Alpine Icon

by Mary Daheim

  I was leafing through news releases from the State Department of Fish and Wildlife when Leo Walsh came into my office. It was only ten o'clock, but the temperature had already topped seventy degrees. Sweat stains showed under the arms of Leo's pale yellow summer-weight shirt.

  “I'm guessing we can go thirty-two pages next week,” Leo announced, sitting down across the desk from me. “Safeway and the Grocery Basket both have Labor Day inserts, we've got the back-to-school specials, and I've conned some of the smaller advertisers into taking out two-inchers honoring the local teachers. Then there's the full page sponsored by the Chamber of Commerce for the Labor Day picnic and concert in Old Mill Park.”

  “That's great,” I said with enthusiasm. “You come up with some really good ideas, Leo.”

  If Leo was pleased by my praise, he didn't show it. “That's my job,” he said without inflection. “You got enough editorial to fill it?”

  “I will,” I replied. “Vida's doing a history of Alpine High, Carla is interviewing three new teachers, and we're all working on a where-are-they-now story on former principals, going back to when Alpine had a one-room schoolhouse in its logging camp days.”

  Leo gave a nod. “Sounds good. I suppose half the principals are dead.” The idea seemed to please him in a grim way.

  “Some of them are, of course.” My expression turned uncharacteristically severe. “What would you expect, when the original school opened before World War One?”

  Leo had stood up, running his hands through his graying auburn hair. “I never expect much. That's why I'm rarely disappointed.” He started to turn away, then spoke again. “By the way, Verb Vancich took out a quarter of a page instead of his usual two-by-two. He bought up Buzzy O'Toole's bicycles and is selling them off for half price at Alpine Ski.”

  “I suppose he wants to clear out space before ski season sets in.” I waited for Leo to comment, but he merely walked out of the office. A normally gregarious sort, my ad manager seemed to have grown withdrawn of late. He'd had a drinking problem when he first arrived at The Advocate, but appeared to have it under control. I wondered if he and I should have a talk.

  Putting Leo out of my mind, I mulled over editorial possibilities. With Labor Day coming up, maybe I should write something on the American worker. But despite the college construction, too many Alpiners had no work. I'd already done endless pieces on the lack of jobs. I could compare the contemporary work ethic with that of the past. Glancing through the door, I saw Carla filing her nails. Maybe the work-ethic comparison wasn't a good idea, either. I returned to catch-and-release. At least Milo would applaud my efforts.

  By noon, this week's edition was printed and ready for delivery. After seeing off Kip MacDuff and his pickup from the back entrance to The Advocate, I headed for the Burger Barn. The air smelled dry and dusty, which was unusual in Alpine. But there hadn't been much rain for the last month. The flowers drooped in the planters along Front Street, a thick coat of grime covered many local vehicles, and there were splashes of red gold on the side hills where the vine maples had begun to turn color. As a Pacific Northwest native, I, too, felt dusty and dry and in need of watering. Though some people, especially those from more sun-drenched climes, think me odd, I swear that after more than three weeks without rain, I. can feel my roots begin to wither and my disposition sour.

  Thus, while I found my own company less than amiable, I didn't mind eating alone. Milo was busy, Vida had to go to the mall, Carla and Ginny were off somewhere together, and Leo seemed to be functioning in his own little world. As I waited for my burger basket, I thumbed through the August 23 issue of my professional pride and joy.

  “How can you put out a rag like that?” The gruff voice belonged to Nunzio Lucci.

  Looking up, I assumed he was kidding and grinned. “Hi, Luce. How's the family?”

  To my surprise, Luce seemed a bit jarred by the rhetorical question. But then he ignored it, and shook his grizzled, balding head. “You know, Emma, I expect better from you. When some dumb cluck and his fat wife go to Hawaii for a week, you guys write it up like they flew to the moon. But then comes some real news, and it doesn't even get in the paper. How come?”

  I turned a puzzled face up to Luce. “Like what? Did somebody jump off the bridge over the Sky and I missed it?”

  Without being invited, Luce wedged himself into the opposite side of the booth. “I mean last night, up at St. Mildred's. You were there—I saw you. Now if it had been Vida and her freakin' Presbyterians, it'd probably be on page one.” His brown eyes narrowed and he thrust out his heavy jaw with its hint of stubble.

