Back to Madeline Island

by Jay Gilbertson

  “That was Ed’s gran, Adeline,” Ruby explains. “This was her dance studio and they used to live back there. Poor dear. But two spirits?”

  “That just creeps me out!” I say. “If you’re saying there’s not one—but two—ghosts on this property—well, that just plain sucks!”

  “Ghosts never hurt nobody,” Sam explains with a snort. “Besides, I may have just caught something that’s done and long gone, seeing as this model was made a while back.”

  “What,” I counter, “like dated impressions?”

  “Years ago,” Ruby half whispers, “Ed and I poked about that old place and I felt something there—we both did. It gave us the creeps. I felt like I was being watched.”

  “Child,” Sam says, “we always bein’ watched.”

  “We don’t spend,” Ruby remarks, indicating the long, narrow room with a sweep of her arm, “near enough time out here on the porch any longer, do we?”

  “I can’t imagine,” I say, laughing, “what in the world anyone would think if they caught us like this, it’s so uneconomical.”

  “Oh dash it all, if it weren’t for all these heaters—why, we’d catch our death out here.” She reaches over to an ancient space heater, its red coils pulsing expensive heat, and cranks it up a notch.

  “I do love this wraparound porch,” I comment. “Or is this a verandah?”

  “Either is correct, darling. Pour me some more tea, would you?”

  I do. “Must have taken years to collect all this wicker and the cushions are too cool. What crazy patterns. Wish we could find some old art deco fabrics like these, to make aprons out of.”

  “That would be cool, dear.”

  “It’ll be nice to see Helen again,” I mention. “Haven’t heard from her in a bit. I didn’t expect that we’d be, like, calling every day, but you’d think that—”

  “Eve, darling.” Ruby turns off the rackety heater and sets her cup down. “I know this must be a strange and rather emotional time at present. What with meeting Helen and finding her a grown woman and what not, well, certainly not a baby any longer, well, it must be rather shocking, I should think.”

  “It was…when we first laid eyes on one another, but not now. I’m realizing all my wondering couldn’t compare with how wonderful she is. Can’t seem to shed the guilt, though, of not realizing the enormous impact of, of young lust. They really should teach that in high school.”

  “True, so true. Somehow…” Ruby sits back, considering. “You have to let go of that. Oh, don’t look at me like that, all wounded. Listen.” She pats my hand. “I can’t imagine what this all feels like, but this is now, and you’ve so much to be to her—now.”

  “You’re right, I know. I just seem to need to wallow a little bit. I can’t just be thrilled right off the bat and not expect to have some guilt in there somewhere.”

  “Eve Moss, God forgive you if you ever forget to feel guilty about something.”

  We laugh. But it’s true. I have a really hard time accepting things in my life without feeling guilty. Like I have this huge scoreboard and if one side gets all filled up with good stuff, well, you better believe that any ol’ day now the shoe’s gunna fall and bam! Sure as hell it does, and then I feel guilty for feeling so good? Does that make any sense? I was raised with guilt—have to figure out a way to cut it out. Literally.

  “What do you think,” I say, changing the subject, “about Sam seeing Adeline, and what do you think she meant by…another spirit?”

  “I don’t know, really. Seems rather odd, don’t you think? I mean, first off, why in the world would she want to hang about out in that dreadful old place. I’d haunt this cottage before—”

  “Hey,” I say, “not so loud. You don’t want to give her any ideas, now do you?”

  “Of course not, heavens no. But I daresay, it is a curiosity. I, for one, haven’t the least bit of interest to go back there, though. I can tell you that.”

  “Oh right. Like you’re not dying, pun intended, to get back there and root through all that old china you told me about.”

  “I’d completely forgotten about it.” She pretends to be straightening her jingly bracelets. “There did seem to be quite a lovely collection—not that I was looking—mind. But perhaps it should be—inventoried.” We laugh.

  “Perhaps.”

  “Let’s move to the kitchen and have some supper, shall we then?”

