The kid is now shoving in orange potato chips by the fistful. His mom discreetly sips diet soda from a long, thin straw, making painful mouth shapes so as not to spoil her perfectly applied glossy pink lipstick. Ruby watches me watch them.
Shaking my head, I say, “He’s going to have a tough time dropping weight the older he gets. She’ll splurge on boob jobs, face-lifts and keeping the pantry stocked. He’s going to end up the last one to be picked for kick ball, called nasty names and…keep right on eating.”
“Oh he may not, darling; he may have a growth spurt.”
“Maybe,” I reply doubtfully. “But those early habits—take it from me—they’re with you forever…no matter what color you dye your hair.” I can still hear the horrible fat-names I was called. Never being picked by either team in gym class and never ever having a prom date.
“Eve, you know what you need, darling?”
“A sixpack of Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups, my feet in warm slippers and a big huge hardback…book.”
Sighing contentedly, Ruby agrees.
Our ferry slips alongside the pier and the vehicles on board rev to life. We watch The Kid waddle and Lipstick sidle down the pier along with the other people on foot. This time, the front end of the ferry opens up in order to let us drive off. We follow the procession up a short cement pier, veering right; we’re smack-dab on Main Street. The entire downtown and surrounding neighborhood is called La Pointe, Ruby explains to Rocky and me.
“LaPointe is really…charming. Small, but charming.” I move the van along at a speed of ten. “La Pointe Post Office, The Beach Club, Grandpa Tony’s, Lotta’s Cafe…”
“What? You think I can’t read the signs?” Ruby asks with a sarcastic chuckle. “Now how about making a left here onto Middle Road, then left onto—”
“Rice Street,” I reply, letting the steering wheel fly. “These bungalows must be worth a fortune.”
“Right…here, darling,” Ruby pronounces, pointing with one of Rocky’s paws. “Follow this for a bit.”
“You know, one advantage to being on an island is the fact that it will be much harder for me to get lost. Especially since the entire island is only fourteen miles by three.” I’m famous for getting lost.
“Keep an eye peeled for North Shore Drive,” Ruby informs me, settling back into her seat.
“I’ll be a son of a…Guess who’s passing by,” I say. “In a limo, no less. The Kid and Lipstick.”
“You best get used to seeing familiar faces,” Ruby cautions, giving them a royal wave.
Either side of the van is a view into dense pinewoods. Every so often we spy an enchanting rutted drive curving down into darkness, then disappearing altogether. I’ve always thought of islands as small little circles of sand, a lone palm tree and a bearded man sipping a drink with a miniature umbrella sticking out. Here, we’re engulfed in a forested beauty that makes you whisper.
“Since I’ve been studying up,” I boast, “would you care for a little Wisconsin field-guide naming of some of the trees and plants here? I have a great memory for this kind of thing.”
“That would be lovely, darling,” Ruby replies. I slow the van to a crawl.
“The trees are a mixture of white pine, spruce and oak, as well as white and yellow birch,” I say and look at Ruby to see if she’s bored. She’s not. “The wildflowers are amazing and look, there’s a cardinal!” I point to a bright red bird watching us from a low-hanging branch.
Rocky’s tail twitches, so Ruby pulls him closer. “That lovely bird is welcoming us to the island and isn’t lunch!” she tells Rocky. He growls.
“Let’s see…” I resume sharing my newly acquired knowledge of our surroundings. “Over by that stream, forget-me-nots, and I think the red one is cardinal flower. Along the road you’ve got your black-eyed susans, purple coneflower, and I bet those tall orange babies are turk’s-cap. Just to name a few of the local beauties showing off their colors today.”
“I am very impressed, darling, and from now on I will come to you for clarification of all trees, flowers and whatnot in the wild. Now—would you care for a bit of island history while we suffer on through this horrid drive?” Ruby asks with a big grin.
“Yes please.”
“Well…” she begins, lifting her cigarette to director-mode, “the island was named after Madeline Cadotte, daughter of Chief White Crane, wife of fur trader Michael Cadotte. I’ve heard she was a real looker. The Ojibwe Indians lived here hundreds of years before the Europeans gave them the heave-ho. It was a main outpost for fur traders, back when women had the good sense to wear fur. Nothing does a gal’s wardrobe better than to have a fur or two hanging around. During Prohibition, the island’s popularity soared. A lot of cottages had stills, bottling houses, and some were rather famous jazz bars. All in the name of a good…stiff—”
“Drink!” I declare.
