“Would you look at the size of this slice of pie?” I ask, knowing full well every bite will be consumed. Weight Watchers would deduct big time for this.
“Poor darling,” Ruby whispers between chews. “Our waitress mustn’t have a good stylist. You see those roots?”
“I did…I can’t get over how some women, like Dorothy, still spray their hair into a big poof ball. So many women get stuck in a hair time warp,” I say, wondering about myself.
“Oh, we are such cats.”
“Meow.”
“Maybe time warps do exist,” Ruby suggests. “Could be…what you get used to and find the easiest to do. Then you only do that for the rest of your life.”
“Interesting concept. But I don’t know one woman that wouldn’t look better if she would not backcomb her do into a mass of cotton candy. She’s attractive—and look at her skin.” We both turn and look at her, then back at each other and I know damn well Ruby’s thinking we—
“Do you ladies need anything?” I look up into the waitress’s blue eyes.
Her name is Marsha Kleven. She’s lived in Rice Lake all her life, raised an only daughter by waiting tables and baking wedding cakes. She’s just finished helping put that daughter through nursing school. Husband left them high and dry when Alice Anne was just a baby.
Marsha’s never remarried, nor even dated. Apparently, there are not a lot of choices in Rice Lake. We’re sitting in her spotless pink and white kitchen enjoying some French vanilla coffee. I’m putting the finishing touches on her new hairstyle.
“Well I’ll be.” Marsha admires her new look. “I wonder if Charlotte of Nila’s Cut and Curl Beauty and Tan will be able to copy this.”
She’s peering into a silver hand mirror. I’m beaming, because, well, not to brag or anything, but Marsha looks one hundred percent better. Softer, more like a woman and not so much like a character. Ruby is petting her cat, Putty, shaking her head, grinning.
“I’ve been slinging hash over at Norske Nook for years, had some pretty interesting offers, mind you, but when you said you needed to do my hair. That you had this vision, I figured—why not.” We laugh.
“Who in the world hasn’t wanted a makeover?” I ask, stubbing out my cigarette. “To be honest, I stole the idea from Oprah. I’ve been itching to try it and for some reason I had the feeling you were the one.”
“I’m so grateful…really. It’s reassuring to know there are people in the world willing to put their neck out in the name of beauty.” Marsha smiles. “What I wouldn’t do to take my new look right on out of this town.” Ruby and I catch eyes and I’m thinking of humming a few bars of “We’re off to see the wizard…”
“This seems like a lovely town, darling.” Ruby looks out a window to the backyard. “You’re lucky to have a quaint downtown plus a shopping center and all these lovely old homes.”
“I guess so, but thanks to the mall, the downtown is dying. Its nothing like Eau Claire.” Marsha rinses out our coffee cups. “There’s so much more to do there and their mall is huge, and—”
“Um, we’ve just left there and…” I catch Ruby’s raised eyebrow. “It is growing and growing and—”
“We’re moving north,” Ruby adds. “Eau Claire—Rice Lake—all lovely places, but sometimes you need to move in order to know you’re changing. A place is just a place, after all.”
“I suppose you’re right,” Marsha says, arms folded, leaning against her gleaming sink. “I’m getting antsy to be somewhere else, though. A different set of people, you know?”
“We do, darling.” Ruby gets up and pushes in her chair.
“Um, which way to the ladies room?” I’m ready to burst on her shiny floor. “My Keds can hold only so many cups of coffee.” Marsha points down the hallway.
“That’s Eve, always the lady,” Ruby says as I slam the bathroom door.
“It’s been hours since inhaling all those fat grams at Norske Nook and I’m still ready to explode!” Ruby adjusts her belt two notches for good measure. “If you plan on rescuing every time-warped hair disaster from here to the cottage…”
“Hey…so I lost my mind,” I say. “I just had to do it.”
“It was typical of you, darling,” Ruby says as we slam the truck doors. “I felt as though I was looking at myself for a moment. Me, twenty years ago—I went out in public with my hair that high! Good God.” She pats her hair.
I shift into drive and we shimmy up the entrance ramp, easing back onto Highway 53.