  Rocky meows in agreement and we follow him through the living room and into the kitchen. Since the sun is setting, there are bouncing circles of yellows and oranges dashing over the walls and ceiling from the collection of round mirrors I brought here from my salon. Rocky used to chase them, but I think he’s embarrassed now since he’s learned they’re only reflections from the lake. I don’t bring it up.

  “How about,” Ruby says with her head in the fridge, “a salad and some butternut squash soup?”

  “Perfect. Wine?” I offer.

  “I never cook without it,” she replies, plunking a green porcelain pot onto the stove. “I think I may have put too much ginger in this last batch. What did you think?”

  “I don’t think you could,” I counter, “add too much. Here.” I hand her a tall, very slim goblet.

  “I could microwave a bit up for us, but I do so like the smell of it on the stove. Hand me that, darling.” She points to a worn wooden spoon.

  “You know what you said earlier,” I say, thinking for a moment. “You’re right about Helen being—well—Helen. She’s an entire person, all by herself. I wasn’t there and…” I sigh. “It’s all right. She turned out perfectly and whatever happens—happens.”

  “That sounds lovely.” We clink on it.

  It’s after supper, and we’re washing up the dishes. I’m drying. Ruby insists on scalding hot water and my hands just can’t take it.

  “Jesus, Ruby,” I say, taking a piping hot bowl from her. “You get that water any hotter and these dishes of yours are liable to melt!”

  “Hush up, you’re falling behind.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Hey—when we’re done here, I’ve got an idea.”

  She hands me the last, a burning hot platter, and pulls the plug. A satisfying swooshing sound comes from the enormous old sink and I laugh.

  “Grab some blankets, throw on a coat and meet me out back,” I order.

  Several minutes later, I steer the duck over to the back of the cottage. The headlights find Ruby; she’s standing there on the porch with her thumb out, hitchhiking style. I pull over, she climbs aboard, and we set out, down the hill and splashing on into the lake. Turning up the music, Madonna belts out “Into the Groove,” and into the groove we go!

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Up in my bathroom, Rocky and I are deciding on either “Lick Me Red” or “MMM” lipstick color. We settle on “MMM.” Pursing my lips, I pat them with a tissue, open wide and check for lipsticked teeth. All clear. Taking up a beautiful ornate haircomb, I reach back, give my curls a twist at the nape and secure them with the comb. Using a little spit, I pull a few wisps out for a softer look—perfect.

  This time, I’m not pitting out; I’ve sprayed extra stuff under there. You’d think there’d be a BO pill by now. I’d really get excited if they discovered a no-leg-shaving one, though. I slip on a tailored crème-colored blouse, slacks and then step into my favorite two-inch wedgies. I have higher heels, but with all the stairs around here, I’d be flat on my face in no time. One more check in my full-length mirror and Rocky and I are heading downstairs.

  “Oh dear,” Ruby says, with a worried look on her perfectly made-up face. “You certainly aren’t going to wear that old rag to meet Helen’s boyfriend, are you?”

  “Did someone forget their medication?” Ruby grins. “Damn you—do you always have to look so stunning?” Here she is, all four-foot ten, dressed in a smart pantsuit, long strings of pearls hanging to her waist.

  “Smart alec. I tried to dress—subtle,” Ruby replies, very unconvincingly. “Anyway, you did me
ntion that Helen is more refined, and so I only was attempting to make the dear woman more comfortable, is all.” Right.

  “I’m going to go pick them up,” I say, throwing on a tan jacket then changing my mind and selecting one of Ruby’s shawls that live on pegs that march up and down the entire back of the basement door. Much better.

  “All right, darling,” Ruby says, regarding me while tying on a cocktail apron, very frou-frou. It’s one Sam made special, with tulle and lace. “You really do look lovely—really.”

  “I know.” We laugh and I mouth “good-bye.” I head out the back porch door, through the screened patio and out toward my van.

  Slamming the van’s door, I flip down the visor and check my makeup once more. Good thing, too. I rub off a chunk of “MMM” lipstick from my front tooth and pinch my cheeks for color. The familiar start-up whine of this old VW van makes me grin. I give one of the yellow fringe balls running around the windshield a flick, shift to one and chug on down the long, rutted drive.

