Moon over Madeline Island

by Jay Gilbertson

  “I think sooner rather than later,” I suggest with a raised brow and a well-placed grin. “Perhaps when we do invite him over, I’ll be out fishing or something.”

  “Don’t be silly…a woman my age.” Ruby opens and closes cupboard doors a bit too loudly. “He and I have both enjoyed long marriages—with other partners, of course. For heaven’s sake, he was Ed’s lake chum. Really!” she blusters out.

  “Ruby, you aren’t dead…or even near. All your parts are in order, and he is a stud and I don’t think there are any such things as accidents.” I fold my arms over my chest to establish my position.

  “You mean this is a universal setup sort of thing?” Ruby considers this.

  “Something like that.”

  “It was only lunch, for heaven’s sake,” Ruby says with a sigh. “I was thinking of our business venture. He is handsome though. Oh…listen to me.”

  “Pathetic, really.” I shake my head. “I feel like your parent and I’m telling you to go for it!”

  “Eve Moss!”

  “You’re blushing,” I singsong. “My God, you’re blushing.” I pour a mug of cold coffee and head into the living room. “I’m going to the boathouse to give Marsha a call and return the ones from Charlie’s list. Come down and join me. After you cool off, that is.”

  “Hi Marsha,” I say into her machine. “Eve Moss here—your personal redo woman. Now if you’re still interested…” I hear a soft click on the line. “Hello?”

  “Hello, Eve? Is that you?”

  “Yes, hi. How’s it going?” I’ve got to figure out something to do with this phone. I’m really over looking into the eyes of that deer head. Turning my back on it, I yank some cord from its mouth and walk over to the kitchen to retrieve my lit cigarette.

  “I’m actually playing hooky,” Marsha says with a chuckle. “Have to screen my calls since you might have been Norske Nook and I’m just not in the mood to be around all that pie.”

  “I honestly think I can understand that.” We giggle and I recall all those appliances lined up on her countertop just waiting to be turned on. “Are you still thinking of a career change? I don’t know if the pay would be—”

  “I am. Well, I mean…I wasn’t. Then you and Ruby show up and all I’ve done is think about it. I really don’t need much to live on. My daughter’s almost done with college. What’s keeping me here?”

  “Do I know what you mean.” I stick my tongue out at the deer head.

  “I checked with a friend of mine that has an empty cabin in LaPointe and they’d love to rent it to me real cheap.”

  “How are you with a sewing machine?”

  “Made my very own wedding dress. Which I cut into tiny pieces on what would have been our tenth anniversary—the bastard.”

  “Oh my. Well you’d have no trouble with what we have in mind, then. We’re just getting together a group. You thinking a month, or…?”

  “Something like that, I guess. I do want to give the restaurant a two-week notice and all—I’ve been there forever.”

  “That’s great,” I say. “Talk to you soon.”

  “Eve…thank you. Be sure and say hello to Ruby for me.”

  “I will.” I hang up, letting out a satisfying cloud of smoke. I start down the list on the crumpled napkin. One phone number is disconnected. At the next one I leave a message. Then…“Hello? Is this Al? Al Smitters?” Oh man—is this that Al creature? I shudder and pull my chest in.

  “Could be. Depends…” a man’s raspy voice replies.

  “This is Eve Moss. I ran an ad for seamstresses,” I say, nice as pie ’cause he sounds paranoid. “But if I have the wrong number, I sure am sorry.”

  “Oh ya, sure, sure,” I can hear muffled talking and some glasses clattering in the background. “My wife needs work. She can sew real good. Kind of shy is all.”

  “Can I speak with her? Is she there?” I detect a slur in his voice. This is really weird.

  “You called me at my bar, the Liquor Lounge.” It’s him—shit. “We don’t got a phone at our place till later in the week when I can get enough money together to rehook it up. Bonnie—that’s my wife—every time I turn around, she’s calling her sister in Chicago. Every God damn—”

  “Have your wife give me a call when she can,” I reply quickly. “She and I can set up an interview.” Such a pleasant-sounding man.

  “The pay good? She don’t come free, you know. We need the cash. Going into winter and all.” He starts clearing stubborn-sounding phlegm from his throat.

