Alpine Icon

by Mary Daheim

  “No.” Vida replaced her glasses, removed her magenta beret, and ran agitated hands through her gray curls. “That's the point. The article begins, There was no news on the community-college scene this week.' And then she spends five hundred words telling why not.”

  It probably had been a mistake to assign the college coverage to Carla. But most of the journalistic value was visual at this point, and I did have faith in my reporter's competence with a camera.

  “I'll kill it unless we're desperate to fill the paper,” I said. “But you have to admit, Carla's done a good job with the back shop. She understands computers.”

  “Pooh!” Vida wasn't yet ready to admit that computers existed. “Maybe that's what she should be doing instead of pretending she's a reporter. Carla has no sense of news. Such a waste of time, writing about things that haven't happened! I wouldn't put a nonitem like that in 'Scene Around Town.' What have you got for me this week? 'Scene' is very dull—again.”

  Everyone on the staff was responsible for helping Vida fill her gossip column. Off the top of my head, I couldn't think of anything interesting. “I'm going to interview the principal at St. Mildred's this afternoon,” I said. “I'm sure I'll pick up a couple of things there, like how they're decorating for back to school.”

  Vida didn't appear mollified. “You aren't exactly on top of what's going on there, Emma. I can't believe you waited until just now to find out about the school-board vote.”

  “They had to count the ballots,” I explained. “It was up to the parish secretary, Monica Vancich. She doesn't come in until ten o'clock on Mondays.”

  “Monica?” Vida frowned. “I thought she taught Sunday school.”

  I started to pour a cup of coffee but discovered that the pot was empty. It was unlike Ginny to neglect our caffeine lifeline. “Monica is in charge of religious education,” I clarified, “which includes Sunday school.”

  “Indeed!” With an incisive gesture, Vida ripped a half sheet of copy paper out of her manual typewriter. “How can Monica find time to handle all that and run your church?”

  “She doesn't,” I said calmly. “Father Den does.” I inched toward the door. “I've got to eat before I interview Ronnie Wenzler-Greene. I should be back around two-thirty.” With a feeble smile, I backed out and ran smack into Leo Walsh.

  My ad manager put out a hand to steady me, then pulled away as if he'd been singed. “Sorry,” he muttered, and edged on by.

  I couldn't help but stare. Vida did, too, though sensing the awkward movement, she spoke up: “Jean Campbell is the secretary at our church, and very efficient she is. I don't know what Pastor Purebeck would do without her. Of course she's been there longer than he has.”

  Jean Cooper Campbell was a native; James Purebeck wasn't. What little confidence Vida had in anyone else was always assessed in a direct ratio to the length of time they'd spent in Alpine.

  But the diversion didn't quite turn the trick for me: I marched over to Leo's desk and forced casual charm into my voice. “I'm getting something to eat, Leo. Come with me. We need to talk. About the Labor Day edition.”

  Leo's sad brown eyes told me he knew I was lying. Without expression, he flipped a pencil into an open drawer and stood up. “Okay. I can spare twenty minutes.”

  The Venison Eat Inn and Take Out was in the next block. At twelve-thirty the restaurant was packed with locals and tourists. With some misgivings, I agreed to sit in the bar. While Leo seemed to look longingly at the rows of bottles, he ordered only coffee.

  “What's bothering you, Leo?” I demanded after the owner and bartender, Oren Rhodes, had taken my order for fish and chips. “You don't seem like yourself lately.”

  Leo made as if to pull out his wallet. “That's funny. I could have sworn I had my ID with me. That'd prove who I am.”

  “It's not funny,” I retorted. “It's tough working with someone who goes around like the Grim Reaper.”

  “Really?” Leo's weathered face showed a trace of amusement. “I thought your previous ad manager always acted like that until he got rich.”

  “Touche.” While working at The Advocate, Ed Bronsky had been the eternal pessimist, a pall of gloom in a baggy raincoat. But even when Leo was still drinking, he'd been cheerful. When he began to curb his alcohol intake, he remained chipper if cynical. “You're not Ed. I know that, even if you don't show me your ID. Are you upset about something?”