“Hey…we’ve all had some amazing ‘hair moments.’ I’ll show you my high school graduation picture. Now there was a style to be afraid of.”
“You didn’t perm your curly hair, did you?” Ruby asks, knowing the answer.
“I did.”
“Oh my.”
“Gross.”
“Oh my.” She roots around in her purse for a smoke. “I had a great time and…my God, was her house tidy or what. You notice the picture on the TV?”
“No, Miss Detective,” I reply. “I seemed to have missed it and if you haul it out of your purse, you’re in big trouble, Missy.”
There was a time, a long time ago, mind you, when I was a klepto-waitress. I used to grab huge cans of things like bean salad or creamed corn and chuck them into my conveniently enormous handbag. That was the seventies, when all I lived for was to disco dance at Fanny Hill. A girl could starve on what they paid you.
“The picture was of her and her husband, I’m sure it was.” Ruby brings me back to the present. “They were so young and unsullied-looking. With that wide-open, innocent look. What a shame he left like that. In the picture she had the same hairstyle as now. Or should I say, until we came into the picture. I’m sure she was hanging on…to the past…to him. To what they were before.” She sighs.
“She seems content—but searching,” I say, thinking. “Let’s give her a jingle when we get settled and have her up sometime.”
“Of course, darling, that would be lovely.” Ruby pauses for a moment. “Did you notice, on her dresser was a framed note from her husband. I only happened to read it.” I thought I was nosy. “Marsha and you were chatting on about something or other. It was written on The Moose Head Lodge Motel stationery. The last sentence was, ‘When thoughts flow to you, as they often do, I know love.’ Says it all, doesn’t it?” Ruby asks, petting Rocky and looking out the windshield.
“Yes.” I’d frame that too.
We zoom on. It’s later in the afternoon than we had planned, but I make up some of the time by going a pinch over the speed limit. We zip by a town called Haugen, then outside Trego we head northeast by picking up Highway 63. The day is crystal clear, made-to-order for a road trip. Several hours slide blissfully by.
“You tired, darling? I’d be more than happy to take the wheel.”
“No way,” I reply. “Thanks for asking, but I love to drive and this thing handles way easier than my van. Not as noisy, either.”
“I do miss the little balls you have around the windshield though. I wonder if I should have hung on to my Buick. I’m rusty with a clutch…you may have to give me a review. That’s all we had once upon a time, you know.”
“It’s simple.”
“Why in the world would anyone in their right mind—no offense, darling—buy a brand-new car and then have one of those stick things and not an automatic is truly beyond me.”
“My van is old. I don’t think they even made VW vans with automatic back in those days. Some people like shifting. The big argument is you have more control and it saves on gas. It is one more thing to fuss with, though.”
Ruby puts Irene Kral in the tape deck. As she sings “This Is Always,” we relax into the afternoon. We pass through the former logging hamlets of Cable, Drummond and Grand View. North of Benoit I turn right. We whiz through onto Highway 13 and then north into our port town, Bayfield.
“I can’t believe we’re back. I think Bayfield is one of the prettiest towns I’ve ever seen, isn’t it? Damn, th
ere are so many more people around this time of year. Let’s park. Besides,” I say with pursed lips, “I’ve got to pee.”
“Why just look at all the people.” Ruby pats Rocky’s head as he stands on her lap looking out. “Isn’t it wonderful how busy it is in the summer?”
“Today’s been awesome. Sunshine, crispy-crunchy air and less roadkill.” A little girl with pigtails crosses in front of us, pulling her dolls in a wagon. “How about I park this caravan here, there’s no way in hell I could parallel park. We can walk into town for a bite to eat before our final leg across the lake.” I pull alongside a Victorian cottage. A festival of color bursts from flowerpots on the porch.
“Now control yourself around any bad hair,” Ruby warns. “Let’s go to one of Ed’s and my favorite haunts—Greunke’s. They’re famous for their Whitefish Liver Dinner. Then again there’s always Maggie’s. They have wonderful burgers. Or The Old Rittenhouse Inn. They tend to be spendy though; heaps of lace and—”
“The first one, however you say it—Grumpy’s. I’m not going to have liver though and if you are, we can sit at different tables and wave.” I scrunch my nose.
