Moon over Madeline Island (13 page)

“I'm beginning to see your point. Being a…fringe boomer…myself.” She gives me the evil eye, so I refrain from bursting out laughing.

“I say we give it a go.”

“Let's do, darling.”

S
tanding in the second floor of the boathouse, facing a stuffed deer head hanging on the outside wall, I reach up and pull the jaw downward. I haven't a choice since this is where Ed installed the only phone out here. Strange guy.

Clearing my throat while the receiver slides slowly down a black cord and into my waiting hand, I let the jaw go. It snaps shut. Thank goodness he had the sense to put on ample cord. I'm able to walk into the kitchen area and use my notes that are laid out on the counter. I dial the handset.

“Hello? Is this the
Island Gazette?”
I ask quickly, as the line was picked up on the first hint of a ring.

“Yes.”

“My name is Eve Moss. I've just moved out here on Madeline Island and—”

“You're staying at the Prévost Place on Steam Boat Point and you've been driving all over hell in that old floating bus scaring folks here to death, not to mention the fish,” the woman says in one breath.

“I forget this is an island; I'm sorry if I—”

“I'm just giving you a hard time. Darlene Kravitz told me about you while she was checking me out over at the grocery store in Bayfield. There she was, out on her dock…nearly fell in when you and Ruby flew by. I personally think it's a free world and if you want to go around scaring folks half to—”

“Sorry. It's called a duck, by the way—and we were hardly moving. Look…the reason I'm calling is I'd like to place an ad…if that wouldn't be too much trouble.”

“You wanting to sell something? Rent your cottage?”

“I'm wanting to hire some women to come and sew for us.”

“Oh you must be putting up drapes. You know, when my
third
husband and I moved out here…that must have been back in—”

“No…a business.
Not
drapes,” I inform her slowly, jiggling one leg, then the other; I have to pee and this phone doesn't reach the bathroom. Time to pick up the speed here. “Look, I'd like to place a want ad. Are you the person I should talk to or—”

“Yes sirree! I'm the ad person, editor in chief, and accounts payable
and
receivable. I also happen to write a column about local goings-on,
and
every Saturday's edition I do horoscopes.”

“I would like it to read,” I say in a controlled voice, “‘Wanted—'”

“Hold on…Okay, go ahead.”

“
‘Wanted'
—in bold across the top—‘full-time seamstresses needed for Madeline Island business venture. Flexible hours, great pay, excellent working conditions, lunch included. Must have great hair.'” I pause. No laughter on the other end. Not a good sign. “That's a joke.” I'm picturing myself sitting down on the toilet, the relief one feels.

“Oh, right…very funny. Scratch that…no lunch, right? Okay, got it.”

“No, the lunch part is right. The hair part, scratch
that!”
My God. I'm about to pee my panties. “‘Call Eve Moss to set up an interview.'”

“Okay okay, got it.” She reread the ad and our phone number back exactly right. “It'll run in the next issue which comes out in a day or so. Good timing. Can I do anything else for you? Hello?”

I'm yanking up my jeans, doing a little wiggly thing back to the phone I left hanging from the deer's mouth. “Oh hi. Had to turn the oven down, water was running over.”

“Water? In the oven?”

“Never mind. Listen…you've been great. Thanks so much for your help. Look forward to meeting you sometime.”

“You bet…Eve. Good luck with your business. What is it you're making again?”

“Drapes.”

 

Over the next several days we begin cleaning the boathouse. I'm thrilled to have a workplace that has such a remarkable view of the lake. All this room here, and we'll be far enough away from the cottage that it will feel like we're “going to work” yet no commuting.

The boathouse perches on the northwestern corner of our property, facing the lake. Standing two stories high, the first floor is where you park the boat. It's been dug out so that it's actually lake water. By opening the doors facing the water, you make it possible to motor your boat in and park it. The second story is a charming two-bedroom cottage.

The living room has three French doors facing the lake that open onto a wraparound deck. The entire inside is paneled in yellowed knotty pine and is similar in design to the main cottage. There's a small open kitchen, two back bedrooms and a tiny, dark bathroom.