The road has begun curving to the right and on our left, surrounded by several tall milkweeds and a clump of golden prairie grass, stands a faded yellow sign in the shape of a sun.
“We’ve arrived,” Ruby announces. “To the entrance anyway. We’re still a ways from the cottage.”
I pull up to a sagging iron gate, held together in the middle by a huge paddle-lock. Next to it stands the sun sign. In faded pink letters it proclaims PRÉVOST PLACE. We get out and walk over to the gate. Beyond is a tree-canopied tunnel with parallel dark ruts worn into the grass leading off into the woods. I shake the gate for the hell of it. The noise causes a big cloud of white butterflies to stir to life around us. We watch, mesmerized, as they soar up and away.
“Now let’s see here—too many keys. I’m sure I’ll remember which…Ah ha!” Ruby declares, holding up a long skeleton key on a ring with about twenty others. “It’s this one, I’m sure of it. Here, you do the honors.”
The lock is a little persnickety, but with some fussing, it clicks and falls open. We each take a half of the gate, pushing it out of the way and into the long grass. I drive the van through, hop back out and pull the gate closed behind us.
I carefully creep forward. The narrow drive veers right. Bright afternoon sunshine quickly fades to a dark, eerie green. Looking up through the bug-smeared windshield, I marvel at how the trees lean over the driveway on either side, weaving together to form a cavern of green leaves and branches. The air has turned cool. Suddenly one of the tires slams hard, dropping into a pothole that somehow snuck up on me.
“Shit!” I yell loud enough to send Rocky leaping over the stick shift and into Ruby’s lap. “You forgot to tell me about the booby traps!”
“If you would watch where you’re driving,” Ruby calmly replies. “This is the north, way north, and roads are tricky. Now take this next left slow—please.”
“Not like I have much choice.”
We come to a major bend in the road, which abruptly dips almost straight down. I shift into low, hoping like hell the brakes hold. At the bottom of the gully we come to a rickety wooden bridge. I slow, then stop. A creek as wide as the van snakes through the dense woods, under the bridge and off to our left. I look over at Ruby as we both “oooh” and “ahh.” Rocky’s tail twitches. He licks his lips while intently watching sparrows chase one another.
“Get this buggy up the next hill and we’re home free,” Ruby instructs.
“You got it lady.” I shift, hit the gas, and laugh out loud.
VW vans do not speed up anything, let alone a hill as steep as this one. After the van’s initial shuddering, up we inch. As we curve to the right, sunshine gradually breaks through the canopy of leaves and we’re suddenly in a clearing that goes on and on all the way to the water. Straight ahead is the lake, endless lake, reflecting sun and sky of the deepest blue. I let out a soft whistle.
To our left stands a two-story log cabin; behind it is a red barn, its front corner consumed by leafy hanging vines swaying in the breeze. The cottage sits on a ridge overlooking the lake, with stately old pine trees all around it. They stand sentry
while giving off a feeling of history and quiet. Mystery too.
“Oh man, it’s way more than a little cabin in the woods. God, It’s so—”
“…good to be back.” Ruby sniffs, dabbing at her eyes with a tissue. “To think the last time I was here was…Oh hell, time to move on. Time to get a move on!” Ruby announces, her voice getting back to its snappy self. So I do—move the van, that is.
“Pull up to the back porch there. First we need to say hello to the lake,” Ruby informs me while hopping out and setting Rocky on the seat. She then plops a huge straw hat on her head with the air of a woman with resolve.
“You greet the lake? I mean, it sounds entirely normal to me, I guess, considering who…” I have to trot in order to keep up with her as we pass along the side of the cottage.
“Oh look at this, isn’t this the most beautiful sight in the entire world?” Ruby asks with arms open wide as we fly down wooden stairs and end up on the end of the wooden dock.
“God, it’s gorgeous,” I say, catching my breath.