  The question sounded fatuous in my own ears. The fifty-odd years that showed in Leo's face revealed many upsets, along with disappointments, dead ends, and lost causes. Mediocre jobs, a broken marriage, rifts with children, and an uprooting from California to Alpine hadn't seemed to improve Leo's outlook on life. Indeed, it had brought him here, now, drinking black coffee in the darkened bar of a second-class restaurant in a third-rate logging town. I didn't find much consolation in the fact that I was there, too.

  “Well,” Leo finally said after lighting a cigarette, “it's not the weather. It's been nice. No rain.”

  That piece of news hardly cheered me. But I was trying to see things through Leo's eyes, which is always futile. “So what is it?”

  A brief roar of guffaws and curses erupted from the bar where a half-dozen loggers commiserated among themselves. I glanced up briefly. It occurred to me that the men who occupied the stools were always the same, or at least interchangeable: burly, belligerent, dejected, discouraged—they sat on heavy haunches with their scuffed work shoes planted on the floor as if they were afraid somebody might pull the shabby carpeting out from under them. Of course in a larger sense, somebody already had.

  Leo's brown eyes finally met mine and held. “Look, babe,” he began, resurrecting the annoying nickname I realized I hadn't heard in quite a while, “let's say I'm going through kind of a bad patch and let it go at that. I'll snap out of it. I always do. That's one thing about Leo Fulton Walsh—he lands on his feet—even if the rest of him is in the crapper.”

  I let out a small, exasperated sigh. “I'm probably going to be able to give you a raise before the year is out.” When at a loss, editor-publisher Lord can fall back on mundane matters such as money.

  Leo shook his head. “I'm doing okay. Wait till you see how this back-shop thing goes. Stop worrying that pretty head of yours. It's not your problem.”

  I opened my mouth to ask the next obvious question, but Leo stopped me. “It's not Delphine Corson, either. We've kind of cooled it, but that's no big deal.”

  Leo's romance with the blonde, buxom owner of Posies Unlimited had been an ongoing affair almost since his arrival in Alpine two years earlier. His ex-wife was remarried, and the initial acrimony seemed to have diminished. As for his three grown children, Leo actually had entertained two of them in the late spring. It seemed that in some ways, the big rips in his life had begun to mend.

  But of course I couldn't read Leo's mind or peer into his soul. “Okay,” I said as Oren delivered my lunch order, “I'll back off. I was afraid I'd said or done something to make you mad. This weather makes me cross.”

  Leo laughed, a strident and, of late, an unfamiliar sound. “Hell, Emma, isn't it time you got over all that Catholic guilt shit?”

  “I don't do guilt,” I snapped. “I don't even understand it. That's what confession's for. Guilt stinks.”

  Leo gave a disbelieving shrug. “If you say so. Hey, I've got to get back to work. All things considered, we're pretty fat for this issue. If not a raise, maybe a Christmas bonus?” He had stood up and made as if to cuff my shoulder, but his hand fell away. “See you, babe.”

  I ate hurriedly, which is an occupational hazard. I felt just a little furtive, sitting alone in the Venison Inn's bar at midday. Like most of Alpine's buildings, the place wasn't air-conditioned, but it was much cooler than outside. Still, I resisted the urge to linger over a second Pepsi. Without food to accompany the beverage, I might be tempted to buy a pack of cigarettes from the machine next to the rest rooms.

  I arrived at St. Mildred's Parochial School
just before one-thirty. The main doors were locked, but the office was open. The school secretary's desk was vacant, but before I could wander out into the hall, Veronica Wenzler-Greene called to me from what I presumed was the supply room.

  “I'm checking the new textbooks,” said Principal Ronnie, brushing dust from her beige blouse. “We're introducing a new math curriculum for fourth through eighth grade this year. It's very exciting.”

  “Wonderful,” I said, trying to exude enthusiasm. In my opinion, math was about as exciting as grout buildup. “Carla's including that in her back-to-school story, I imagine?”