“What an awesome view. Feels as though we're sitting
in
the lake,” I say, carrying one end of a long table we hauled down from the barn. Ruby is at the other end. “I think we should put the sewing machines up front, by the doors—perfect setting for inspiration.”

“You have such a nose for this, darling,” Ruby replies. “I would never have thought of turning this place into a factory. I bet we have buckets of people ringing for an interview.”

“Ruby…the phone hasn't rung once.”

“I know, darling; have patience. Things move a little slower up here.”

“What was that? A buzzing or something; there it is again.”

“That, patient one, is the
phone!”

“Damn—the phone. I piled too much crap in front of the deer head!” I say, wildly pulling dusty curtain rods, a metal bed frame, brooms and what looks like a gun away from the phone's hiding place. “Hello?” I say, out of breath, holding a stuffed squirrel in my other hand. I pass him to Ruby.

“Hey, this Eve Moss? The drape lady?” a friendly male voice asks.

“Um…yes it is.” I guess I asked for this.

“This is Charlie…Charlie Bruns. You must have given out the wrong number. Been getting all your calls…Ladies looking for you and all…A man, too.”

“Oh really? I am so sorry. I should have double-checked the number.” Shit shit shit.

“No harm done,” he assures me kindly. “Things like this happen. Kept a list of who called for you.”

“Thank you
so
much…. I really am grateful.” Is this a nice guy or what?

“You renting Ruby's place for the fall or—”

“I live here…the Prévost Place. Used to be, anyway. What I mean is, yes, I
do
live here…with Ruby.”

“Ruby Prévost? Well I'll be! Say…you wouldn't want to stop by, would you? Sure would enjoy visiting with her and meeting you, too.”

“Oh sure…we'd
love
to come over. Thanks.” I give a questioning look to Ruby, who nods. “We could stop by later this afternoon.”

“That sure would be nice then. Yes sir, sure would. Should be around 'most all day.”

“Okay, and listen, thanks again for being so understanding.”

“Sure sure. No problem at all—my pleasure. 'Bye now.”

“Okay then. 'Bye.” I let the phone go and it slides upward, picking up speed until it snaps back into the deer's mouth, making a funny pop as the jaw clomps shut. I look over at Ruby; she lifts her shoulders and shrugs.

“Of all the people to…” Ruby says. “Charlie lives down the road a bit.”

“I'm
positive
I gave the right phone number to that woman. His must be
really
similar. I should have insisted on seeing a proof before it went to press. He a friend of yours?”

“Charlie? Yes…yes, he was, is.
He's
very much alive, but his wife passed away quite a while ago,” Ruby says, correcting her tenses. “He and Ed did a lot of fishing together. Such an odd fellow. Pleasant…but odd.”

“Certainly
seems
nice and my God, what a deep voice,” I say. “Might be fun for you to see him again.”

“Oh yes indeed,” Ruby says. “Ed always referred to him as the birdman. His yard is filled with the most remarkable birdhouses. He smokes…but not the legal stuff.”

“Oh? Oh.” I'm guessing Charlie must be one of those pot-smoking earthy types. “He's keeping a phone list for us; doesn't seem the least bit put out. I certainly got the feeling he's wanting to see you…us.” Hmm, I wonder if he likes sassy Brits? Not to be a meddler, God forbid, but if they both lost their spouses…And that sexy voice.

“You know, darling,” Ruby purrs, “let's take a break
now
and visit Charlie. We've been at it for hours and it's looking so much better. I should tidy up a bit, though.”

“We should bring him something. You know, to thank him for being so…neighborly,” I suggest. Then I lie, a white lie: “The van's out of gas…Not a drop…Fumes.” My van is so unromantic, but a boat ride in that duck…

“Let's take the duck then,” Ruby quickly says.

“We could pick him up and take him for a ride.”

“Why not?” Ruby warms to the idea. “After all, he did help fix that thing.”

“Might as well throw in lunch too.” I wonder about her and Charlie—together. “How about you gather some picnic goodies and I'll get the duck out.”

“Lovely.”

We head up the path to the cottage and around to the back porch. Ruby and I lug the cooler into the kitchen and plop it onto the stump table. We think better of it and put it on the floor in front of the fridge since neither one of us could reach into it up there on the stump table.