  “Bonnie and I will discuss it. Have her give me a call, okay?”

  “Sure, sure, hang on a minute.” I can hear him cover the phone and yell something. “Okay, what’s your number and you better give me your address, too, okay honey?”

  My skin crawls when a man calls me “honey.” I tell him and before I can say another word, the line goes dead.

  The boathouse is beginning to take shape and look more like an apron-making shop. I can almost hear the hum of machines. I spend the rest of the afternoon getting a feel for the space and figuring out where things should go in my head. Ruby has gone into La Pointe for some much needed supplies, so it’s just me and I’m done for the day. I’m sitting on the end of the dock, wrapped in a huge workout shirt. The sun is starting its dip down behind the horizon of trees. The water is slapping against the shore and I’m watching an enormous bird float on the wind…and wondering.

  I wonder what the girls at the salon are up to and if they miss me. I miss them. Hair is such a funny business. It’s one of the few jobs in which you actually touch someone—other than a doctor, of course. I miss Dorothy’s laugh and how Watts was always making fun of her big hair. “Dot’s do,” she would chant while ratting it up to the ceiling for her. God—am I lonely? Do I need to have that? That and all the craziness too? I had no idea I would miss it this much. But I’m not the salon; I’m not a place. People are what counts and what really makes you you. I guess I’m feeling scared, too. I did this whole thing so damn fast and furious—have I made a major fuckup? My mother would gasp at the mention of that word. Then she’d say it herself and giggle.

  But it’s funny how quickly I’ve created a new world up here. I’m seeing how important it is to keep changing if you really want to grow—to become more. I was way overdue. But, then again, maybe this was exactly when I needed to do this.

  I lift myself up from the dock and decide to head up to the barn and have a peek into the loft. Walking up the path to the front porch, then through the smacking screen door, I stroll through the living room. Stopping off in the kitchen, I scoop up Rocky, who’s watching me from one of the wicker bar stools. I have a sip of water (I can’t get over how delicious the well water is here) before we head out the back door, toward the barn.

  Stepping through the side door, I hit the lights and marvel at all our junk piled at the far end. Ruby and Johnny had thrown sheets over everything. I walk around the duck, still holding Rocky, over to the far corner next to Ed’s workbench and a wide staircase. I clomp up the dusty stairs leading up a flight, then around and up another, ending at the corner of a cavernous room.

  “Holy cow, Rocky, look at this.”

  I set Rocky down on the wide-plank floor and walk toward a huge window. It looks down on the cottage and on to the lake. I turn back to the loft to do a little snooping.

  Off to one side, tucked under the eaves, is a huge, sagging brown sofa flanked by a worn leather chair. On a coffee table made of crates is a jelly jar holding old cattails that long ago exploded their seeds. A wooden rolltop desk holds a jumble of dust-covered papers and folders. A pipe sits in an ashtray; I lift it and smell a faint odor of woodsy-cherry. A half-drunk bottle of Wild Turkey catches the sun’s light, seeming as though lit from within. I lift a heart-shaped frame, swipe the dust away and study the handsome couple.

  It’s of Ed and Ruby, their faces close, blowing out candles on a heavily decorated cake. The sparkle in their eyes says it all. A lot of mome
nts in life are like that. Like that sparkle—there are simply no words for them. It’s knowingness, being right with the world. So many things I’ve seen or felt could never be mashed down into a single word. I like that. I slip the picture into my pocket.

  Walking over to a canvas-covered table, I lift the edge to peek under. “What the hell?” Pulling the fabric off reveals, in exact proportion, a model of the entire island! Its three-dimensional detail is incredible. Trees, bushes, streams and curving drives lead to cabins nestled all along the lakeshore. Several farms have horses and cows; there’s even a pond with ducks floating around. On one is a dock with a woman fishing!

  I walk around and locate the cottage and barn. There’s the creek, the boathouse and a little cabin hidden in the woods. I wonder just where that is. On one corner are some switches—of course I flip them.

  “Holy cow!”

