Moon over Madeline Island (24 page)

“I feel like I should say a prayer or…” Bonnie says, her voice mixing with the sound of the water lapping against the sides of the duck. “But for the life of me, nothing comes to mind. Except”—she turns to the trunk, steps back and then lunges at it with all her might—“bon voyage!” The trunk sails off the duck and lands in the water with a huge splash that leaps up and drenches Bonnie.

She laughs and laughs and we join in and it feels just right.

 

We're cozy around a crackling fire. The boys are wrapped in an afghan on the couch and Ruby and I are each snuggled in big shawls. Cups of chamomile tea are steaming on the coffee table. Rocky's tail is the only movement in the room. I scratch his belly and he purrs deep and reassuringly. We've been filling in the boys on all the goings-on of our disastrous day.

“Soon as we left your place,” Johnny says, “and headed home, the post-lady stopped us and told us that Al Smitters was dead. Something about a man with a telescope?”

“That would be Marsha's landlord,” I suggest, then sigh. Could someone be spying on us here? “
I
bet he had a heart attack, or one of those annual things that can burst.”

“Aneurysm,” Howard corrects me. “I had a friend complain of a headache, went and lied down and—”

“Gone,” Johnny finishes. “Not a bad way to go, if you ask me.”

“Such a peculiar day,” Ruby adds. “Al and Bonnie and all that lot and my
heavens,
what a sight when all that bloody water came splashing all over—”

“What?” both the boys say at once, sitting up real quick.

“Oh heavens,” Ruby admonishes with a small chuckle. “Not
bloody
-bloody. Really, you two can be so daft.”

Rocky meows huge and big with a yawn thrown in and we chuckle and sigh into our thoughts.

D
ays…endless days. Like molasses they slugged along as we waited for the final results of the autopsy. From what the emergency-room doctor could tell, it looked like a natural death: heart attack, massive stroke or the like. There was no mention of foul (vacuum cleaner–like) play, but he did point out that even without doing any fancy tests he could tell that the man had either recently used whisky as a mouthwash or had been very drunk at the time of his death. Sometimes I think too much information is just too much, or was that ER humor?

Bonnie was so relieved she hadn't even
remotely
been the cause of his death that she stood in the lobby of the Memorial Medical Center of Ashland and broke out into a very hysterical laughter. She couldn't stop though, so the comedian-doctor gave her an injection that made her laugh even more. I wanted some too. Poor thing had to identify Al “for the record,” and she in turn shared the fact that he was buck naked and “Good Lord, you should have seen how white his skin was.” She was about to share other interesting details, but Sam cut her off.

Later the coroner revealed to Bonnie that Al's blood alcohol level was off the charts. He also had an enlarged liver, spots on his lungs and a clogged valve in his heart. But it turned out I was right after all—he died of an aneurysm.

Bonnie told us that unbeknownst to her, Al had life insurance. Not millions, but enough for her to gut his crummy bar and reopen it as a swanky restaurant. She's considering naming it Al's Place. She figures it's the least she can do.

Marsha's been hired away from Ruby's Aprons since Bonnie needs a
professional
waitress. Marsha says sewing really wasn't her bag anyway and besides, Lilly and Sam sew so damn fast it gives her a headache. Bonnie already looks ten years younger, is eating better and thinking of growing her hair out. I'm considering turning one of the bedrooms in the cottage into a tiny salon; these women need me! And the hell with going gray, I'm sticking to my
natural
red. What was I thinking?

So after Al's funeral we all spent the better part of a week helping Bonnie. Believe it or not, when we were cleaning, Ruby found more bowling trophies in a shed behind Al's Place. This time we just tossed them into the mega-Dumpster Sam hauled over.

Every so often I catch Bonnie's eye and there's something different there now: hope.

 

Since the Bayfield Apple Festival starts tomorrow and we've long passed our goal of five hundred aprons, I'm sending Sam and Lilly home early. We have to be up at dawn and at our booth to set up at the ungodly hour of seven
A.M
.! I boot Howard and Johnny out as well, as they've been right by our sides the entire day. Even Rocky has had it; I have to lug him up to the cottage. Ruby and I root around in the fridge, eating leftovers.

“I am
so
looking forward to this weekend,” I say through crunches. “Just hope the weather holds…people come…that we don't run out of anything and…”

“Eve, darling,” Ruby offers. “Everything will be super!”

“I guess you're right and
really,
this should be the fun part, but…”

“What?” she asks, clearing away our dishes, filling the sink with steamy water. “What in the world is so complicated about selling overpriced aprons? Howard got his way in the end, didn't he?”

“Of course.” I take a plate from her and dry it. “He's right though. We
have
to cover expenses and if we make more, a nice chunk is going to be donated to Bayfield's Shelter for Women.”