  Ronnie nodded with a jerky motion as she led me into her office. She was a tall, sharp-featured woman in her early forties whose sandy hair was cut close to her head. Her mother had been a housekeeper; her father, a mill-worker. Ronnie's ex-husband, Gerry Greene, was a network technician for US West. The hyphenated name, according to Vida, was the result of a scholarship to Loyola Marymount in Los Angeles. Apparently, the Jesuits had taught Ronnie to think for herself—or like a Jesuit, which may or may not have been the same thing. I wondered why she hadn't lopped off the Greene after lopping off Gerry, but perhaps she thought the hyphen added importance.

  “Carla should have most of our plans for the coming year,” Ronnie said, sitting down behind her orderly desk and offering me one of two molded plastic chairs which I assumed had withstood the depressed forms of various sets of anxious parents. “I honestly don't see what more I can tell you.”

  My gaze darted around the room, which was decorated with cutouts of autumn leaves, photographs of previous graduating classes, Ronnie's framed doctorate from Washington State University, a picture of her with the current archbishop, a crucifix, and a statue of Our Lady of Mount Carmel.

  “I'm interested in the school-board vote,” I said. “I understand the need to add members because three isn't really representative.” Noting Ronnie's quizzical expression, I went on quickly. “That is, with a hundred and forty-some children enrolled, you'll have a better cross section with five members, right?”

  Ronnie nodded sagely. “That's our hope. It should have been changed years ago. I've been lobbying the parish council ever since I became principal. Having been away from Alpine for so long, I'd forgotten how hidebound people can be in small towns. Luckily we have some new blood, and there will be more when the community-college faculty is in place. I hear they're about to appoint a president.”

  That was more than I'd heard. Silently I cursed Carla. If the rumor had reached her, she hadn't confided in me. Feigning knowledge, I moved on to the matter at hand. “What do you hope to accomplish with the additional membership?”

  Ronnie rolled to one side and then the other in her padded swivel chair. “Excellence, of course. Education for the twenty-first century. Graduates who can compete on the highest level for college scholarships. A love of learning that will sustain our students throughout their lives.”

  In other words, by eighth grade, they'll stop wetting their pants, I thought to myself. As the mother of a fourth- or fifth- or whatever-year college student Adam might be by now, I had no illusions. “Immediate goals?” I queried, trying desperately to look interested.

  “Well.” Ronnie placed a long, thin hand against her high forehead. “The curriculum, of course. We're already addressing math. But science is a priority. And computer technology. The equipment we have now is obsolete. The school got it through one of the timber companies before I arrived. It's strictly Dark Ages, not at all what our students need to get a sense of the real world. My dream is to hire someone who can write grant proposals. Greer Fairfax has volunteered, but…” The thin hands sketched an arc.

  “Math, science …” I ticked off on my own ordinary fingers. “What about history, geography, English, and … religion?”

  “History.” Ronnie seemed amused by the concept. “My feeling as an educator is that cultures are far more important. Geography—if you want to use that outmoded term—is factored into ethnicity. English is important, of course, but traditional reading and writing teaching methods are—to be frank—worthless. Again, I feel that we can give students a richer understanding of the world around them through books and writing assignments that are of a more global nature.”

  In my head, I tried to translate the principal's rationale. Instead of Dick and Jane and Sally, it sounded as if first graders were going to get a dose of M'Bawa and Abdul and Yu Ling. Maybe that wasn't all bad. “But what about religion?” I persisted.

  The patronizing smile that Ronnie bestowed on me would have rankled a more sensitive soul. “Social issues, that's the wave of the future. What is religion, but the cornerstone of organized interpersonal behavior and relationships?”

  I was dumbfounded. “I thought it was more … spiritual,” I said, unable to keep from glancing at Our Lady of Mount Carmel. The plaster statue looked ticked off, but no doubt I was letting my imagination get the best of me.

  I felt myself shrinking in the plastic chair, getting smaller and more insignificant by the moment. No doubt countless parents sitting in my place had felt the same way. “What about preparing them for the sacraments?” I tried not to cringe as I awaited the principal's response.

  But Ronnie surprised me. “Absolutely,” she asserted. “First penance and the Eucharist are still important.” She continued speaking, apparently oblivious to my expression of qualified relief. “They symbolize the Church's involvement in humanity.”

