by Mary Daheim
That's just as well. Journalists have to keep their distance. Though Vida is a third-generation Alpine native and proud of it, she does her best to maintain objectivity, at least in print. It was no wonder that she was disturbed by the results of her interview with Ursula Randall. But the patronizing words had come out of the woman's mouth. It would be interesting to see if Ursula tried to refute them after they were published. People often do. If they can't eat their words, they want them retracted.
I was still thinking about Vida's predicament when I chucked my mail—except for a couple of fall catalogs— into the wastebasket. There was nothing but junk in the current delivery, and I was disappointed. I'd hoped for a letter from my son, Adam. Usually, he spent part of the summers with me, but this year he had chosen to stay with my brother, Ben, at the Navajo mission in Tuba City. Both my son and my brother were amateur anthropologists, spending their spare time on an Anasazi dig. Ben had promised to visit over the Labor Day weekend; Adam had been stalling me since he finished spring quarter at Arizona State in June. I was annoyed and hurt. I hadn't seen my only child since Easter.
There was no phone message from him, either. The answering machine revealed a big fat red zero. I changed clothes, made a meager dinner, and ate while reading The
Seattle Times. Normally I don't mind being alone. But the lack of word from Adam somehow drained my log house of its usual cozy comfort. The air felt stuffy after the eighty-five-degree afternoon, and no breeze stirred the evergreens that flanked my small backyard.
A little after seven I assessed my appearance before heading off to St. Mildred's. A change of clothes was in order, since I'd perspired heavily in my cotton shell. Applying lipstick, I considered brushing my hair, but decided against it. I was in the midst of letting the heavy chestnut mane grow out, perhaps to my shoulders. Trying to coax what was left of my perm into some sort of style was hopeless. The rest of my five-foot-four, hundred-and-twenty-pound frame was presentable, at least for a boring session at church.
At seven-twenty I drove the five blocks to St. Mildred's. The church is old, a white frame structure that would look more at home in New England than the Pacific Northwest. The rectory is of the same vintage, but the school is much newer. Built of brick, its two stories overlook the playground on one side, and the church on the other. The convent was torn down a long time ago, and the two nuns on the faculty share an apartment in a building across the street.
To my surprise, there were at least three dozen vehicles in the parking lot. Since the parish council numbered five members, and the school board only three, I was puzzled. Maybe Ed hadn't exaggerated. Something was up at St. Mildred's.
Francine Wells pulled in just as I was getting out of the Jag. As the owner of Francine's Fine Apparel, she feels a responsibility to be well groomed at all times. In a town where designer clothes means handstitching your name on the back of your bowling shirt, Francine tends to stand out in a crowd. This evening she was wearing a simple pale yellow linen sheath that probably cost her a hundred dollars wholesale.
“Emma!” Francine exclaimed as she locked up her dark blue Acura Legend. “What are you doing here? Don't tell me Father Den talked you into serving on the school board?”
My puzzlement deepened. “No. Is there a vacancy?”
Francine fell in step beside me. “There's a move to expand the membership to five, just like the parish council. Didn't you see the notice in Sunday's bulletin?”
I hadn't. It had been very warm in church on Sunday morning, and I'd been inclined to drift. Father Den's conversational skills tend to outshine his speaking talents in the pulpit. Still, he's an enormous improvement over our previous pastor, Kiernan Fitzgerald, who was elderly and not always aware of the city, state, or century in which he was operating.
“Some of the parents are up in arms,” Francine was saying. “They don't feel fully represented. Do you realize that almost thirty percent of die pupils in the school aren't Catholics?”
I hadn't known that, either. But I did realize that Francine was leading me not to the rectory, but the school. “Where is the meeting?” I asked.
“The school auditorium,” Francine replied. “They expect way too many people to fit into the rectory parlor.”
That made sense. Three more cars pulled into the parking lot; I recognized Buzzy O'Toole, Roseanna and Buddy Bayard, and last, but certainly not least, Ed and Shirley Bronsky in their ice-blue Mercedes.
I also recognized most—but not all—of the fifty people who were milling about in the school auditorium. Those I couldn't place were all under forty. I figured them to be parents of St. Mildred's non-Catholic students.