“You always need to say hello to the lake first; it’s tradition,” Ruby says, and I totally agree.
I silently promise Ed I’ll do my best to watch over this amazing woman while at the same time I have this other feeling too. Like I’ve been here before. It usually happens when the world and I are right or something happens and it feels as though it was supposed to turn out that way all along.
Rocky has caught up with us, meowing through a clump of reeds on the shore. Slowly he steals his way out to the end of the dock and purrs around our ankles. I put an arm around Ruby. We stand there and just—are.
“Over there”—Ruby’s cigarette points—“you can just make out the outline of Hermit Island and that one over a bit is Stockton Island. It’s rather large. Then we’ve Michigan Island and hiding behind that is Gull Island. To the right of that and on and on is water all the way until you smack into Canada.”
“I can just barely see the mainland.” I squint in that direction. “Or is that another island?”
“Since we sit on this tip that juts out into the lake, sometimes you can spot a tiny bit of Bayfield.”
After several more minutes of taking in the lake I break the silence. “How about you and I taking a look around inside?” Scooping up Rocky, we head back up the stairs, around the side of the cottage to the back.
An enclosed porch wraps around the entire first floor, its big square windows reflecting the afternoon sunlight. Beyond are reed curtains pulled down tight. Wooden red shutters with stars carved into the tops are latched shut over all the second-floor windows. White window boxes, weeds shooting out of them, hang beneath. An impressive river-rock chimney peeks out of the gable roof.
Ruby shows me which key will most likely open the porch door. It unlocks easily, swinging silently open. The porch is decorated with wicker, the real stuff. Chairs, love seats, tables and lamps, all in shades of faded green and white. Hanging on the wall next to the door leading into the cottage itself is an enormous fish. A dusty, spider-webbed tie is wrapped around its garish head. It’s turned from the wall, looking about ready to slap its tail.
“I caught that mother!” Ruby boasts, scratching Rocky’s head. “Nearly pulled me in the drink, too. I’ll teach you how to fish. I love to wet a line now and again.”
“Okay, but there’s no way in hell I’m cleaning the slimy things. Yuck.” Picking out a frozen, tastefully packaged fillet from the freezer section at the market makes so much more sense.
“You catch ’em, you clean ’em. Rules of the lake,” Ruby states as if reading my mind.
“Great.”
We step up the stoop leading to the back door. It’s an unusually beautiful door, arched at the top and covered with carvings of trees and birds. A round, lace-covered window looks down at us.
“Ruby,”—I hand her back the keys—“you open this one,” I speak softly, taking Rocky from her. He meows in agreement.
She fits the key in. The lock clicks, allowing the door to open. A breeze of cool, musty air rushes out, surrounding us, then melts away. Rocky leaps from my arms, disappearing inside. Ruby and I stand on the threshold, shoulder to shoulder, breathing silently. I give the door a push and it glides open, squeaking all the way. I smile with satisfaction.
Stepping over the threshold, we’re in the kitchen, which opens into a big main living area. Beyond you can see out a wall of French doors to the front of the cottage. A hulking yellow and chrome gas stove stands proud, surrounded by knotty pine cupboards with dark green countertops.
In the center is a huge varnished tree stump with four wicker barstools around it. It’s the most amazing waist-high island table I’ve ever seen. Stepping closer, after wiping away a layer of dust, I count hundreds of age rings, dark against the amber-colored wood. A well-worn brass footrest winds around the bottom. Above it, suspended by chains, hangs a circular well-stocked pan holder.
“Cooked up some lovely feasts with this sucker.” Ruby pats the gas stove with affection. “I rang ahead to make sure the electricity was turned on. I’m so glad the boys next door put the dock in. Such a nice surprise. Now be careful opening drawers, cupboards, everything really. Hard to say what’ll leap out.”
“Oh?”
“You’ll get used to it…them, I should say.”
“Them?”
“Besides…we have Rocky,” Ruby reminds me. Who, on cue, leaps into my arms, dust stuck to his whiskers.
“What a stove, must weigh a ton. And does this work?” I ask, standing next to a matching yellow fridge, its rounded corners and circular door handle making it look more like a muscle car than an icebox. Icebox? Where’d that come from?