“I’d have to be very hungry, starving…desperate,” Ruby says, scrunching up her face.
We stroll several blocks downhill on Rittenhouse Avenue, since Bayfield slants right smack down to the lake. We pass by antique shops, art galleries, taverns and restaurants spewing delicious smells into the street. The lane eventually ends at a pier, which juts out into the lake. The view is incredible.
“Classy.” I read the pink neon sign above the two-story rambling house. “Greunke’s Inn, Fine Food. God, if the food is anything like it smells out here…”
“You’re going to get such a kick out of this.” Ruby opens the door.
In we step, into the past, that is. The restaurant is a maze of cozy rooms. The walls are covered with pictures, mirrors, newspaper clippings, china plates, and kitchen lamps of all shapes, sizes and colors.
Every room is packed with people, so we get added to a waiting list. Taking seats at an old-fashioned soda fountain/bar, we order a glass of wine. I slip away to the world’s smallest restroom while Patsy Cline sings “I Fall to Pieces” on a real jukebox blinking in the corner.
“Feel better, darling?” Ruby asks when I return. “I don’t think a thing has changed here. I like that.”
“This is a gold mine.” I squish in next to her. “A waiting list, all this charm. Hey…get a load of that lady, a nice bob haircut, color’s not bad either; could use a touch-up on those roots though.” I can’t help myself!
A tall, bone-slim blond woman zooms by. She’s juggling water glasses in one hand and the other is clutching a stack of newspapers. I can overhear her ordering the gal in front of her to get her butt in gear. Has to be the owner, I can sense it from here. Looking closer at some of the photos on the wall in front of us, I recognize a younger her. She’s climbing mountains, standing in the ocean, skiing down hills and quoted in an article for having a celebrity visit her joint.
“That’s Judith—the owner,” Ruby says. I nod and smile. “She pretty much lives here—used to anyway. Works her tail off. I don’t think there’s a husband.”
“You can tell she runs a tight ship,” I reply. “This is one business I wouldn’t last a day in. The hours are a killer.” I read a sign: “John Kennedy Jr. Ate Here.” Such a shame, his plane crashing. Seemed like the only Kennedy that had some happiness.”
“He was something to look at; beautiful wife too. How come everyone forgets she died as well?” Ruby asks. “Like Princess Diana. For us, they’ll never get old…. Imagine.”
“Imagine.”
“Drink up! They called our name.” Ruby hops off her stool. We follow Judith as she darts around tables, greeting people while leading us up and around into a cozy little nook.
“I know you from somewhere,” Judith remarks over her shoulder. “You must have been here a while back—I never forget a face. But…let me think. Oh sure—you used to come in here with a really tall, handsome guy.” She’s tidying up the table next to us, resetting it and straightening a picture on the wall.
“Yes, that was my husband Ed. He passed away about five years back. We used to stop here on our way over to our cottage.” Ruby scoots into the corner seat—church pew rather.
“Oh, I’m so sorry. I’m Judith, by the way.” She doesn’t offer a hand, as she hasn’t a free one. “Nice to see you again. Ruby, right?”
“My goodness, what a memory. This is Eve.” Ruby points in my direction.
“Hello, Eve. Try the whitefish liver. The fresh catch tonight is walleye, right off the boat and the soup is seafood bisque. Enjoy!” Off she sails across the room.
“She has more energy than a person ought to,” Ruby says. “Wonder what kind of coffee she has in the morning.”
“My God…look at this menu. Clever. It’s a menu disguised as a newspaper—or a newspaper disguised as a menu,” I say.
Ruby is discreetly running her finger across the top of a nearby picture frame. “Can’t get over how clean it is. Must take forever to dust all this stuff.” She’s looking at an old black-and-white picture of Judy Garland.
“I wish I’d brought a bigger bag,” I whisper. “I see several things I would love to…borrow.”
“Eve, you are rotten to the core…Which ones?” Ruby whispers back, lifting her eyebrows.
Just then the waitress comes by for our order. We both exchange looks of, “Behave.”
