Back to Madeline Island

by Jay Gilbertson

  “So this is the tower room,” Johnny proclaims over the roar of raindrops pelting the windows and roof. “For some reason, I didn’t think there was actually a room up here. It’s clever, the way this cottage was built to exactly face north. The floor painting is just incredible.”

  “The direction must have been on purpose,” I suggest. “But I’m sure it came in handy when prohibition was on.”

  “I suppose so.” Johnny peers out the window toward the lake. “But then again, how could you let someone know way down at the boathouse if you did spy something suspicious? Like the cops, for instance?”

  On cue, a buzzing sound fills the room and we both jump. It’s an old metal kind of buzzing, similar to what the deer-head phone sounds like when—bingo! It comes to me.

  “I just bet that’s Ruby,” I say. “Help me look for anything resembling a phone.”

  We’re lifting up pillows and checking underneath the benches, pulling out crates of old books and wooden toys, but still—no phone. Then I peek behind the door and notice a mint green medicine cabinet. After checking my hair, I give the glass knob a tug.

  Inside the small cupboard, I reach in and unhook a heavy black ear piece. Holding it to my ear, I say “Hello” into the matching round mouthpiece fitted into the back of the cabinet.

  “’Tis Madame Prévost,” Ruby’s British clip squawks into my ear. “We’re requesting your presence down in the servants’ quarters and don’t be tardy—there are some lovely crepes and they won’t keep forever. Cheerio then.” A click and she’s gone.

  “We’ve been summoned,” I say, then notice the rain has all but stopped.

  Back down in the kitchen all four of us are gathered around the stump table. I pass an oval platter laden with sugar-covered crepes, all a lovely golden brown.

  “We about had a heart attack,” Johnny says around a mouthful. A bit of raspberry jam sits on his chin. Howard wipes it away. “Just how many hidden phones are there here?”

  Howard gets up from his stool and moves over to our yellow kitchen phone. “Ruby showed me this.”

  On the wall next to the phone is a small, framed mirror. He reaches up and clicks it open. Inside, we can see numerous labeled switches.

  “You dial eight-six-two-three, which spells ‘toad,’ and then switch one of these and that phone will ring on the other end. Remarkable, for such an old place.” He closes the mirror door and gives Johnny’s shoulder a nice squeeze on his way back to his stool.

  “When I’ve a mind,” Ruby offers, drizzling hot maple syrup over her crepe, “perhaps we’ll station ourselves about the cottage and see if all those places labeled there in that little cupboard have—well—ringers.”

  “These are heavenly,” I say and happily shove in a forkful. “Sundays are—”

  Mid-sentence Rocky ambles into the room making that terrible retching noise he does right before—“Oh yuck,” I say and stop chewing. “Don’t anyone look, but Rocky’s breakfast didn’t quite agree.”

  Of course, everyone looks and “oh gross” and “disgusting” are thrown around the room. Rocky leaps onto the countertop. Ruby pulls over the stool, reaches up to the pan rack suspended above our heads, selects a round pot and gently places it over the dreaded pile of goo. She pats Rocky’s head and then picks up the coffeepot from the stove.

  “Would anyone care for a coffee?” She doesn’t lose a beat.

  “Um—sure.” Johnny holds up his mug. “Thanks—listen, I meant to ask, just exactly what did Sam say about the cabin in the back?”

  “She, more or less,” I stammer, thinking. “She said there seemed to be two—well, the impression she mentioned was that she felt Adeline, that was Ruby’s husband’s grandmother, that she was there and that she was like—”

  “Helping another,” Ruby adds in an ominous voice. “Perhaps we should reconsider this entire adventure and retire to the living—”

  “No way!” Johnny blurts out and we all chuckle.

  “Johnny loves a mystery,” Howard says, grinning.

  “There’s not really any mystery,” I say, sipping my coffee. “I mean, there isn’t—is there—Ruby?”

  “Not that I know of, darling. Just—well, like I mentioned, Ed and I got spooked giving it a peek years ago, and to be honest, since it’s not very accessible, we simply let it be.”

  “This is sounding better all the time,” Johnny adds. “Maybe we’ll discover some family secret or find some antiques in there. Oh heck, c’mon, let’s have a look.”