“That's such a lovely gesture, darling.”

“Isn't it kind of embarrassing…we think as a culture we're so advanced and yet the symbolism…”

“What?”

“That Ruby's Aprons—an apron—
still
is a symbol for women, for domestication. That we're still ‘tied' like apron strings to a societal expectation of how to be. And we're helping a few
un
tie. Freeing them from some situation that was…”

“
Not
helping them.”

“Exactly,” I say, and we untie our aprons.

 

I open my eyes to the sound of curtains being thrown open by a stylishly dressed Ruby. Looking over at my cat-clock and realizing it's five in the morning, I moan.

“It's daylight in the swamp. Chop, chop,” Ruby proclaims, breezing by my bed and out the door. She turns at the threshold. “Lilly and Sam are driving over in your van. Should be here any minute. Sam's finished fixing the clutch and says you owe her a fortune.”

“How in the world can you look so fresh…at this hour?” I push sleep out of my eyes.

“Coffee, darling, lots of coffee. There's a cup on your night table. Now snap to it.”

“Okay already.” I disappear into my bathroom with it.

After a quick shower I dash around trying to figure out what in the world to wear to an apple festival. I decide on a yellow top, navy Capris and my favorite two-inch wedgies. I do a soft, curly up-do, grab some hoop earrings and clomp down into the kitchen.

“Well, good morning Sam—Lilly,” I say to the women perched around the stump table. “You're so quiet I had no idea anyone else was here except Captain Ruby.”

Sam is decked out in a muumuu of bright teal with a matching turban wrapped smartly around her head. Lilly is in a pretty green floral housedress and has puffed her white hair up a good foot. Her reading glasses are perched on the tip of her nose and she regards me over their rims. I never can tell if she's winking at me or if it's a twitch.

“Howard and Johnny are down at the boathouse loading the van,” Ruby reports while refilling mugs. “Did you mean to put your top on inside out, dear?”

“Shit!” I go into the living room and redress. “I'm still half awake,” I say when I return. “I went back down to the boathouse after you went to bed last night and rechecked everything—twice.”

“Child…you are the biggest worrywart I have
ever
…” Sam remarks deep and low. “Like I told you right off, this is going to be a big ol'…”

“Wait!” I hold up my hand. “Don't tell me. I want to get as much mileage out of my worrying as I can.” Everyone laughs as Howard and Johnny come banging in the back door.

“Hey, ladies,” Howard booms. “It's a gorgeous day out and not a cloud in the sky.”

“The van's packed.” Johnny gently removes Rocky from a bar stool and thumps down in his place. “We can take Sam and Lilly over in our Jeep as there's only room for Eve and Ruby in there now.”

“I say we have a toast,” Ruby suggests, handing Howard and Johnny a mug of coffee. “To a
smashing
success!”

We raise our mugs and meet in the middle, clinking—then sipping. Rocky meows and that seems to round things out. We march out the back door, into vehicles, and off we drive with Ruby and me in the lead.

“Charlie said he'd be able to bring more aprons over to Bayfield as we need them,” Ruby says while checking her lips in the visor mirror. “I simply press this button here.” She shows me the red button on the two-way radio. “And he'll dash them to us just like that!”

Just then the radio makes a scratching noise; we hear Charlie's voice. “That you, lamb chop?” Ruby takes in a deep breath and blusters a little. I shake my head.

“Hello there,” Ruby yells. “I'm in the van with Eve and—”

“Don't need to shout!” Charlie shouts back. “Just give a holler if you need anything. I hope you all make a
killing
today.” We look at each other with wide eyes, then sigh.

“All right then, darling,” Ruby replies. She tosses the radio into her purse.

“All right—darling?” I mimic back. She pretends not to notice, but smiles just the same. Grins.

I glance over at her and notice how snazzy she looks, all decked out in a pricey pantsuit that's supposed to look casual. Passing by Charlie's driveway, I honk a few times. I push in a tape of Harry Belafonte. He blasts into the van singing “Day-O” from “The Banana Boat Song” and of course, we sing along until we jiggle onto the ferry and have to clamber out to stand in front with the others. Bayfield slowly comes into view. Even from the lake we can see the hustle and bustle of people; white tents cover the shoreline.

We drive off the ferry and park by Maggie's Restaurant as that's close to where our booth is. The roads are all blocked off, so people are busy hauling their wares into the tents that line both sides of the streets.
Everything
is for sale. Hand-painted signs, beaded jewelry, pottery, wood carvings, candles and all things “apple.” There's apple bratwurst, ciders, jams and jellies, turnovers, mustards, pies, and fritters and, of course, wine. The smell of hot apple cider fills the air.