Father Dennis Kelly was wearing his short-sleeve summer clerical garb, which was probably a concession to the gravity of the meeting. Usually, our pastor is seen around town in old sweats or blue jeans and a flannel shirt. He is in his mid-forties, average height, average looks, and superior intelligence. What makes him stand out in Alpine isn't his religious vocation, but the fact that he is African American. Minorities are rare in Skykomish County. Indeed, the previous generation considered a minority as anyone who wasn't Scandinavian. When Father Den arrived at St. Mildred's two years ago, he was met by hostility, suspicion, and fear. Ironically it was his fellow clergymen, especially Regis Bartleby of Trinity Episcopal and Donald Nielsen of Faith Lutheran who had made overt gestures of welcome. Slowly, hopefully, most Alpiners had come to accept Father Den's presence, at least on some level.
As a member of the parish council, Francine had to take her place at one of the two lunchroom tables that had been set up on the stage. Thus I sought a discreetly placed folding chair near thejback. If I must attend meetings, it's my policy to sit where an early exit is not only easy, but unnoticed.
However, Buzzy O'Toole sought me out immediately. “What have you heard?” he asked in an urgent whisper.
I stared at Buzzy. He is about my age, but looks older. His auburn hair is graying and thinning, there are deep lines in his angular face, and his blue eyes are always sad. Unlike his brother, Jake, who owns the Grocery Basket, Buzzy has had bad luck in the world of commerce. Three years ago he was forced to close his BP service station. Since then, he's tried his hand at running a secondhand store and a bicycle shop. Both enterprises failed. Lately he's been working as Jake's produce manager. I'd heard a rumor that his wife, Laura, had left him recently, but so far, Vida, my source of all Alpine knowledge, hadn't been able to confirm it.
“I haven't heard anything,” I said in my normal voice, which seemed to disturb Buzzy, who signaled for me to speak more quietly. “That is, Ed Bronsky suggested I attend because there are going to be some important issues on the agenda.”
Buzzy let out a gust of air between clenched teeth. “For once, Ed's not full of it. This is crucial. I can hardly afford tuition now.” Father Den brought down his gavel. Buzzy jumped. “Hard times for St. Mildred's,” he whispered, and furtively moved off to his seat.
The meeting was opened with a prayer, which seemed sufficiently harmless in that it wasn't incendiary. Then Father Den deferred to the parish-council president, Jake O'Toole. Jake is bigger and better looking than his younger brother, but when he speaks in a public forum he has an unfortunate habit of using big words he doesn't always understand.
“This convocation has been summoned tonight because of the distension between certain members of the parish and parents in the school,” Jake began. “There are diverse issues on the agenda. We're going to commence with one that was raised at the last regular parish-council meeting August eighth.” He turned to Nunzio Lucci, a grizzled unemployed logger who was seated on his right. “Luce?”
“It's about money,” Luce said in his deep, gritty voice. “Back when Father Fitz was here, nobody could say nothin' about how the money was spent. But times has changed. Father Den here knows that we got rights, too. This is America, not Italy or one of them places where the Church runs the whole show.”
A small woman with lon
g, straight brown hair waved a hand at the far end of the tables. “Excuse me, I was in Italy last month, and I'd like to correct Mr. Lucci. While the Roman Catholic Church is an influential force in people's lives, I didn't get the impression that it ran its members. Of course, I'm a Unitarian, but I do have a major in sociology. And yes,” she added with a sour expression, “Italian men still pinch. They can't seem to stop being macho.”
Nunzio Lucci sat bolt upright. “Hey! Whaddya mean about Italian men? We are macho! So who gives a shit?” He flexed the muscles that showed in his forearms below the sleeves of the frayed cotton work shirt.
“Oh, shut up, Luce!” Francine snapped, glaring at her neighbor to the left. “We're not here to talk about your manly prowess!”
Father Den gave Francine a grateful look. “I think,” he said in his mild voice, “it's important to keep to the agenda.” His gaze traveled down to the small brown-haired woman at the end of the table. “Let's withhold extraneous comments for now, okay, Greer?”
Greer sniffed, but kept her mouth shut. I leaned forward to tap Roseanna Bayard's shoulder. “Greer who?” I asked, trying not to move my lips.