  All over the model island, lights come on. Bending way over, peeking here and there, I can see some of the cottages are cut away, revealing equally meticulous interiors. They’re furnished with chairs and tables set with dishes. Kitchen windows have tiny lace drapes over tiny sinks. Unbelievable. In the little town of La Pointe, where the ferry drops you off, are miniature cars unloading. This must have taken Ed years.

  Under other tarps are hand tools, drill presses, several saws and a collection of paints. There’s a hulking, windup record player and bins of heavy records. Finding one that says, “Fox Trots,” I crank up the turntable. Tinny music fills the room.

  Along one entire wall are floor-to-ceiling mirrors; waist-high runs one of those wooden ballet bars. A long time ago this must have been a dance studio. Standing in the center of the room, I can imagine it better. If all this stuff were moved to the end, over by the stairway, it would be a great place for a workout room.

  The record ends, and the repetitious scratching noise of the stuck needle is maddening. I lift up the arm of the record player and close the top. Peering out the window, I take one last look at the view. Rocky rubs my leg; a clump of dust is floating off the tip of his tail. Looking down at the back door of the cottage, I watch as a patched-together station wagon lurches to a halt. A woman with pink curlers hops out and heads for the back porch. I grab Rocky and move toward the stairs, taking them two at a time. Just as I’m coming out of the barn, she’s getting back into her car, about to pull the door shut.

  “Hello?” I say, breathless. “Can I help you or…”

  “I’m Bonnie.” The frail woman gets back out of her car. “Bonnie Smitters. Come to ask about the sewing job. If it’s still open, that is.”

  I put Rocky down and move toward her. She’s dressed in a dark sweatshirt with the sleeves shoved up to her elbows and baggy jeans, both of which seem to be hanging on her. Her tired eyes are the color of gray storm clouds.

  I reach out to shake her hand. She stares at it for a second, then offers hers. It’s worn and callused, but warm. I spy a bluish-green mark on her forearm. She sees me seeing and quickly pulls down her sleeve.

  “Nice to meet you, Bonnie. I’m Eve…Eve Moss.” I quickly let her hand go, as I can feel she needs it back. She takes it into the other one, cradling it.

  “My husband came home, told me you called and said I best hightail it over here. Jobs are hard to come by here and—”

  “Would you like some coffee…Bonnie?” I suddenly want to do something for her. It’s those eyes and the pink curlers.

  “Oh…I shouldn’t, but if it’s no trouble or…” Her voice is careful, timid.

  “No trouble at all. Follow me.” I lead her into the kitchen, where I busy myself with coffee-pouring.

  “Nice place. I’ve cleaned a lot of cabins; this here is way more…” She blows on her coffee, considering. “Homey. Plenty big, though.”

  “It is…thanks.” I think I’d like to get to know her. Find out what’s behind those eyes.

  “What are you’re wanting sewed?” Bonnie asks. “I sew, but not all that fast.”

  “A simple design. Speed’s not the issue.” I don’t think I want to tell anyone what is to be sewn until our first day on the job. “If you could work four, maybe five days a week, and if you have a working sewing machine…?”

  I feel funny asking this, but I’ve got to keep a grip on expenses. My gut tells me this is going to work, and finally, I’ve learned to listen. Besides, maybe we’re supposed to be here, meeting these people, helping each other.

  “I can do that and I’ve got an okay machine. If you need references…last lady I cleaned for…she’s dead, so…”

  “Well I guess I can’t call her now, can I?” She cracks a wry smile. “Haven’t set a starting date yet, but…”

  “With fall coming, most folks are closing up to head south, so I’m pretty open.”

  “If it sounds like something you’d like to do—you’re hired!”

  “Sure…but…that’s it? Just like that?” She squints her eyes in disbelief.

  “Yup. Just like that. You’re hired.” I smile and see a light behind the gray. “You wouldn’t have any friends that sew, would you?”

  “Nope, sorry,” Bonnie says. “I keep pretty much to myself. I should be heading back; I need to start dinner and…” She reaches up to touch her hair, hitting a curler instead. “Damn—I forgot my damn curlers are still in.” She smiles a tiny bit, looking over at me. We chuckle. It’s a start.

