by Mary Daheim
It was well after one o'clock, so I made my farewells and returned to The Advocate. Judging from Vida's grim expression, we'd already started receiving calls from outraged readers.
“I am not anti-Catholic,” she declared, whipping off her glasses. “You people are very queer in many ways, but that's your business. How dare these papists criticize what I wrote about Ursula O'Toole Randall?”
I managed to find just enough space on Vida's desk to plant half of my backside. “Who? How?”
Vida threw up her hands. “Betsy O'Toole. Kathryn Daley. Buddy Bayard, of all people! To think of the business we give him every month, doing our photo work! And four anonymous. One of them was Annie Jeanne Dupre. Another was Sister Clare. Or is it Sister Mary Joan? Even when they don't wear habits, nuns still look alike.”
Given that Sister Clare was short, dark, and dumpy, and Sister Mary Joan was a tall, beanpole blonde, I doubted Vida's confusion. But as usual, there was no point in arguing with my House & Home editor.
“What's the complaint?” I inquired.
Vida tossed her head, which caused the silk pillbox she was wearing to lose its grip and skid down over one ear.
“That I—not that ridiculous Ursula—made Catholics sound pompous and superior. That Catholics think they have a direct line to God. That everybody else in Alpine is a lazy, worthless failure. If you ask me, Ursula's trying to stir up trouble.” Vida righted the pillbox and narrowed her eyes. “Given the mood of this town, she's going to get in much deeper than she expects.”
Even Vida couldn't guess how close she'd come to the truth.
Chapter Three
FATHER DEN'S DISTRESS call came through shortly after three o'clock. He was absolutely mortified by Ursula's comments.
“I'm tempted to write a letter to the paper,” he said, “but I don't feel it would be appropriate. Are you getting much adverse reaction or am I being paranoid?”
I confessed that we now had heard from at least two dozen people—Catholic, Protestant, Jew, agnostic, and atheist. Ursula had struck a chord, and it definitely wasn't harmonious.
“I could talk about it in my homily this weekend,” Father Den said in a dubious voice. “But only our parishioners would hear it.”
“What about making a statement at the regular parish-council meeting?” I offered. “Then I could report it in the paper.”
“We don't meet for almost two weeks,” Father Den pointed out. “That's too late.”
I cudgeled my brain for another way. “How about an interview with Ronnie Wenzler-Greene? It's a natural with the possibility of school-board expansion. Carla's already doing an overview of the coming year, but I could write up Ronnie's comments on the board. I'll call her this afternoon.”
“Good.” I heard Father Den's relief roll over the phone line. “One thing, though.”
“What?”
“Don't get Ronnie started on … how can I put it? Her educational philosophy. No,” he quickly contradicted himself, “that's not right. Forget what I said. Let her talk about whatever she wants.”
I was frowning into the phone. “Is there something touchy that I don't know about?”
Father Den sighed. “Everything's touchy these days. Everything has to be politically correct. Whatever happened to right and wrong?” His laugh sounded bitter. “I think I need a vacation.”
“Take one. Ben's going to be here for almost a week. He can stand in for you.”
“Really?” Father Den brightened. “You know, I might take you up on that. My mother isn't well and I should spend some time with her in Tacoma. When will Ben get here?”
“Friday, the first,” I replied. “He plans to leave the sixth.”
Father Den said he'd think about it. We rang off and I immediately called Veronica Wenzler-Greene at home. The phone rang seven times before she answered it in a breathless voice.
“I was just coming in the door,” she said, “and I guess I forgot to turn on the machine. How are you, Emma?”
I knew Ronnie only slightly. It was dawning on me that I knew most of my fellow Catholics either slightly or not at all. If they didn't advertise in The Advocate or provide a news source, they scarcely existed.
Explaining the reason for my call, I set up an appointment with Ronnie for Monday afternoon at one. It would be better for her if we met at the school. She was knee-deep in preparations.
She was also a little wary. “I thought you already had a story about the new fourth-grade teacher. And didn't Carla call last week about an overview?”