  It’s become routine to slow down when crossing over the creek; there’s always something crawling around to look at. The burbling gush of water as it snakes its way around fallen pine branches and rocks is sheer music. Then I spy, off to my left, standing in what looks like an overgrown path—two deer.

  I inch forward and roll my window down farther. This is the hand-rolling kind and it’s a little squeaky. But the deer only continue staring. I’m right alongside them now; they must be, oh, fifteen feet into the woods from me. Close enough that I can see into their beautiful eyes. Talk about a good makeup job. All that black eyeliner and the longest lashes.

  I wonder—I bet these are the two I met not too long ago when I was sitting alongside the creek. Must live back there. Something is familiar about the way the male is holding his head, his rack is impressive. Suddenly, a gust of wind dashes through the pine trees. The whispering sound is startling. I look up toward the sky and watch yellow birch leaves fly up and away. Looking back, I see the deer have vanished, so I drive on.

  After opening the gate and collecting all the mail, I slip Phoebe Snow’s Poetry Man CD into the player. I light up a cigarette and blow a thick ring while setting off, down North Shore Road. Passing by the field with all the birdhouses, I honk the horn, just in case Charlie’s around.

  Since I’m a bit early, I pull the van over to one side of the ferry landing and climb out (after one more peek in the visor mirror). The sunshine on my face feels rich. A soft breeze sweeps over the lake, leaving a churned path that quickly fades back to shimmery water again. Off in the distance, toward Bayfield, I can barely see the shape of the ferry making its way here. I’m more excited than nervous this time. Must be a good sign.

  Pulling the shawl closer around me, I think back to when I handed that little bundle over. You know, I don’t recall her crying, come to think of it. Maybe that’s because I was so busy sobbing myself. Sighing, the memory slowly fades away as the ferry comes into view.

  I wave like a crazy person; up on the second floor of the ferry stands my daughter and a handsome man close beside her. Helen is striking in fitted jeans and a bulky yellow sweater. Her blond boyfriend is gorgeous. The ferry docks, the metal gate slowly lowers down to the pier and several cars drive off, followed by a procession of people.

  “Eve—hello,” Helen says and I can see she’s a little nervous.

  Do I dare? Why not—I reach up and give her a nice hug, then step back to look her over.

  “Helen,” I gush with obvious pride. “You look lovely. She should, you know.” I say this last part to the handsome man. “She’s got my nose.”

  “Where are my manners?” Helen takes up his arm. “This is Ryan.”

  He extends his hand; I give it a look and then hug him, too. Why the hell not?

  “Good grief.” I step back and regard him. “Helen’s tall, but you are tall! ’Course, most everyone’s tall to me,” I say and then extend my elbow to Helen. “This way to the limo.” Helen and I walk over to the van with Ryan in tow.

  “Does this thing run?” Ryan has the nerve to ask. “I haven’t seen an original VW van in a long time. It’s in great shape.”

  His deep voice is full of admiration; now I like him. If he’d lose the nerd glasses, get some decent goo in his hair and maybe a goatee; just a thought.

  “I’ve had this baby for—I bet…” I think for a moment. “Twenty years. Bought it from a client whose wife wanted a Mercedes instead. Can you imagine?”

  I climb in front and Helen gets in the passenger seat. Ryan hops in back.

  “Afraid this was made eons before fancy seatbelts,” I apologize. The look on Helen’s face makes me chuckle. “It’s not far and I promise I won’t go over eighty—much.”

  “Ryan, have you ever been here before?” I ask his eyes, which are reflecting in my rearview mirror.

  “I’ve not, we both are originally from Edina, Minnesota. This is awesome—I can’t get over the fact that there’s an island off of Wisconsin. Simply amazing.”

  “Since you’re both new here,” I offer, “I’ll drive through our bustling downtown and share some island history.”

  Giving my sunglasses a push up my oily nose, off I drive.

  “This area we’re in now is the town of LaPointe. In the summer, over two thousand people live here. Lots of cabins and homes you can only see from the water, but during the wintry weather, things get quiet; about two hundred permanent residents stay on through it. I’m one of them.”

