ll heat it up and I’ll watch you eat it.” I do make a great Tater Tot number, you must admit. The secret is in how you add the water to the prepackaged mix. It was a happy day when Mom discovered Hamburger Helper at our local market. The addition of Tater Tots was my idea.

  Nearing the island I can see hills rising up in the background with stately white pines hanging over a cluster of shops on the approaching shore. There’s one main street, only a couple of blocks long. Clusters of people are coming and going while clouds of seagulls squawk in the sky above. A marvelous breeze sends woodsy-pine smells into our snoots. So this is Madeline Island. I think I’m in love.