“It's this school-board expansion,” I said by way of clarification. Or maybe it was really obfuscation. “If that gets approved, then it's going to be a fairly big story. Even if it doesn't, we … urn … will be covering that, too.”
“Oh, it'll get approved,” Ronnie asserted. “It's absurd to have only three members. We've got a hundred and forty-six pupils enrolled this fall. We're reaching out all over Skykomish County.”
I withheld comment. “I'll see you Monday. Bye, Ronnie.”
The rest of the afternoon didn't do much to lift my spirits. To break the monotony of listening to scandalized readers, I phoned Verb Vancich and asked for details on his theft. Three ten-speeds and three mountain bikes had been lifted from the rear of the store some time between six P.M. and nine A.M. Yes, they were all locked onto a rack, but the thief or thieves had sawed through the metal. Yes, Verb knew he should have put them inside, but the store was already crowded, and since his ad was coming out in today's Advocate, he intended to display them out front on the sidewalk. No, he had no idea who had taken them, but if he ever caught the little bastards, he'd teach them a thing or two.
“Kids?” I asked on the basis of his implication.
“Who else? It's late August, they're all bored.” Verb's exasperation was palpable. “By this time of year they're tired of hiking and fishing and skinny-dipping. What do you expect when there aren't any part-time jobs around here for young people? Or enough real jobs for anybody? I bet they'll take those bikes to Everett and sell them off for half of what I paid Buzzy O'Toole.”
Verb was probably right. Everett was fifty miles away, but big enough to provide anonymity. “Speaking of Buzzy, did you see his sister coming out of Sigurdson-Shaw?” I inquired, changing the subject to prevent Verb from casting further aspersions on Alpine's errant youth and depressed economy.
There was a pause at the other end. “Ursula? I saw her. Why?” Verb suddenly sounded on guard.
“She's making quite an impression around here with her money and her mouth. Of course, if she spends what she's got in Alpine, that's all to the good,” I allowed, aware that I was sounding like a common gossip. “Patsy Shaw thinks great things might be in store for Brendan and the agency.”
“Like how?” Verb was now downright suspicious.
“I'm babbling,” I said with a lame little laugh. “I guess what I'm saying is that anytime anybody who isn't flat-out broke moves to town, we ought to roll out the red carpet. Alpiners tend to react instead of act. If local entrepreneurs want to capitalize on newcomers, they need to be more aggressive. There are plenty of new businesses opening up farther down Highway 2, especially in Monroe. You have to seize the moment. The window of opportunity can be very narrow.” I felt as if I was still babbling, parroting a talk I'd given at the Chamber of Commerce last May. Verb hadn't been in attendance, but the members who were had acted as if they hadn't heard my speech, either. “Do you see what I mean?” Even as I renewed my vow never again to give a formal talk at the Chamber, I sounded as if I were pleading with Verb.
“Maybe.” His voice had dropped a notch.
“I'll get off my soapbox now,” I said with a phony little laugh. “I shouldn't bend your ear, Verb, but my own business lives and dies with the local economy. This was a fairly good week in terms of advertising. Have you seen the paper yet?”
“No,” he replied in a glum voice. “I don't want to— that big ad I paid for is worthless. A third of my in
ventory is gone.”
“I'm sorry about that, Verb.” The only thing I knew about bikes was that five years ago Adam's Klein had set me back nine hundred bucks. The bike was gone, too, after my son had left it unattended on the University of Hawaii campus. “Maybe we'll have a hard winter and you can make up the difference during ski season.”
“Yeah, I'll get rich.” Verb was all but sneering. “Sometimes I wonder why Monica and I stay in Alpine. Seattle may have crime, but it's got jobs.”
I refrained from saying that Seattle probably didn't need another ski shop. Maybe Verb wanted to get out of the winter-sports business. He and Monica had moved to Alpine soon after the birth of their second child. They, like many expatriates from the big city, had an unrealistic view of small-town living.
After I hung up, I considered Ursula Randall's reasons for moving back to her hometown. Vida hadn't made Ursula's motives clear in her article. I wandered out into the editorial office, but found only Leo, who had his ear glued to the receiver and was drawing circles on a notepad. He didn't look up.