  They symbolized a lot more to me, but perhaps this wasn't the time to say so. Somewhere along the line, my original intention of letting Ronnie offset Ursula Randall's abrasive remarks had been lost in a sea of educational hyperbole. Desperately I tried to salvage something from the interview.

  “Are you saying that Catholics should work with the rest of the community?” The question sounded half-assed at best.

  Again, Ronnie nodded in that sage manner that was beginning to annoy me. “Definitely. We need to teach our children so that they lose a sense of self without losing self-esteem. It's tricky, of course. But statistically, Catholic-educated students are going to become America's leaders. The public schools are finished. It won't be long before they can't produce pupils who can survive higher education. The graduate programs in particular will be filled with privately taught students. Obviously most of them will be the products of Catholic schools. Everyone else will— alas—fall by the wayside.”

  “So,” I said in a faint voice, “you expect from the expanded school board … what?”

  “To uphold our mission statement,” Ronnie replied without hesitation. “Actually I'm drafting a new one. It should be ready by the time the votes are in on the new members.”

  “And what is the gist of it?” The small office had grown very warm. If Our Lady of Mount Carmel wasn't breaking a sweat, I certainly was.

  “Basically the goals I've already outlined.” Ronnie picked up a ballpoint pen and tapped at the blotter on her desk. “However, the long-term objective is to give the school more input in financial matters. Virtually all of St. Mildred's finances are now in the hands of the pastor, with occasional advice from the parish council. That simply won't do as we head for the twenty-first century.”

  Heading for the door was what I had in mind. I stood up and forced a thin smile. “Is Father Kelly helping you formulate the new mission statement?” I asked.

  Ronnie raised her unplucked eyebrows and regarded me as if I'd asked whether a fox was going to baby-sit the henhouse. “The pastor prefers not to get too deeply involved in the school. After all, he hasn't had much experience in elementary education.”

  It was useless to point out that Dennis Kelly had taught in a seminary before his appointment to St. Mildred's. Indeed, I had the impression that it was useless to argue any point with Veronica Wenzler-Greene. Her agenda was clear. She was empire building. St. Mildred's Parochial School was her territory. Ronnie ruled.

  And in all the conversation about Catholic education, one thing had been
missing: neither of us had mentioned God.

  God help us.

  “I flunked,” I declared upon entering the news office. “Ronnie is just as bad as Ursula Randall, except in a different way.”

  Vida and Leo both looked up; Carla wasn't at her desk.

  “Oh, dear,” Vida said.

  “Shit,” Leo remarked.

  “Watch your language,” Vida snapped, then turned back to me. “Perhaps we have a second chance. Ursula wants to see you.”

  The low, slanting roof of The Advocate tends to trap the heat. I felt the perspiration dripping down my back. I also felt my hackles rising. “So? When is she coming in?”

  “She's not.” Vida wiggled her eyebrows. “She would like you to drop by around three. She promised lemonade.”

  “Damn!” I whirled around, childishly throwing my purse against Carla's desk. “What is this, a command performance?”

  “So it appears.” Vida's expression was bland. “Ginny tried to explain that Ursula ought to come down to the office. But Ursula doesn't seem to care for suggestions.”

  “Okay, okay.” I sighed, retrieving my purse. “I'll go see the wretched bitch.” Catching Vida's sharp look of disapproval, I waved a dismissive hand. “Sorry. This isn't a good day. How do I find her house in The Pines?”

  Vida gave me explicit directions. Fifteen minutes later, after checking my phone messages, I drove off to the development of upscale homes between the mall and the ski lodge. The house that Ursula had purchased was at the end of a cul-de-sac, and bore about as much resemblance to French Provincial architecture as a dandelion does to a daisy. Still, it was handsome by Alpine standards, and there was evidence of recent expensive landscaping in the ornamental evergreens and late-summer flowers.

  The interior, however, was more imposing. It appeared that Ursula had moved her furnishings lock, stock, and baroque from her previous home in Seattle. The large living room was filled with antiques, mostly from the seventeenth century, ornate, overdone, and oppressive. The angels that adorned each side of the white brick fireplace could have come from an Austrian church.