“Fairfax,” Roseanna murmured. “Married to Grant Fairfax, some kind of naturalist who commutes to Monroe. Greer weaves.”
I jotted down the names. Nunzio Lucci was still speaking about money. I'd missed part of what he said, but the gist seemed to be that while Father Den was willing to allow the parish council a voice in expenditures, he reserved veto power. Judging from the stir that was caused in the audience, a number of people didn't approve.
The next twenty minutes were devoted to a discussion of whether or not our pastor—or any pastor—had a right to hold the purse strings. Of the parish-council members, Luce was vehemently in favor, as was Francine, who argued forcefully, using all the persuasive powers that kept a handful of well-dressed Alpine women in debt. After some vaguely incoherent remarks, Monica Vancich disagreed. Brendan Shaw of Sigurdson-Shaw Insurance Agency could see both sides of the issue. In his role of council president, Jake O'Toole felt obliged to remain temporarily neutral.
The discussion from the audience grew heated, though not particularly newsworthy. As I had done Sunday at Mass, I began to drift. It was now after eight, and I'd told Milo I'd be home around nine. Trying to focus, I observed the rest of the people up on the stage. There was Greer Fairfax, of course, who apparently was on the school board. So was Buddy Bayard, Roseanna's husband and owner of Bayard's Picture Perfect Photography Studio, where our film is processed. And of course I knew the third member, Bill Daley, proprietor of Daley's Fine Furnishings and one of our advertisers. Trying not to attract attention, I moved quietly around the auditorium, snapping pictures: Father Den and Jake and Francine, looking thoughtful; the school principal, Veronica Wenzler-Greene, raising a point about parish subsidies; Monica Vancich, gesturing nervously at a scowling Luce; Brendan Shaw, laboriously taking notes. I passed on the chance to capture Ed Bronsky sneaking over to the refreshment table to nab a handful of sugar cookies.
“Look,” Jake was saying in a reasonable voice just after someone in the front row had called for a vote, “we aren't in regular session. We have garnered the consensus of opinion on monetarial responsibility and will duly comprehend your views. Could we move on?”
In the third row, a raven-haired woman who was almost as smartly attired as Francine Wells put up a manicured hand. “Mr. President,” she said in a throaty voice that was laced widi a slight giggle, “may I point out that you have a mission statement, bylaws, and a contract with your pastor. A parish council is strictly consultative. The pastor may listen to advice, but he has final authority and is responsible to his bishop. If you have questions, I suggest you contact the chancery office in Seattle. Otherwise you're simply wasting everyone's time and showing your ignorance.” With a graceful movement, the woman sat down. I recognized her as Ursula O'Toole Randall.
I couldn't help but look at Francine. Her eyes had narrowed as she stared down on the woman who was about to become her ex-husband's third wife. Ursula tilted her head and smiled archly at Francine. I could tell there was no love lost between the two women. Unless, of course, you counted Warren Wells.
As far as I could tell, Warren wasn't in the audience. I hadn't met him since he returned to Alpine with Ursula in late July. He and Francine had been divorced for many years by the time I arrived in Alpine. Vida had told me that in between Francine and Ursula, Warren had married someone else but it didn't last more than a few years.
The meeting had finally reached its goal: should the school board be expanded from three to five members? Debate was heated. Old-line parishioners such as Annie Jeanne Dupre and Pete Patricelli and Buzzy O'Toole were against the proposal. Vocally for it were most of the younger set I hadn't recognized. At last Jake agreed to take the matter under advisement and to schedule an official vote at the next regular parish-council meeting. He raised his gavel to adjourn, but Ursula Randall was on her feet again.
“Unless I'm ill informed,” she said in that husky, purring voice, “school will open before the next council meeting. Wouldn't it be wiser to settle the matter now so that if the expanded membership is approved, the school will have the benefit of knowing who the new board members are and where they stand?”
Three rows behind Ursula, Verb Vancich, Monica's husband and owner of Alpine Ski, got to his feet. “I agree with”—Verb grimaced, then shrugged his narrow shoulders—”the last speaker. Why can't we call for a voice vote right now?”