“That was wonderful.” I slam the truck door. “I’m shocked by how reasonable the check was.”
“There are so many memories in those rooms. I’m flattered she remembered Ed and me. You must have given the waitress one hell of a tip—you see her face?”
“She was excellent and I love to tip good service; it’s so worth it. Hey, I know tippers, and in the Midwest—well there’s not a lot of them.” I shift the truck into gear and head down to the ferry.
“Rocky has been such a darling.” Ruby lifts him into her lap. “He needs to stretch his little legs and I bet he could use some food too.”
“Oh, I don’t think he’s ever going to run out of things to eat.”
“He can’t be expected to hunt mice every day and he doesn’t actually eat them…does he?” Ruby asks while holding Rocky up so they’re looking into each other’s eyes. I nod.
We make it to the ferry at the last second. While it pulls away from the Bayfield dock, we hop onto the deck of the boat. Standing in the back of the ferry, we watch as Bayfield fades away. Then we rush to the front to watch as Madeline Island comes into view. It’s bustling, with another ferry leaving, speedboats gassing up and groups of people strolling here and there.
The ferry pulls in and we drive off to the left, following the road and bypassing downtown La Pointe. Then I put the brakes on.
“Hey,” I say in my “I Spy” voice, “how about stopping in that bar and checking out the jerk Dorothy was yammering about?”
“Oh I don’t know if we—”
“I know you’re just as curious as I am. Hang on and let me see if I can turn this sucker around.”
I get halfway turned around and realize that there’s not enough room. So I back up a teensy bit.
“Shit!” I share with all. “This road is too narrow, and now I’m, like, jammed in the middle. I really should have stuck to my only-pull-in-and-drive-through rule. Now what the hell am I going…” I’m really frustrated here. How come a semi driver can turn a corner and manage to miss your car by a hair and I can’t manage a stupid rental truck—plus my van, of course.
“Well, darling, perhaps you’ll be able to question the nice policeman who has just pulled up.”
The policeman is nice enough, though he could lose about fifty pounds of tummy. He straightens things out and we head to the Liquor Lounge. Which, according to our handy, chocolate-smudged map, is on Main Street. This time I pull alongside and park on the street.
“Coul
d use some paint.” Ruby suggests.
“A wrecking ball,” I offer. “Maybe a fire.”
We push through a screen door, its various holes covered over with duct tape. It smacks closed behind us and everyone at the bar turns to take us in. The place is dark, damp and closed in. On closer inspection, it’s got possibilities. Would need to be cleaned—no, scraped—first.
“Wanna order?” I half-whisper to Ruby.
“I don’t think so…darling.”
“What’ll it be?” The bartender, his comb-over trying desperately to cover a shiny scalp, saunters over.
His bloodshot eyes take us in in that ripping-off clothes way, lingering way too long on my chest. I look down at my chest and straight back at him. The jerk winks!
“Hey Al,” a man down the bar yells, “we playin’ poker or what?”
Al turns to the guy and we turn and run!
“I don’t think we’ll be frequenting that place much,” Ruby says as we drive away.
“He’s too small to be of any danger,” I respond. “I could handle that one—I think. But you never can tell.” There was such a dullness in that man’s eyes, like he was there, but wasn’t. I need to clear my head.
I pop in a tape of Miles Davis and up and down hills we float. With the windows down, late-afternoon sunshine leads the way. Where the road takes a major right, I slow down and stop, pulling up to the vine-covered gate that leads to the cottage, the lake and beyond.
“What the hell?” I say. “Someone repainted the sign that said ‘Prévost Place.’” Hopping down, I have a closer look. The background of the sun is now a brighter yellow. It reads EVE AND RUBY in raised letters painted a deep ruby red.
“Hope you like it, darling.”
“Ruby…I love it…and you.” I put my arm around her shoulders.
“We’re home.”
CHAPTER TEN
After several tries, finally I get the lock on the old gate to fall open. I drive through; we pull the gate shut, then hop back in. We look at each other and sit for a moment facing the rutted dark path with its tree-canopied tunnel.
Moon over Madeline Island Page 11