The phones had started ringing again. It was after four-thirty. Feeling the need to escape, I left the office and walked the two blocks to Francine's Fine Apparel.
“Aha!” Francine cried when I entered the shop. “You've read your own ads! You know the fall line is in. Come on, Emma, when was the last time you did something for yourself?”
“I'm not here to buy,” I asserted, though my eyes were straying to a couple of items tastefully displayed along one wall. “I'm suffering from unsatisfied curiosity. Can you explain Ursula Randall?”
I cannot think why it didn't occur to me that this wasn't a tactful question to put to Francine Wells. Maybe it's because she's usually such an open, candid sort of person. Maybe it's because she and I have never really discussed her failed marriage. Maybe it's because I'm an idiot.
In any event, Francine bristled and her eyes grew hard and cold. “How do you explain Satan?” she snapped.
My clumsy brain tried to work its way through Francine's marital tribulations. Many years ago Warren Wells had left her for another woman, or so I'd heard. But that woman couldn't have been Ursula O'Toole Randall. There had been a second wife, the alleged temptress. Either she had died or divorced. It was only recently that Ursula and Warren had become a twosome.
“Are you referring to Vida's article?” I inquired apprehensively.
Francine gave a flip of her newly acquired champagne-tinted locks. “God, no! That was typical of the bitch. Pardon me, but she's a real piece of work. She always was. Ask anybody around here who knew her when she was growing up.” Francine's expression altered as Marisa Foxx, a local attorney and also a member of St. Mildred's, came into the shop. “Later,” Francine said under her breath. “Power suits, Marisa? A dress for client dinners? How about something to sway a jury? And where did you get that smart-looking jacket? It wasn't here—I don't carry Max Mara, though I should. You look terrific!”
I wandered around the store while Francine seduced Marisa. Again, I knew my fellow parishioner only by sight. She was in her thirties, tall, slim, and, as certain sniping locals were inclined to point out, somewhat mannish. We nodded pleasantly. Then I tried to disappear in the sale rack at the rear of the shop.
After about five minutes Marisa went into one of the two fitting rooms with a couple of suits, several pairs of slacks, and a blazer. Francine led me toward the front, where Marisa couldn't hear.
“Sour grapes, right?” said Francine, then shook her head. “It's not that—it's that Ursula has lousy timing. We've got big problems up at church, and guess who shows up? The curse of the archdiocese, Ursula Randall, that's who. I talk to people in Seattle, they know all about her. She's done nothing but meddle and stir up trouble. It's all money. Dr. Randall was a hotshot surgeon who raked it in, then conveniently died of a massive heart attack in his mid-fifties. He and Ursula were big contributors to the Church. From what I hear, they could have had kitchen privileges at the Vatican.”
My lower-middle-class background hadn't given me much experience with wealthy people. My first encounter with the well heeled had come as a freshman at Blanchet High School in Seattle. Most of those teenage scions had regarded me as if I were a contagious disease. The richest person I had ever known was Tom Cavanaugh's wife, Sandra. If her mental derangement was an example of what money could do, I considered myself lucky to be borderline broke.
“So why did Ursula move here?” I inquired, keeping one eye on the fitting room, lest Marisa emerge and find us gossiping like common scolds.
“Good question,” Francine replied with a smirk. “Why did you leave Portland, Emma?”
I bridled a bit. Francine knew the answer, which was fairly simple: My ex-fiance of twenty years earlier had neglected to remove my name from his Boeing insurance policy. When he had died unexpectedly, I came into two hundred thousand dollars. After recovering from shock—and trying to recall exactly what my onetime future husband had looked like—I quit my job as a reporter on The Oregonian and used the money to buy The Alpine Advocate from Marius Vandeventer. I'd also purchased my dream car, the then secondhand, now aging green Jaguar XJ6.
“I wanted a fresh start,” I responded. “The timing was good. Adam was about to start college.”
Francine nodded, a trifle impatiently. “Yes, new beginnings. But not on top of old ones.”
“You mean because Ursula originally came from Alpine?”