I dash upstairs, throw my filthy clothes in a corner and put on an oversized T-shirt and baggy shorts, and throw some cold water on my face. I look into the bathroom mirror and see the gray hairs moving farther into my part. You know, I may just ditch this hair-color thing. Maybe. Until I'm sure, I zigzag my part, tie a big scarf to hold the ponytail and head down and out to the barn to rev up the duck.

The afternoon is busy turning humid and sticky. I wipe sweat from my brow while backing up the duck to the porch door, then I hop out. Ruby, on the other hand, never perspires. Me, I drip. Bitch.

We're fighting with the cooler, trying to lift it up the side of the duck while balancing it on the ladder. Thank God the boys come to the rescue.

“Damn. This thing weighs a ton!” Howard takes the cooler off my shoulders and sets it up onto the side of the duck. “You ladies simply do not believe in packing anything
lightly,
do you?” He shakes his head while straightening out his back.

“Enough food for all of us, if you'd care to join an impromptu picnic,” Ruby says, coming back out of the cottage, looking fresh.

“Long story. Come aboard and we'll fill you in,” I say over the side of the duck. Ruby climbs up, followed by Howard. Johnny is last, so he pulls up the ladder. Rules of the road: last one in pulls up the ladder.

I put on a tape of Billie Holiday, who starts singing, “Trav'lin' Light.” And off we go. Down the road, over the bridge and through the woods to find Charlie's place. This time I'm trying my best
not
to go so crazy fast. Keeping an eye peeled for the deer. Ruby is busy chatting up the boys, her bracelets jangling like crazy. She's one of those people that if you tied her hands together, she couldn't say a word. Hmm.

“Which way, Ruby?” I ask.

“Left, at the gate; then it's a mile or so down to where there's a bank of trailers. Watch for a birdhouse-mailbox. It marks the start of his driveway. You can't miss it, darling.” She jumps right back into her chat.

I smile to myself. I do that too—carry on several conversations at the same time with different people. Oh maybe not catching every word in every situation, but one must edit anyway. Don't want to miss a thing. I've found that sometimes the best stuff is delivered in the least bit of speech.

“He's a woodcrafts man,” Howard says. “You won't
believe
his yard.”

“Ed knew him for years,” Ruby replies. “But you know, he was the hardest man to figure—never spared many words.”

“We're coming to some trailers,” I inform whomever. I slow down, then turn left in front of a miniature Victorian-mansion, three-story, combination birdhouse-mailbox. All that fancy work to get bills and bird poop. Makes you think.

Charlie's driveway is a couple of ruts, like ours. The grass in the middle makes a scraping noise under the duck. The drive curves, then dips down a bit. I slow to a crawl; on either side of the road are birdhouses. Hundreds of them. They perch atop tall, thin poles, giving the illusion of floating. Some have hand-painted signs on them with names like Radcliff's Roost, Patty's Perch, Cat-less Crib and Shakespeare's Shack. (Are you getting the idea?) Every one is brightly colored.

Rounding a final bend, the drive leads up to a curious pink and chrome trailer surrounded by billowy willow trees. Bright red geraniums in flower boxes hang from every window. Wind chimes clang and sing in the breeze.

Around a far corner, a path leads off into the woods. The willow tree's branches, slinking over the trailer, sweep back and forth across the metal roof, making a rustling sound. Like an overweight woman's nylon-covered thighs rubbing together.

“Isn't this divine?” Ruby half-whispers. “Looks as though the ground is swallowing up his house.”

We all climb down from the duck. The boys hang back a bit, admiring the carvings on the flower boxes. Ruby reaches up to knock, but before she can, it opens.

“Well, well…if it isn't Ruby Prévost. What a sight you are.” Charlie comes out onto the small stoop.

As he steps into the sunshine, he seems to unfold. He's so darn tall. Setting down an enormous coffee-stained mug on the rail, he takes Ruby's hand with both of his. His gray hair is tightly pulled back into a ponytail that reaches to the middle of his back. Wearing a tank top and shorts, he's the picture of health. I couldn't begin to guess his age. Sixties? Seventies? A deep tan sets his brown eyes off. He's a fox.

“Charlie darling, so nice to see you,” Ruby gushes. “We're
so
sorry about all those messages from—”