  “Let’s do,” Ruby adds. “But not until every dish and pan is tidied and put away. Howard, darling, wash or dry?”

  I wonder, do spirits choose to hang around or is that considered hell or…’course I guess I’ll never know for positive until I, you know, kick the bucket. Who thought that one up anyway—kick the bucket? How about “dropped dead” or “passed on” or “went to meet his maker”? I need a cigarette.

  Have you noticed how we don’t have a dishwasher? Oh, the boys have one; it’s so fancy that you can be in the kitchen while it’s cleaning up their designer dishes all spot-free and dry as a bone. But us, we don’t have one, and you know, I really like spending the time together—the scrubbing is really no big deal either. Instead of shoving the works into a machine, we fill the sink, push up our sleeves and get cracking. You can’t imagine all the problems we solve in the process. You should try it.

  While those three tidied up the kitchen (and talked like crazy), I discreetly cleaned up Rocky’s, shall we say, unwanted snack. You don’t want to know what it was, but let me just say that anyone who kisses their kitty-cat on the lips should really reconsider. A nice peck on the head is all I offer nowadays; Rocky doesn’t seem to mind.

  “Though it has stopped raining,” Ruby says. “I shouldn’t want to take any chances and get caught unprotected.”

  She doles out umbrellas from the crowded array on the back of the basement door and then takes one down herself. Mine is red plaid with an intricately carved handle. Ruby’s is bright pink with white daisies and both Howard and Johnny have big huge black ones. We file out the back door, onto the porch and out the door.

  A mist hangs several feet above the mushy ground; our feet make a squishy-sucking sound with each step. Rocky has decided to nap, and we left him all cozied in an afghan on the sofa. What a life he has—tosses his cookies and gets a nap.

  “I think it might be an easier trek,” I suggest, “if we follow the driveway down, then cross over the bridge and try to find the original road that leads in. I noticed it in the model and you can sort of make out an outline of a path from there.”

  “Nothing like a good fog,” Ruby adds, “to set the stage—don’t you think?”

  “Howard and I,” Johnny says, “rarely come over here using your driveway; we slip over on our path. It really gets dark in here.”

  We clomp down the incline and stop on the wooden bridge to have a look around.

  “The fog is getting thicker and thicker,” Howard says. “I’ve not seen it so dense in a long time.”

  “Could be a sign,” I say in a scary voice. “Perhaps the woods are filled with demons.”

  “Don’t be daft,” Ruby admonishes me, pulling her tailored jacket closer. “There’s no such thing as the devil, only those who are occasionally full of the devil.” She jabs me with her umbrella.

  “I’m not so sure,” Johnny offers. “I mean, don’t you think some people are beyond mean? Like people who hate people like Howard and me…I sometimes wonder if that’s devil-like.”

  “How anyone could”—Ruby links her arm with Johnny’s—“hate the likes of you is beyond me—such rubbish. Poor taste, bad grooming or simply being ignorant, those are things worth hating, but then again, the word ‘hate’ should be thrown out altogether.”

  “Hate,” I say, following. “We should get rid of that word—that and ‘never.’ Those two words should just be tossed out.”

  “How to never hate again,” Howard says. “That i
s the question.”

  “Here’s the path—I think.” I point off to the left. “You can just barely make out the outline of it. See how it curves up to that clump of white pine trees? On the other side is the cabin, I think. It’s kind of snuggled up to those trees.”

  “A haunted cabin—snuggles?” Ruby asks. “Really, darling, you need some new adjectives. How about, the lonely cabin stands in the shadow of [dramatic pause] the mysterious white pines. Oh rot, that sounds absurd. Stick with snuggle, darling.”

  “Right,” I add, leading the way into the woods. “Damn, I’ve lost the trail. Oh wait, look—over that way, seems to be part of a fence.”

  “Did you remember,” Ruby asks from behind me, “to bring the key ring, darling?”

  “I did.” I take the big brass ring out of my pocket and give it a good jingle. “Must be twenty keys on this thing, but we seem to keep finding doors for them to open.”

  “Seems to curve around,” Howard offers. “I can’t make out—wait, over there, to our right seems to be a circle of white pine trees. How curious is that?”