“That's right,” Francine said as Marisa came out of the fitting room. “You weren't retreating. Ursula is.” With a big smile for Marisa, she stepped gracefully around me. “Well? How much of it works for you?”
Most of it, I gathered, and sensed it was my cue to depart. But Francine wasn't quite finished with me.
“Emma! Come back tomorrow. There's an Ellen Tracy suit in the back that'd make you look like the cover of Vogue. It just came today via UPS. Oh, by the way—
Alicia's visiting this weekend. You must come to dinner.”
Alicia was Francine and Warren's daughter. She was married to a TV producer and lived in New York. I'd met her once or twice when she'd accompanied her mother to church on previous visits. It had struck me that Alicia had inherited none of her mother's charm and all of her artifice. But maybe I was wrong. I'm not always perceptive when it comes to first impressions.
When I reached the office it was a couple of minutes after five. Everyone but Ginny Burmeister Erlandson had gone home, and she was gathering up her belongings when I picked up the last phone messages of the day.
“Lots of cranks, huh, Ginny?” I commented, riffling through the half-dozen calls that had accumulated in my half-hour absence.
Ginny turned her plain but intelligent face to me. “What is this with Catholics?” she asked, looking and sounding weary. “Why do you—they—cause such a stir?”
I felt myself blink. “Do they? Do we?” I smiled to let Ginny know I hadn't taken her slip of the tongue personally.
Ginny sighed. “I don't know—maybe it's because I'm Lutheran, and most people in Alpine are. Most people who go to church, that is. But who gets excited about what Lutherans do? Or Methodists or Congregationalists or anybody else? But Catholics always seem to get the attention. Is it because of the pope?”
While the query wasn't without merit, I didn't know how to answer Ginny. “We're more international,” I said vaguely. “Because we do have a pope in Rome, outsiders regard Catholics with suspicion. It's dumb, of course, but it's traditional. Maybe we seem kind of mysterious. We're not.”
Ginny gave a toss of her glorious red hair. “I know that. I mean you're not mysterious and the Bayards aren't, and neither is Mr. or Mrs. Bronsky.” She paused, gazing into the editorial office. “Is Mr. Walsh a Catholic?”
I nodded. “He's what we call fallen away. It means he doesn't go to church.”
“Fallen away.” Ginny seemed to savor the phrase. “See—that's what I mean. You have all these weird …” She fingered her chin,
then suddenly stiffened as the color drained from her face. “Oh! Excuse me!” Ginny raced off, heading for the rest rooms directly behind the front office.
I smiled to myself. Ginny and Rick Erlandson had gotten married in February. While there had not yet been an official announcement, this was the third time in as many days that Ginny had made a precipitate exit from the office. If my guess was right, our office manager would be taking maternity leave sometime in March. I hoped she would decide to return to work, though I wouldn't blame her if she wanted to be a full-time mother. I'd never had that option.
There was hardly any breeze that evening, and the air felt heavy. A few clouds had rolled in over Mount Baldy, but rain wasn't in the forecast. When I arrived home, my little house felt stifling. I opened both doors and three windows before checking the mail and the answering machine. I could have waited longer: the delivery contained nothing but junk, and once again, there were no telephone messages. Annoyed, I sat down to call my son in Tuba City.
Ben's crackling voice was recorded, a familiar and somewhat involved message in English, Spanish, and Navajo. As my disappointment mounted I started to call Milo. Halfway through his home number, I hung up. My perverse nature dictated that Milo should call me. Emotionally I was behaving as if I were fifteen; physically I felt about ninety. My cotton shirt was sticking to my back. My scalp itched. My feet felt as if they were a size too large for my skimpy sandals. I needed to hear from Adam. I needed to talk to Ben. I needed Milo.
I needed rain.
The rest of the week played out under a relentless sun and the pressure of deadline for the Labor Day special edition. I'd finally reached Ben and Adam late Friday night. My brother was looking forward to visiting me; my son was irritatingly vague. Maybe he'd come standby. Maybe he'd stay in Tuba City. Maybe he was a rotten kid.