Moon over Madeline Island (2 page)

“Sounds simply lovely. See you, darling. Ta ta, for now!”

The day swims by and before I was about to say, “Don't you just look sassy?” for what seemed like the hundredth time, in blows Ruby. She stands
mayb
e four-ten, weighs little or nothing even wet and is the only size one I know. But trust me, what she doesn't have in height or girth, she makes up for with dazzling energy, a certain English decorum and a dose of pigheadedness that keeps things interesting.

She's blessed with thick, straight hair that's been every color and style at least three, maybe four times. Totally gray underneath, happened years ago, I like to remind her. That's our secret though and to be honest, I'm not far behind her with the gray. Her age is pretty hard to swallow too. Sixty-nine, but she only admits to being fifty-eight. Been lying like a dog for years. Ed, her husband for a hundred years, was the only one for her and he's been dead for a while now.

She has on dangle earrings and bracelets that clang and chime. Her lipstick is bright pink, complementing her blue-blue eyes. They have a depth that holds you captive. Her accent is wonderful. Originally from a tiny fishing village in the north of England and proud as hell about it too. I've noticed how sometimes her Northern accent becomes more pronounced. Like when she wants something or has had a bit too much wine or if she simply needs to be heard. Wrapped like a glove in an earth-tone skirt and fitted top, she walks jauntily in, her high heels clicking across the hardwood floor to a Martin Denny tune, “Love Dance.” I smile and marvel at her amazing presence. She enters a room and the air just kind of opens up to her.

“Jesus Lord our God, what's that
stench?
” Ruby wrinkles up her pointed nose.

“Dorothy is finishing up a perm. Keep your voice down—you'll wake Mrs. Gustafson, who's under the dryer. Now get over here,” I say in my take-charge voice.

“I thought perms were totally
out.
Thank God they're back. Sign me up. I miss the height. God I miss the beehive…now there was a style with attitude.” She checks her reflection in the flap, then clicks her purse closed.

“Ruby…I used to give you perms.
Used
to. We do so much color as it is and really, when is the last time you saw anyone on Oprah with a poodle-perm?”

“Relax. Only joking, darling. I'm loving what you're doing now. Texture. Feels like we're discussing the feel of carpet, not hair.” She's poured herself a mug of coffee, greeted Dorothy and Watts, as well as their clients, and managed to shove a cookie into her mouth, all while heading to my station.

I guide her over to my chair. “Thought cookies were on the
no
list. Someone skip lunch again?” I ask in my mom-voice.

“Look at these roots of mine!” She points to the part in her hair, “I need a miracle here.”

“You look great for being so near death…really,” I reply, deadpan as hell. “I bet people see you and think,
wow,
she's still alive?”

“I will be fifty-eight…again, so you better turn up my color a bit; I will
not
give in to this horrible gray stuff. Never. Stupid gray. Stupid!”

“How many years have you been fifty-eight now?” I ask, both of my brows arched.

“You know, you're right. This year let's shoot for fifty-six. Now get cracking.”

 

I'm drying Ruby's hair and it looks fabulous. She's putting on fresh lipstick, swinging her shapely crossed-over leg while Sarah Vaughn croons, “What Is This Thing Called Love?” The lyrics inspire thoughts of Watts, which are busy crisscrossing in my mind. How different we are…yet not really. She's looking. Me, I'm not. Wouldn't mind if someone found
me
for a change. But then again, someone to pick up after, fuss with about the toilet lid being left up, twice as many rumpled clothes to wade through and farting in bed? I'll stick with Rocky.

“Earth to Eve. Hello there. You in there?” Ruby asks, while buffing her nails.

“Sorry ma'am,” I say in my most nasally “hair expert” voice. “I was focusing on the completion of your style, as the finish is the most important aspect of the salon experience.”

“I bet there's not one woman who can do her hair like you hair professionals.” She shakes her head. “It's simply not possible.”