  “I hired our second seamstress today—What the hell is this?” I hold up a huge mushroom from one of the million bags of groceries Ruby has heaped on the stump table.

  “Portabella mushroom. Isn’t it lovely?” Ruby beams with shopper’s pride, turning pages in her bible, The Joy of Cooking. “I’m going to sauté it in olive oil and then make a lovely roasted red pepper sauce out of these beauties.” She holds up a bag of deep red peppers. “I found the most divine roadside market over in Bayfield.”

  “It’s amazing.” I give the mushroom a good sniff.

  “The young man assured me they’re a delicacy.” Ruby whisks by, snatching it out of my hand.

  “Well, I’m the last one to question your cooking.” And I mean it.

  “Cooking for us, darling”—Ruby fills the fridge—“is something I get such a kick out of. Especially since I get to have all the fun and you clean up my mess!”

  “I’ve never been interested and as long as you’re cool with it…”

  “I’m cool with it,” Ruby tries, but it still sounds so silly coming from her.

  “You’ll never in a thousand years guess who she is. You should’ve seen this woman.” I start folding grocery sacks. “Thin, wispy hair in rollers and clothes that just hung on her skinny little body.”

  “The poor dear,” she says from inside the fridge. That woman spends half her life with her head poked in there. “Are you going to tell me, or must I beg? I detest begging; I’ll sing.” She singsongs “sing.” Let me tell you, that would be torture, having Ruby sing.

  “It’s that Al the creature’s wife—Bonnie. What a small world. She’s pretty, though, I can see it. Maybe a richer hair color and with a decent makeup job…all that eyeliner.”

  Ruby chuckles. “It’s an island and you must remember, you can’t save them all, darling.”

  “I was only saying…I can’t help myself.” I spin around on a stool. “I think how you present yourself to the world has a lot to do with how you’re going to be treated.”

  “That may be true, darling,” Ruby says. “But some people are so busy with children and family and…life, that it’s not a priority. Me, I wouldn’t be caught dead without my best face on.”

  “Do you know how that makes the rest of us feel?”

  “Of course”—she sighs dramatically—“someone has to set the standards.”

  The oven door is open; our backs are to the heat. Perched on stools, Ruby and I blow on mugs of hot chocolate. The air is getting cooler at night, so we’ve started wearing sweaters.

  “Do you really believe in ghosts?” I ask.

/>   “Well…” Ruby thinks for a moment. “I’m not sure, exactly. I believe in the possibility, I think. I certainly think we go somewhere when we die.”

  “A faraway somewhere or near?” I ask.

  “Oh, I don’t know, darling…Near. Yes…near, I think.”

  “Me too.”

  “You’ve not been hanging out with Ed or anything, have you?” Ruby asks, half serious. “I can’t imagine he’d haunt the cottage…though he did fancy it here.”

  “Used to think I’d meet an Ed. Someone who would sweep me into strong arms at all the right moments…arms that meant something.” I sigh at my miserable luck.

  “Not everyone needs someone to hold them up, darling.”

  “Is that what Ed did for you? Held you up? You don’t strike me as in need of a holder-upper. Not a bit.”

  “That may be true,” Ruby says. “No…not hold up, maybe to reassure you’re you and that your thoughts and feelings matter. That your actions are, oh…in the best light of what you are…I think.”

  “That’s nice.”

  “Things have changed though. I think some women, like you, darling”—she touches my hand—“are not as dependent as my generation, especially when I grew up in England. I don’t mean that in a good or a bad way, just that being a woman is…more now.”

  “Things have changed,” I reply. “And things have not changed.”

  “Oh heavens yes. But what I wouldn’t give to have the grit women do now.”

  “Oh honey—you’ve got grit.”

  “What I mean is…things are better for women—men too. I’ll never forget working nights so I could pay for nursing school. Think my parents would help their only child with tuition? Pah! College was for the boys. I ended up dropping out on account of marrying Ed. Most people had to choose back then. Now that he’s gone…I wonder…”

  “Regret?”

  “Not a moment…no. But I wonder what I might have become. Think I would want to be more like you, darling.”

  “You are not serious…are you?”