  “Look, Luce,” I began, ever weary of trying to explain deadlines, “we'd already locked up the paper before the meeting. The story will be in next week's edition.”

  “Right, sure, gimme a break.” Luce folded his arms on the table and leaned forward. “You know what those damned non-Catholic yuppies are up to, don't you? They're tryin' to turn St. Mildred's into a private school.

  Get it? Not a parochial school—a private school. They don't want their precious little brats taught religion, they want 'em to learn Japanese, for God's sake! Look at the old-time parishioners like Polly Patricelli and Annie Jeanne Dupre and Marie Daley—they feel all at sea. Nothing but change, change, change these last thirty years.”

  I waved an impatient hand at Luce and almost knocked my burger basket out of Jessie Lott's grasp. “Okay, okay,” I said, with an apologetic glance for the middle-aged waitress who also happened to attend St. Mildred's. “So which changes in the school bother you most?”

  “What changes?” Jessie's plump face was suddenly anxious. “I've got grandchildren in second and fourth grade.”

  “It's nothing, Jessie,” I said in reassurance.

  “It's a big mess,” Luce declared. “Jessie, bring me turkey on white, with a side of potato salad and some dill pickles and coffee, okay?”

  Jessie, apparently feeling put in her place, wheeled heavily on her rubber-soled shoes and headed back to the kitchen. Luce sat up straight in the booth, squaring his broad shoulders. “What about that school board? Greer Something-or-Other, one of those freakin' yuppies. Buddy Bayard shows up in church when he damn well feels like it. The only real Catholic is Bill Daley, and sometimes I think the main reason he goes is to sell carpets and easy chairs from his store. A real glad-hander, that's our Bill.”

  I was sinking my teeth into my burger and wishing it were Luce's hairy arm. “So you're saying that the school board is already stacked in favor of the less-than-fervent faithful?”

  Luce looked at me as if I were the village idiot, which I was not, because at that moment Crazy Eights Neffel wandered into the Burger Barn playing a ukulele. Crazy Eights may not be an idiot, but he is definitely crazy.

  Jessie Lott and Doc Dewey, who happened to be sitting next to the door, hustled Crazy Eights out of the restaurant before he got through the first few bars of “The Frozen Logger.”

  “Look,” Luce said as Doc Dewey returned to his table and Jessie Lott picked up the coffee carafes, “that Greer yuppie is one of those antireligion types, and if they add those new board members, you can bet they'll be pagan yuppies, too.”

  I frowned at Luce. “Are you saying that's the whole point of this proposal? To weigh the board in favor of the non-Catholics?”

  “You got it.” Luce drummed his thick fingers on the Formica tabletop. “Even if Bayard and Daley keep the faith, the rest of 'em won't. Then where'11 we be?”

  “We've got Veronica Wenzler-Greene as principal,” I pointed out. “She seems like a responsible sort.”

  Luce uttered a contemptuous snort, “Ronnie Wenzler-Greene's no Sister Mary Rose,” he declared, referring to the nun with the iron fist in the iron glove who had run the school for twenty-odd years before her retirement shortly after my arrival in Alpine. “For one thing, Ronnie's divorced. Now, that's not like it used to be with Catholics, but besides that, she strikes me as the kind who likes … what do they call them?
Innovations.”

  I had to admit I didn't know Ronnie Wenzler-Greene very well. I didn't really know that much about the school, never having had a child enrolled there. I was beginning to think I didn't know much about my own parish.

  “Okay, Luce,” I said between french-fry nibbles. “If the vote this weekend favors expanding the school board, we'll run that in the paper, along with the candidates who've declared themselves. What's the deadline for getting on the ballot?”

  Luce didn't know. If it had come up at last night's meeting, I'd been wool-gathering. I'd have to call Father Den or Principal Ronnie.

  Luce had now shifted gears, and was grousing about the environmentalists. Naturally Greer Fairfax's name came up again. So did that of her husband, Grant. But Luce refused to call them by their last name. Instead he favored designating them as “Tree-hugging SOBs.”