Ruby reaches around me, plugging it in. A subtle but gratifying whir fills the air.
“Smart aleck, ’course it works. It’s not that old,” Ruby says, leading us out of the kitchen and into the living room. “This is my favorite spot. A crackling fire warms it up in no time flat.” Ruby yanks several sheets, revealing furniture.
A whimsical assortment of Art Deco, sixties kitsch and some interesting tables and chairs made from wooden sticks. Everything is turned toward the fireplace. A big overstuffed faded red sofa is flanked by several chairs in varying states of slump with a marvelous sparkly green coffee table in the middle. Underneath, in stacks and rows, are board games—Monopoly, Scrabble, Shoots and Ladders, Yatzee, an Ouija board. Hmmm.
The walls are smooth logs, stacked horizontally, varnished to a similar amber as the stump table. A cathedral ceiling arches up beyond the second floor, exposing rafters that crisscross over to a balcony. A suspended staircase made of logs sliced in half curves up around the left wall, ending at the open balcony.
“It’s my favorite room too—well, so far anyway. What a place.” I’m itching to get a look at the rest. I notice a collection of framed pictures along the walls and make a mental note to peer into them later.
Piling the sheets from the living room on the kitchen counter, we set off past the fireplace, down a hallway illuminated by a floor-to-ceiling stained-glass window. As we get closer I realize it’s a human-size toad. A golden crown tilts over one of his bright yellow eyes; his lips are puckered, ready for a kiss.
“Ruby?”
“Long story…Ed’s grandfather, Gustave, had it made years ago. He loved The Wind in the Willows and come spring, down by the creek, there are toads by the pail-full. You can hear them croak all night long. He looks just like Ed, if you ask me.”
“This place must be really old.” I gaze into the toad’s eyes.
“Gustave and Adeline built it around nineteen twenty-one,” Ruby says reflectively and I have to whistle in awe. “This is a room I think you’ll really enjoy.” She pushes open a door on the far side of the toad-window.
“You have a library? For God’s sake…a library,” I stammer as though I’d seen a ghost.
“Ed’s family loved books,” Ruby explains as we enter the cozy room. “Just like you do, darlin
g.”
She pulls a sheet off one of the two high-backed chairs facing a potbellied stove. Rocky sails into the room, onto one of the chairs, then leaps through the air, landing with a karate-chop meow on the other. A dust cloud puffs up around him. He sneezes.
“Bless you, darling. My Lord, what I wouldn’t give to have that kind of energy.” Ruby scratches him between his ears. “This was Ed’s room.” She clicks on a Tiffany-style lamp. “We used to sit in here when the sun was elsewhere. Read…and talk…enjoy the coziness.”
“Truman Capote, Dante, Dickens, Emerson, Mary Stewart…a little of everything.” I read aloud a few of the hundreds of book spines, my palms getting sweaty at the thought of all these worlds to explore.
“Ed had quite a collection. Come along.” Ruby leads us back down the hall, into the living room.
“You know, we really should have something to celebrate with.” I feel a tad naughty and love it. “Just a tiny sip of something to commemorate the moment.”
“Oh there are all sorts of that in the basement. Shall we?”
“There’s a basement?”
Back we go into the kitchen and sure enough, there, smack-dab behind the door we came in: another door. This one is covered with wooden pegs holding hats, coats and umbrellas in every color and design. It groans and creaks as Ruby pulls it open. Rocky leads the way down the stairs; damp musty air wafts up to greet us.
“These stairs have always been squeaky,” Ruby cautions. “But they’re strong.” We slowly descend, squeaking all the way. We laugh.
“Since the cottage sits on a ridge, the basement has never flooded and well, as you can see, we used it to store all sorts of junk. Over there, through that metal door, is the wine cellar.” Ruby points to an ominous metal door.
The basement is a labyrinth of rooms. Bare light bulbs dangle from wires coated with dust, and furniture, boxes, crates and appliances of every shape and color fill the place. Over in a corner stands an old round pink washer like one at my salon. Its rollers clutch an old sock, making it look as though it’s sticking its tongue out at us. The furnace is huge, like an octopus, pipes and gizmos going this way and that.
Moon over Madeline Island Page 4