Verb's presence puzzled me. While Monica Vancich was very active in the parish and school, her husband wasn't. He rarely came to Mass, except at Christmas and Easter. But I knew that the Vanciches had two children, one of whom attended St. Mildred's. The other was a preschooler. Perhaps Verb had decided it was time to get involved. With ski season coming up, it certainly wouldn't hurt his position as an Alpine merchant.
Everybody onstage was looking bewildered. An anxious muffled discussion ensued. Murmurs and a couple of guffaws ran through the onlookers. At last Jake pounded for order.
“We've determined to present a ballot this weekend inquiring if parishioners favor incrementing the school-board members,” he said, looking uneasy. “If the affirmatives pass, we'll request candidates to come forth and hold the election the subsequent weekend, September second and third.” He glanced at Francine, who nodded confirmation of the dates. “That way,” Jake went on, “we'll have the board members in place by the time school inaugurates September fifth.” Despite the buzz from the auditorium, Jake slammed his gavel down. “We're adjourned.”
It was nine-fifty. I was the first one out the door. It was exactly ten o'clock when I called Milo.
“What happened?” he asked in a sleepy voice. “I thought you said you'd be home by nine.”
I explained about the tedious, inconclusive session. “I'd like to choke Ed. He said it was going to be hot stuff. But it was just another Alpine meeting, with the usual insults and long-winded bilge. I get enough of that from the county commissioners and the regular school board.” I paused to catch my breath. “Do you still want to come over?” Despite the closeness between us, the veiled innuendo embarrassed me.
“Well …” Milo paused, and I could hear him lighting a cigarette. “It's kind of late, Emma. You want to drive over to Leavenworth Saturday?”
It was unusual for Milo to think of a more adventuresome date than a couple of drinks, a steak at the Venison Inn, and a roll in the hay afterward. I was surprised.
“It sounds like fun,” I said. “What time?”
“Noon? I'll want to check in at the office Saturday morning. Jack Mullins is on vacation this week.”
Jack was one of Milo's deputies. He was also a fellow parishioner. It occurred to me that I hadn't seen him at the meeting. “Okay, see you tomorrow maybe.”
“ 'Night.” Milo yawned. “Hey—I'm sorry about tonight.” The gruffness in his voice masked what I assumed was genuine emotion.
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br /> “Me, too. I wish I hadn't gone to that stupid meeting. It was a waste of time.”
“Most meetings are.” He paused again. “It's okay. I'm not going anywhere.”
“Neither am I.”
“Right. 'Night.”
We hung up. I smiled down at the receiver. The exchange between us was about as sentimental as Milo and I ever got. But we knew that under the casual conversation, there was real affection. It was as if we spoke in code. We were too mature to need endless verbal reassurance.
Weren't we?
Chapter Two
CARLA'S FRONT-PAGE PHOTO of the community-college construction site was going to look good when the paper finally came out of the back shop. The administration building, the student union, a lecture hall, and a dorm were all beginning to take shape. After much argument, the state had selected a location almost three miles west of town, beyond Ptarmigan Tract and the fish hatchery. There was a rumor that our state legislator, Bob Gunderson, owned the land chosen for the new college. After a lengthy title search, it was discovered that the property belonged to the state. Nor did Gunderson own the nearby land on which he parked his mobile home. In fact, he didn't own the mobile home either, having been “loaned” it by the car dealership he'd worked for on Railroad Avenue. Naturally rumors had spread that Gunderson was a crook, but he managed to turn them to his own advantage, proclaiming that he was one public official who not only didn't own anything, but couldn't be bought.
I held back on writing about the parish meeting. By our next deadline, the vote would be in on expanding the school board. That was the real news. As far as most of Alpine's non-Catholic majority was concerned, St. Mildred's controversies were unimportant. My article would probably run less than two inches and go on page three.
So, as I often do on a quiet Wednesday morning, I cast about for my next editorial. There was talk of turning parts of the Skykomish River into catch-and-release. The environmentalists were all for it, but the fishermen were against it. I didn't much blame them. The concept of reeling in a five-pound steelhead and then letting it go didn't appeal to many anglers. It was hard enough to catch anything these days in Washington's lakes and streams. Of course the scarcity of game fish was the very reason that catch-and-release was being considered.