  “Some of these…look how far up they go,” Ruby says, pointing to the stand Howard just mentioned. “They must be so old. You know, the ground here is softer…and the smell.” We stop and take some deep pine-fresh breaths.

  “You can tell that these pines were all planted. They do make a circle—enclosing this,” I say, pointing to the back side of the log cabin.

  A late afternoon sun peeks out from the corner of a puffy rain cloud. Golden rays glint and sparkle off a window. A river-rock chimney, similar to the cottage’s, makes up most of the sidewall. The roof looks sturdy, but is covered with a thick layer of pine needles and several branches. We walk around to the front and there sits a cardinal, perched on the slanting rail leading up to a sagging porch.

  “Either we’re being followed by this bird,” I offer, “or maybe this guy has decided not to head south and is sticking around here for the winter.”

  “It is odd.” Howard comes to my side. “Not the bird, cardinals don’t migrate, but this place—not one of the windows seems to be broken and I bet it’s not been ransacked—I mean, who would even know it’s here?”

  “I think we’re supposed to go in,” I say. “What do you think?”

  “I think we should be careful,” Ruby says. “The floor may be gone or—oh look—matching rockers.” She points to two wooden rocking chairs leaning this way and that on the porch.

  “I don’t think they have much rock left,” I say, carefully lifting myself onto the first step, creaky, but holding. At the top of the porch, I turn and look back at the group and beyond. “You can’t see the lake at all, not even the barn. We aren’t that far back, though. Having the creek in your front yard, that’s too sweet.”

  “It really is a whole different world over here,” Ruby says, joining me on the porch. “Kind of mysterious, and listen to the racket the black birds are making.”

  “The flooring seems solid enough,” Howard offers. The boys join us on the porch.

  I reach over to the rusted doorknob and give it a turn. “I’ll be damned, look at all these locks.” Above as well as below the doorknob are big, rusted locks.

  Luckily, I did bring the massive key ring, so I take it out and start trying keys. Howard takes them from me and gives the situation more study, comparing the type of lock to the keys. I have no patience to be so focused, but it pays off, and before you can say “how many locks is too many,” he pushes open the door and then steps back. It creaks open so loudly, we all nervously chuckle.

  “Now I don’t know”—Ruby cautions in a hushed tone—“how safe…this has got to be ancient. It’s rather shocking it’s still even standing…really. Just because we had the correct key—why—it could be a ghost trap of sorts, you know.”

  “It seems perfectly solid,” I say, tapping the floor with my toe and then stepping inside. “Trap—for heaven’s sake, girl.”

  Ruby follows me, stepping gingerly over the threshold; Howard and Johnny are right on her tail. We stand very still and look all around us in hushed amazement. It’s one large room, much bigger than it seemed on the outside. The furnishings are really very simple. Several straight-back chairs face the stone fireplace. An old faded kitchen table and two chairs sit off to the left. The tablecloth hangs in ragged strips as if slowly melting. In the center of it is a vase holding sticks covered in spiderwebs.

  A bed slouches in the right-hand corner; its quilt and pillows look ragged and dusty, yet it was left all tucked in and almost cozy looking—hmmm. Beyond the kitchen table, next to a long porcelain sink hanging beneath a window, hulks a blackened stove. Oil lamps hang from the rafters; one starts swinging in the breeze from the open door. Suddenly it slams shut with an enormous BANG!

  “Jesus Lord God,” I bluster out and everyone joins with a few choice “adjectives.”

  “Well.” Ruby adjusts her hair and we all let out a nervous laugh. “Let’s do snoop, since we’re here and all—I mean, what the hell?”

  Ruby and I head over to the kitchen area; the boys check out the fireplace. There’s a curious-looking wooden cupboard with glass doors that I know Ruby is dying to peek into.

  “It’s just like somebody left for the day,” Ruby half whispers. “They seem to have left everything behind, it’s so odd. Feels haunted to me. Ed and I always meant to do something with this place; it’s really very lovely, in its way. Needs a good going over, though.” She runs her finger over the countertop and shows me the grime.