“It
is
possible. However, one must stand still more than three minutes, use some goop, and do as I have instructed you to do about nine hundred times! 'Course, if you did it as well as us professionals”—I wave a huge round brush around and arch my right brow only—“it wouldn't be such a treat to come in. You'd miss out on all my worldly wisdom, not to mention the free coffee and cookies.”

“You directing or making me look fabulous?” Ruby asks dryly.

“If you'd stand still once in a while and put a little
effort
—”

“You're the one with magic fingers, darling. Entirely worth the outrageous prices you charge, but I wouldn't give you
squat
for the wisdom. I should charge
you!”

We giggle, clink our chipped cat mugs and toss back final slugs of now cold coffee. I hand her the magic mirror in the shape of a lily pad and give her chair a spin for inspection. I lean against the wall, fold my arms over my chest and bend my tired head this way and that. It snaps and creaks, waking Rocky, who gives me a meow suggesting I quit my noisy creaking.

“Damn. I look good.” Ruby steps down and hands me the mirror with a slight bow. “Let's tidy up, then be off for dinner.”

I'm touching up my lips for the zillionth time. Nothing stays on these babies very long. Ruby rinses out our mugs, then waters my huge fern. It's bursting out of an old round pink washing machine that sits in a corner by the front window. Rocky jumps onto my throne-of-miracles chair to watch as I try to powder away sneaky wrinkles.

“How long have you been here, darling?” Ruby asks, her head disappearing into the fern. I can hear snaps as she trims and fusses. It's the same upstairs—if I have dirty dishes sitting in the sink, she just pushes up her fancy sleeves and gets on with it.

“Let's see, I opened this place in nineteen eighty-one….” I lipstick my lips and count on my fingers. “So that would make it—gee-suzz—twenty-four years. As long as I've known you, you know?” I kiss the mirror, adding to the collection of lips there. If you look in Ruby's purse, she has balled-up Kleenex covered with different-colored lips. She keeps them until every inch is used up. I love that.

But I
don't
love this feeling that's been nagging at me. Oh, not a big deal, really. Just a worry, I suppose. Another one; I've got a whole slew of them. I don't want to do this forever, I don't. But what the hell
should
I be doing? I glance around and wonder if it's a “where” thing. If not here, though, where? Good grief.

Way inside, inside the secret self I share with no one, there's this void, a hushed sadness I keep locked up. My high school sweetheart and I had a daughter and on my thirtieth birthday, well, I tried to find her—but no luck. I sigh back into the room.

“Have you thought about retiring?”

“I'm forty-seven. Just. People
don't
retire at that age. Do they?” Not my kind of people anyway.

“You're right, darling. I cringe when I hear that word…retire. Sounds like you pick out a porch, sit down and rock your life away, filling your pants, drooling. Waiting to take your last breath.”

“I'm getting a strong visual here.” I shake my head.

“You work so hard, darling. I suppose it's selfish of me even suggesting, but I enjoy our time together—when you're not abusing me.”

“I hope I don't have to work this hard right up until I
do
retire. An old-lady hair-burner with tresses piled high, orangey foundation, eyeliner and sagging boobs. Good Lord. Besides, I sunk all my inheritance from my mom into this place. You're
looking
at my retirement,” I say, arms open wide.

“I've an idea, Eve. Push your curls around and let's blow this pop stand.”

“Pop stand?”

Ever since Ruby danced into my shop all those years ago, well, my life has never been the same. Thank God. We fluff Rocky's fur and give him noisy air kisses since we mustn't smear our lips. I flip the metal sign hanging on a hook by the door to
CLOSED
, and off we stroll down the sidewalk to our favorite watering hole, Mona Lisa's.

“Hey ladies! Right this way,” the owner, Zed, says, leading us to a nice table by the window. “I'll bring you wine.”

Zed is a fifty-something, sexy little Italian number with bulging biceps and the thickest mustache you've ever seen. This restaurant is his pride and joy and it shows in the way he claps customers on the shoulder and greets everyone walking in the front door.

“Did you see who Darcy Laming was all cozy with? The little tramp.” Ruby spits “tramp” out while rooting around in her designer purse for a smoke.