  I finished lunch before Luce did, so I left him with promises to watch the developing church story more closely. Since the papers were only now being delivered to individual homes, I had some spare time before the usual irate phone calls started coming in. Now that we had the back shop up and running, I needed to check our insurance. When I called Brendan Shaw earlier in the day, he'd assured me that I could drop in at the Sigurdson-Shaw agency any time between twelve and one. Brendan had brought his lunch.

  Over sixty years ago a bucker named Harry Sigurdson had been seriously injured in the woods. Rather than leave Alpine to find work in a larger town, he had hit upon the scheme of selling a form of workers' compensation to his former fellow loggers. Eventually he sold life and home owner's and car insurance. When he finally died three years ago at the age of ninety-six, he had still not officially retired. But his son-in-law, Cornelius Shaw, had been allowed into the business upon his marriage to Helen Jane Sigurdson shortly after World War II. According to Vida, neither the marital nor the business merger had been entered into without conflict. Cornelius Shaw was a Catholic, Harry Sigurdson was a Lutheran, and fifty years ago such a so-called mixed marriage between members of different faiths wasn't looked upon with favor. But Harry had no sons, and eventually he relented. Vida, however, intimated that the main reason Harry continued working into his dotage was because he never quite trusted his son-in-law. The Irish, the old man insisted, were lazy and inclined to dissipation.

  But Cornelius had been diligent, and now was in semi-retirement, spending almost half the year with Helen Jane in Palm Desert. Their son, Brendan, who is in his late forties, now runs the business. He is a man of medium size, medium coloring, and startling blue eyes. His handshake is a shade too firm, his laughter a trifle too hearty. Brendan makes much of how hard he works, as if still feeling a need to give the lie to his grandfather's allegations about the Irish.

  Sigurdson-Shaw Insurance is located on the first floor of the Alpine Building, directly across the street from The Advocate. Ironically I rarely cross paths with Brendan Shaw. Our work schedules must be very different. It was only when I saw Brendan at the parish-council meeting that I remembered to call him about our coverage.

  The agency is composed of a small reception area, Brendan's inner office, and a cubicle that's used by the salesmen he sometimes hires part-time. The current receptionist-secretary-assistant is Patsy Shaw, Brendan's wife. She is a ruddy blonde with a comfortable plump air about her that befits the mother of four sons. Idly I wondered if any of them was interested in carrying on the family business.

  “Brendan's tied up for a few minutes/' Patsy informed me in her friendly, open manner. She leaned forward and lowered her voice. “Mrs. Gotrocks is in there with him. Let's hope she's buying a couple of million-dollar policies. Except for some of the construction workers on the college, business has been sl-o-o-o-w. As usual.”

  I was puzzled. “Mrs. Gotrocks?”

  Patsy nodded, her tightly permed blonde curls dancing. “You know—Ursula O'Toole.” Patsy made a face. “I mean Ursula Randall. Soon to be Wells. I was two years ahead of her in school. You know, she was kind of a snip even then. Which is strange, because the O'Tooles were just plain folks. Mr. O'Toole had a comer grocery store in those days, where Itsa Bitsa Pizza is now. But I always thought that Mr. O'Toole was one of those fathers who doted on his daughter. You know—the Little Princess syndrome.”

  I did know; I'd seen it among my own peers. Sons were taken for granted, expected to be strong and brave and hardworking. The daughter—there was always only one—was protected, pampered, and put on a pedestal.

  “So how did Ursula end up marrying a doctor?” I asked. Vida hadn't seen fit to go into Ursula's marital history.

  “She got married right out of high school to a kid from Index who'd already joined the army. Six months later, he was killed in Vietnam. Ursula wanted to get away, so she left Alpine. I think it wasn't grief so much as it was her feeling that she was entitled to Bigger Things.” Patsy sniffed in disapproval. “Ursula got a job at some big hospital in Seattle and met her first husband while he was an intern.”

  “I wonder why she came back,” I remarked, keeping an eye on the closed door to Brendan's office.

  Patsy shrugged. “Maybe she got tired of being a big frog in a big puddle. In Alpine, she can be a huge frog in a tiny puddle. And I gather that Warren wants to—”

  The sharp signal I made with one hand silenced Patsy. Ursula Randall was backing out of Brendan's office, bidding him a gracious adieu. When she saw me, her thin face with its high cheekbones grew perplexed. I sensed that she was trying to recall the rock under which she'd last seen me crawling.