The festival runs for four days, ending on Sunday with the famous “Apple Parade,” featuring floats, performers, clowns, and regional marching bands playing “On Wisconsin.” What a hoot.

The boys are off snooping around, so it's just the four of us busting our butts putting the booth together. I stand in the street and look back, making sure the signs Sam and Johnny made are hung straight on either side. We all tie on an apron and when the boys stroll by, I ask the nice lady next to us, selling flags, if she'd take a group shot of the six of us. She does and after that the boys head home to the island with instructions to return before dark.

The streets fill with people; women cluster around our booth three deep. I am one happy woman. They giggle at the outlandish patterns, no one buys just one, and before too long Ruby is in the back yelling into her purse to Charlie that we “need more
bloody
aprons and step on it!”

Sam puts her arm around my shoulder. “Now don't you go and stir up any trouble on my account,” she says in my ear.

“What the…” I say, then spy a newly hung Confederate flag in the booth next to ours. I know it wasn't there earlier. I feel something twitch in my stomach. My mouth goes dry.

I've learned that life is about choices and either you let things be—or open your mouth and do something. I look at Sam, who's now chuckling with a customer. I know it's a free country and all—but that's a symbol that belongs in the past, not here.

“It's going so well, darling,” Ruby says, handing a woman a sack and some change. “You okay, dear? Oh no…you have that look in your eye.”

“It's that flag,” I spit out. Sam steps over to me.

“You chill now, honey…”

I lift Sam's arm off my shoulder and stroll next door all cool and collected.

“Excuse me,” I say to the lady who earlier had taken our picture, “but what are you doing selling
Confederate flags?
” I ask in my above-the-blow-dryer-noise voice, knowing full well she and all the folks milling around can hear.

“We always run out of the American ones,” she replies feebly as a man in faded jeans with a scraggly ponytail comes forward, standing beside her.

“Do you know what this symbolizes?” I hold up one of the offending flags while Sam tsk-tsks. “You have any
idea
how this flag pisses me
off
?” A small crowd gathers.

“In America, anyone has the right to sell…” the man sputters, then swipes sweat from his brow. “We have the
right
to—”

“To sell every one of them to me
right
this minute,” Ruby quickly adds, coming over next to me. “How much for the whole lot of these
vile
things?” She waves around her Gold American Express card. The crowd murmurs in approval.

“We don't
take
American Express,
lady!
” he yells, his face turning a marvelous red.

“Well, then…” Sam says, her voice silencing everyone. “You
must
take Masta' card,” she drawls, stepping in between Ruby and me. She plops an arm around each of us.

The crowd whoops with laughter. The man just melts, hands the pile over to a laughing Sam and retreats to the back.

“I think I've peed in my dress,” Sam says. Ruby about splits a gut. I look over to Lilly and she's wearing such a smile. Damn—that felt good!

 

The parade route begins at the top of the hill, then meanders down Rittenhouse Avenue, the main street of Bayfield. Seeing as there are hundreds of people in the parade, we have to get a number and get in line before it actually begins.

Ruby and I are decked out in our flowing gowns with specially made (by Lilly) frilly aprons tied around our waist. We're sprawled out on either side of the duck's hood, tossing Reese's Peanut Butter Cups (with our business card stapled on) to the cheering crowds lined up on the sidewalks. Howard is driving with Johnny sitting next to him, both in bright white T-shirts that say
STAFF
in bold letters stretching across their muscular chests. We took the awning and all the rest of the seats out of the duck in order to create a stage area for the three gals and Charlie to accompany Sam.

Lilly, Marsha and Bonnie are wearing ruby red house-dresses and matching aprons. The trio is singing harmony underneath illegally high, swirled-to-death up-dos that would make Dorothy proud! Charlie, fedora hat askew, is in a snazzy suit, blowing jazz out of a clarinet. The background music is from an old tape I used to play at the salon a lot.

Sam stands tall and gorgeous, draped in a flashy yellow African-styled gown, her turban piled high on her head, huge hoop earrings glinting in the afternoon sun. She holds a microphone that's rigged to the boat's speakers—though she doesn't really even need one as her rich and soulful voice has a power that can make your heart swell. She's belting out “Easy Street,” and I'm singing along.

The throngs on either side of the street are singing and clapping—even Watts and Dorothy have come and they scream and yell like hell! They follow us and eventually we end up parking in front of Greunke's Restaurant. We join in with Judith and staff for her famous fish boil. There are introductions to Dorothy and Watts, more singing and of course, a great deal of eating. We have a magical—wonderful—time. I even spy Charlie giving Ruby the sweetest peck on her cheek. I catch her eye and we share a grin.