  “Does seem weird,” I say, “that all this stuff is still here. Look, even flour in the bin.” I open a drawer full of utensils, and, taking a big fork out, I touch the pale white lump in the tin flour bin. “Rock solid.”

  “This china is lovely, an English pattern…Spode,” Ruby says, lifting plates and looking at the names on the back. “I bet it’s right off the boat, too. Used to be, you only had one set and every woman laid out a perfect table every meal, can you imagine?”

  A habit of hers I have finally gotten used to. All the years I’ve known her, I’ve had to make sure the coast was clear at dinner parties so she could check under the hostesses’ dinner plates to see what company was providing that evening’s dinnerware. We’ve been busted many times. Most people got used to it; come to think of it, most of them bought the stuff from her in the first place. Used to, anyway; years ago, she owned Eau Claire’s finest china and silverware shop.

  “Sounds horrible,” I say, “eating on china every day…”

  “Smart alec,” Ruby says and turns her back to me, reaching for another plate.

  “Hey,” I comment as the boys come over for a look. “Now I know what’s missing—the fridge.”

  “No electricity,” Howard offers, “back then. Ice delivery out here was probably not an option either. I bet there’s a root cellar somewhere and, I would wager, an outhouse as well.”

  “Suddenly,” I reply, “the sound of a flushing toilet is right up there with the blow dryer. I doubt if this thing works…” I pump the ancient hand pump in one corner of the porcelain sink. “Oh man, rust and goo and…hey, it’s clear now.”

  “This baby,” Johnny says, “is worth a fortune.” He sidles up to Ruby’s side. “An original dry sink and not a thing wrong with it. I can’t get over this, every drawer is full of normal things, knives, forks, a glass juicer—it’s like looking through someone’s stuff, you know? Like, if it wasn’t for all the dust and spiderwebs, you’d expect someone to walk in the door any minute.”

  “This is such a lovely set,” Ruby gushes.

  I wonder where we’ll find room. She holds up a teacup for closer inspection; the woman is drooling.

  I walk over to the bed. Since the fireplace takes up the entire middle of the wall, the bed is in a snug corner to the left. Hanging along the right side of it is a floor-to-ceiling curtain. Looking up, I spy a looping wire that circles tight around the bed’s three sides. Must have been for privacy. I touch the
curtain and it disintegrates in my hand.

  “Johnny.” Howard beckons him over. “Wonder what’s in this.” They’re standing in front of an imposing, dark mahogany wardrobe. “The doors are locked tight. Let’s check around it for a key or something.”

  A cedar trunk squats at the foot of the bed. Stooping down, I undo the metal clasp that holds it closed. Cautiously, I lift the lid; I’ve seen enough leaping mice and am not taking any chances here.

  “Look at all this stuff in here,” I say as I carefully reach into the trunk and pull out a folded piece of fine lace. It falls into tiny pieces in my hand, leaving behind a small key. “My, my—a key. It’s one of those skeleton kind.”

  Johnny comes over and takes it out of my hand. “Just maybe.” He gives it to Howard; they shrug. He puts it into the wardrobe’s keyhole and both doors click open.

  We all gather around it. There’s not much clothing, but some, and there’s a lot of stuff on the shelf above.

  “Good heavens,” Ruby mutters. She reaches in and pulls out a beautiful black beaded dress. “Just gorgeous and look.” She holds it up to herself. “Must have been Adeline’s. Why in the world would she leave this here?”

  “Did you guys,” I slowly say, “feel that? Like something passed by us, but didn’t.” I’m getting creeped out.

  “I felt—something,” Johnny says. “But I think we’re okay, ’cause the temperature hasn’t gotten suddenly cold. Look.” He blows out air. “Nope, at least there’s not any, like, devils here or…I do feel odd, though.”

  “I don’t feel anything,” Howard offers. “Let’s see what’s up here.” He rummages around on the shelf. “Look, an old hatbox.”

  He brings down a big round box covered with black silhouettes of women wearing huge, elaborate hats in loads of sizes and shapes. It’s also covered with French words, in artful script. It’s held closed with a dark red ribbon, and instead of a bow, it’s knotted tight. Underneath the ribbon is an envelope. Howard slides it out and hands the envelope to me.

  Suddenly the front door flies open and a gust of warm air surrounds us.