“Her husband has been dead for over a year now. I'm happy to see her out and about and yes, I
did
see, and he's quite a hunk.” We laugh a bit too loud, as usual. The gray-haired, tanned-to-leather golf-clutch of women nearby glance our way over their highballs.

“Here you are, ladies. Sure do love your hair, Ruby. Going over to Minneapolis to have it done?” He grins, plunks our goblets down and before I can say something smart back, is gone.

“Little bastard,” I mutter. “If he didn't fill those jeans so well…”

“I hadn't noticed,” Ruby says, noticing. “Besides, no one pours a glass of wine like Zed. Let's make a toast, darling: to a couple of classy broads with naturally beautiful hair.” She shoots a look toward the ladies. We clink, take a nice long sip and settle in.

We've been coming here for so long, it feels like an extension of my living room. The smells of garlic, fresh breads, cigarettes and Zed's energy all swirl in concert. There's a roar of laughter mixed with talking that always gives me pause as it rolls over us in waves, then recedes.

“Now Eve…I've been thinking…”

Whenever it starts like that I know something's brewing. Last time Ruby started out with one of her “I've been thinking” segues, I ended up with a new set of fall-pattern mixing bowls, a complicated programmable electric mixer, a blender stick with all the attachments and a Crock-Pot covered with geese. I don't need any more kitchen items.

“You know…” Ruby fiddles with her expensive necklace. “I still own the cottage on Madeline Island, but I don't get up there since it's such a drive. Frankly, I've had so many memories of Ed and I together there I simply couldn't. Hell, he's been dead since two thousand—I do need to do
something
with it, don't you think?”

“He
has
been dead for a while now, but I didn't think you really liked the cottage. Damp and old, I believe are the words you've used to describe it.”

“It
is
damp and the old part is true too, but you know…it's also lovely. I think I needed to let go of Ed first.”

“You've invited me up there so many times and I always meant to…I work too much,” I say, realizing that's about all I do.

“You do, darling, you do. I could have gone alone over the years, but I've realized I was keeping it to myself until I felt ready to let Ed be…well…dead,” Ruby replies. She blows a huge smoke ring as if to circle the word “dead.” It slowly fades and then disappears altogether.

“I totally understand. Until my mom died, I hadn't ever really felt that kind of loss. And you and Ed…all the pictures you have around your house…you two together.”

Ruby pats my arm, her tiny hand warm and soft. “We always spent our summers up there.” She has a distant look in her eyes. “Up until Ed got too sick, that is. One good thing about being a professor, we had summers off….”

I feel softness for this woman, knowing how much they loved each other. Sadness too since he's gone. There's a black-and-white picture of them sitting on the end of a dock, holding hands, water glistening all around. A younger Ruby is looking into Ed's eyes with such tenderness. Looking at the picture you feel as though you should look away quick, it's so personal. But you don't.

Ruby says, “How long have you stood behind a chair, listening to the likes of me, women wanting to look younger, prettier, sexier? Certainly it must drain the zip out of you, darling.”

“I was seventeen when I got out of high school. Tried becoming a professional waitress, then spotted an ad for a new beauty school opening in what used to be a funeral parlor. It was called Carol Greckner's Professional Cosmetology School of Beauty. Oh Jesus, was that a trip. Been behind a chair ever since.”

“You
are
an expert. Professional, I mean. You are. But all you do is
give
—all day long. You need to take better care of
you,
” Ruby lectures, leaning way in when she says “you.”

“You're right. I am tired, doing hair day in and day out. Who wouldn't be after twenty-nine years? Love my clients, the stories and the laughs. That's what keeps me going. But—and I haven't wanted to admit this—I've been feeling restless…bored maybe.”

“With the salon or…?”

“Business is fabulous. I'm booked
weeks
in advance, months during the holidays. It's my own fault, but I've not taken a vacation in years. I'm going through the forties thing. There, I said it out loud.” I take a nice long slug of wine. “Tell me more about the cottage,” I add, wanting to change the subject. I'm terrible when it comes to talking too much about me. But really, should I be more concerned here? Great, something else to worry about.