  “Hi, Ursula,” I said in my most cheerful voice. “Emma Lord, The Alpine Advocate. We met a couple of weeks ago after the ten o'clock Mass.”

  Ursula assumed a rueful expression. “Of course! Weak coffee and … some sort of stale confectionery.” She laughed, that husky, gleeful sound that would have been more appropriate for jumping on bugs. “Tell me, dear, when are they going to run the article Mrs. Rumplemeyer wrote?”

  “Runkel,” I said with emphasis, not daring to look at Patsy, who was trying to stifle a giggle behind her hand. I was certain that she, too, knew perfectly well that Ursula hadn't forgotten Vida's last name. No one ever forgot Vida. “It's in today's edition,” I went on. “You'll probably have it in your box when you get home.”

  “How nice.” Ursula lifted a hand in apparent salute. “I do hope the pictures are flattering. I'm afraid I'm the most unphotogenic person on earth!” With that declaration, Ursula Randall departed the insurance agency just as Verb Vancich came in.

  “Hi, Verb,” Patsy said in greeting, then noted the harried expression on the newcomer's face. “What's up? Don't tell me the ski shop caught fire! I didn't hear any sirens.”

  Verb acknowledged me with a tremor that passed for a smile. “Maybe that'd be the best thing that could happen,” he said, then rubbed at his high, slightly protruding forehead. “Some creep stole six of those bikes I got from Buzzy O'Toole. I need to put in a claim.”

  Patsy immediately turned sympathetic. “That's terrible, Verb. Kids, I suppose.” She rummaged in a file cabinet behind her desk and pulled out a form. “Have you called the sheriff?”

  Verb nodded. “I stopped in there before I came here. I saw Bill Blatt. Dodge was at the courthouse.”

  Alpine Ski was located next to the cobbler shop, across Front Street from the sheriff's headquarters. Verb took the claim form from Patsy, who indicated that he might be more comfortable filling it out at the desk in the cubicle. Then she ushered me into her husband's inner office.

  Brendan was just hanging up the phone when I sat down in the high-backed armchair that looked as if it had once belonged to a dining room set. We made brief, idle conversation for about a minute before getting down to business. The result wasn't as bad as I'd feared. The increase in my annual premium would come to only around three hundred dollars.

  “It's going okay for you?” Brendan inquired, now sitting back in his swivel chair and clasping his hands on top of his head.


  “I think so,” I said. “It's hard to predict. As time goes on, more and more businesses will do their own desktop publishing. But right now not too many Alpiners are equipped for that.”

  In his usual careful manner, Brendan seemed to consider my words. “You do a lot of nickel-and-dime stuff, I suppose.”

  “Right. Flyers, posters, that sort of thing. But it adds up. Father Den thinks maybe we can do the school yearbook next spring. I'll have to give him a reminder come January.”

  Brendan gazed at me with his brilliant blue eyes. “I'd guess the principal makes those decisions, not Den. Maybe you'd better check with the parish secretary first to make sure our pastor hasn't made a promise he can't keep.”

  It appeared that the division of responsibility was more clearly marked than I realized. “Who is the secretary?” I asked, once again struck by my lack of familiarity with inner parish circles.

  “Monica Vancich,” Brendan replied. “She took on the job this summer after Marie Daley had that stroke. Have you heard how Marie's doing?”

  Marie Daley was a widow who had worked at St. Mildred's for at least twenty years. I knew her by sight, but that was all. I was much better acquainted with Marie's brother-in-law, Bill, who occasionally came into the office to confer with Leo about advertising for his homefurnishings store. I was surprised, however, that Monica Vancich had assumed Marie's responsibilities.

  “How does Monica find time to run a home, raise three kids, and handle the religious-education program?” No wonder she had seemed somewhat rattled at last night's meeting.

  Brendan merely grinned, revealing very white teeth with tiny spaces in between. “Beats me. Patsy's so worn-out every night that she goes to bed by nine-thirty. I'd fire her so she could get some rest, but I can't afford to right now. I'd actually have to pay a real secretary.” Brendan chuckled. “Besides, my wife's darned good. She's spoiled me for anybody else.”