  “I could live here,” Ryan comments from the back. “Only I think Helen would go stir-crazy.”

  “I would,” she agrees. “But it certainly is charming. All these quaint shops and what’s that over there?” She’s pointing to what looks like an ancient circus tent.

  “That’s a favorite local watering hole,” I pull over across the street from it. “Tom’s Burned Down Café.”

  “All those signs everywhere,” Ryan says. “Looks like the owner has a sense of humor and must be into junk sculpture.”

  “I guess his bar really did burn down,” I say. “But to be honest, I need to find out more about it.”

  “Ryan Googled Madeline Island,” Helen offers. “Are there any Ojibwe left here?”

  “Not that I know of,” I reply. “Fur traders came, eventually shoving out the Ojibwe, I’m embarrassed to say. The Island was named after Madeline Cadotte—daughter of Chief White Crane—wife of fur trader Michael Cadotte. The Ojibwe did live here hundreds of years before the Europeans gave them the boot.”

  “I don’t recall,” Ryan says. “Just how big of a land mass is the island?”

  “It’s fourteen miles long and about three miles wide. This road will lead us right to the cottage. It’s perched on a hill, in an area called Steamboat Point.”

  “All these dark, mysterious driveways.” Helen points down a rutted drive that disappears into dark woods. “I can see how it’s hard to see people’s places.”

  “Seems like most here,” I comment, “like to be left alone. Well—this is it.”

  Pulling up to the sun sign, Helen reads out loud: “Eve and Ruby’s.”

  “Isn’t that something? Some good friends of ours made that as a house—cottage-warming gift.”

  “You can’t help but smile when you look at it,” Helen says and we do. Smile, that is.

  “Hold on tight,” I warn. “’Cause it’s going to be a bumpy ride!” I chug through the gate and head into the dark, rutted drive.

  Branches scratch the sides as we slowly pick up speed, mostly due to the fact that the driveway dips down to the creek and then steeply curves upward. I slow as we cross over the bridge. The sound of water rushing by and the yellow leaves raining down all around us couldn’t be more perfect. I glance over toward Helen and happily sigh.

  “Up we go.” The van shakes and shimmies up the incline.

  As the trees thin, the sky opens up, and there, straight ahead, the lake goes on and on. Helen and Ryan “ooh and ahh.” I pull the
van over behind the cottage, finally coming to a stop alongside the back porch door.

  “What a piece of real estate,” Ryan says with awe. “That’s a great barn. How much land does this place sit on?”

  “A little over ten acres,” I reply as Ruby comes out to meet us. “You must be Helen.” Ruby ambles over and shakes Helen’s hand, her bracelets jangling. “Lovely to meet you, darling. Yes, I can see a good bit of Eve in your face. Thank heavens you didn’t end up with her lack of height.” We chuckle.

  “This is Ryan,” Helen offers and he steps beside her, putting his arm around her waist.

  “A pleasure,” Ruby gushes. “You two look right out of a movie. Would you care for a bit of a tour? I’ve a little surprise for us in the living room. Right this way.”

  Ruby is so in her element. Whenever there’s a handsome man around, the charm just drips off her. We head into the back porch.

  “That is a huge fish!” Helen remarks. “Is that from out of this lake?”

  “I caught that bloody bastard—sorry.” She pats her hair and starts in again. “I caught it, but my late husband, Ed, he’s really the one who hauled it in. I think the tie around his neck lends a certain…intelligence, don’t you?”

  “What a porch,” Helen says, lingering next to a wicker love seat. “I would spend my entire summer out here, it’s so—peaceful.”

  “Thank you, darling. We enjoy it and will miss it dreadfully when the weather turns cold. Like it’s begun to now. Come along.”

  I notice she’s put away all the telling space heaters. I wonder, is it me, or has she turned up the Brit-bit a bit? Oh hell, why shouldn’t she. I grin. We step up the half-round porch.

  “An arched door,” Ryan notes, pausing to take a closer look. “Look, Helen, there’s a stag horned deer carved right into it. I love the round, beveled window. Someone must have been very talented to do this kind of work.”

  He runs his hand along the intricate lines and I see it again, through his eyes.