Alpine Icon

by Mary Daheim

  “What do you think?” Ursula asked, sinking onto a stark white sofa. “My brothers are aghast.” She laughed in her husky, almost hoarse manner.

  “Jake and Buzzy?” I said, not merely stalling for time, but somehow unable to comprehend that Ursula was also an O'Toole. For all their flaws, both men seemed firmly rooted in the rocky soil of Alpine.

  “Ostentatious, that's what Jake calls it,” Ursula said with amusement. “For once, he used the right word. Why on earth does he think that a large vocabulary makes him important? The Grocery Basket is rather successful—or so I understand.”

  I thought so, too. Despite Safeway's arrival in Alpine a few years back, Jake and Betsy O'Toole seemed to be doing well. Buzzy, of course, was another matter. But that wasn't why I had driven up to The Pines.

  “You've certainly settled in,” I remarked, thinking that the only thing that was missing in the overdecorated room was a giant pipe organ. “Does it feel good to be back in Alpine?”

  Ursula's carefully made-up face turned thoughtful. “Well … yes. They say you can't go home again, but that's nonsense. You can if you want to. You can do anything if you want to.” Her green eyes were hard.

  “And Warren?” I asked innocently. “Is he glad to be back?”

  “Thrilled.” Ursula suddenly swiveled on the sofa. “Lemonade! Let me fetch you a big glass.” She rose, a surprisingly self-conscious figure in a sheer sleeveless tangerine outfit that had probably cost at least three hundred dollars. It was a shame that Ursula and Francine were at odds. The newcomer would otherwise be an excellent customer at the apparel shop.

  Ursula went behind a marble-fronted bar at the far end of the room. It looked vaguely like an altar. She mixed and stirred and dispensed ice with all the formality of a priest conducting the liturgy. Producing two tall cut glasses, she served me, then resettled herself on the sofa.

  “Now, where were we?” she said with a tight little smile.

  “I was asking about Warren….”

  “Ah!” Ursula reached into a gilt-edged box and withdrew a cigarette. “But that's not the real reason you're here, is it?” She gestured with the unlighted cigarette. “Wouldyou…?”

  I would, but restrained myself. “I'm trying to quit. Again.”

  “Bravo.” My hostess took a deep pull on her lemonade, then flicked at the cigarette with a heavy gold lighter. “You want to hear my announcement, isn't that so?”

  “Your announcement?” I echoed in a faint voice.

  Ursula exhaled a pale blue cloud of smoke. “Yes.” She paused for dramatic effect. “I'm running for the school board. It's the least I can do.”

  “Oh.” If not surprised, I sensed that Ursula felt I should be impressed. I was neither. “That makes three candidates so far. Do you have a platform?”

  If Ursula was disappointed by my reaction, she didn't let it show. “Naturally.” Tipping her head back, she gazed up into the rafters of the open ceiling. “It's a very simple one. Traditional Catholic values. I'm sick of these liberal lunatics trying to turn the Church into their private little playground.”

  Grudgingly, my interest in Ursula's ambitions rose a notch. “Are you referring to trends in Catholic education or everything that goes on at the parish level?”

  “Both.” The green eyes regarded me with a keen, intense look, “You're not one of the crazies, I trust?”

  “I consider myself middle-of-the-road. It's part of my journalistic training. The eternal observer, you know.”

  “Good. Then I don't have to worry about insulting you. Not,” she added with an arch little smile, “that I care very much for the feelings of those who disagree with me. Generally they're wrong.”

  The self-righteous attitude that I usually found refreshing in Vida Runkel was less appealing in Ursula Randall. Yet under the surface, both women had much in common. I tried very hard not to let my hostess annoy me. Thus I encouraged Ursula to expound on her parochial-school philosophy. She was more than willing to comply.

  “It comes down to one thing,” Ursula asserted after pouring herself more lemonade. “That's faith. How do you live your life? As a Christian—or not?”

  I nodded, still sipping from my original drink. “That's pretty basic. But what about the non-Catholics in the school? Especially if they're non-Christian as well?”

  Ursula gave an emphatic shake of her head. “You know the old saying—you can't expose your children to the chicken pox without the danger of having them catch it. Non-Christian parents know what they're getting into when they enroll children in a Catholic school. If they don't want them exposed to religion, send them somewhere else. I've no time for such empty-headed thinking.”

  In my mind, I was trying to compose an article that would show the less strident side of Ursula Randall. It wasn't going to be easy. “I gather you've been involved in previous school and parish work. Did you begin volunteering when your children entered kindergarten or before that?”

  The green eyes were as cool as the ice cubes in the lemonade. “My first marriage was all too brief. Then, when I found happiness with Wheaton, the only flaw was that we weren't blessed with children. Yet the very lack allowed me time and energy to help other families. I've been quite tireless over the years. And I've had my victories. Oh, a few failures, too, but that's to be expected.” Her gaze fell, and turned brooding as she studied the pattern of the Portuguese gros point carpet.

  It seemed like a propitious moment to take my leave. “Thanks for the lemonade,” I said, rising from the damask-covered chair that had offered more ornamentation than comfort. “Do you think there'll be any other candidates before the Wednesday deadline? We have to go to press tomorrow evening, and I'd hate to leave out anybody.”

  Ursula's sleekly coiffed head jerked up. “You'd hate to… ? Oh, yes, I see. You're speaking from the perspective of a newspaper person.”

  My expression was self-deprecating. “That's what I am.”

  “Yes.” Ursula's narrowed eyes indicated that she didn't entirely approve. “But you're much more. You're a Catholic, and you have a forum. In your place, I'd use it.”

  “I do use it,” I replied with a touch of defiance. “I write an editorial every week.”

  “That's not what I mean.” Ursula was on her feet. I assumed she was going to show me out, but instead, she returned to the ornate bar. “Your power should be exercised to clean up the Church. Tell these people to stop trying to make us into namby-pamby Protestants.

  Tell them to listen to the Holy Father. Tell them to go to hell. At the rate they're going, that's where they're headed.”

  Ursula poured herself another lemonade.

  Chapter Five

  I'D FORGOTTEN THAT Milo Dodge didn't like rice. Braving the warmth of my kitchen, I'd boiled enough for two, which seemed like a perfect complement to the shish kebabs. But Milo hemmed and hawed and said he'd really prefer a baked potato. Refusing to turn on the oven, I compromised by using the microwave. The potato blew up just as Milo and I were halfway through our predinner drinks.

  “Damn it,” I grumbled, wiping potato pieces from the inside of the microwave, “I never can do that right! What about noodles?”

  “What kind?” The sheriff was leaning against the refrigerator, looking put-upon.

  “Any kind. I've got about six varieties of pasta in the cupboard.”

  “Plain noodles are okay,” he allowed after a lengthy reflection. “You know, the sort of wavy ones. But not those curly kind that look like corkscrews.”

  “Fine.” I finished cleaning the microwave, then went in search of egg noodles. “Go check the barbecue. And don't come back in the kitchen. I can't wait to get outside.”

  Obediently Milo ambled to the back door. “By the way, we found two of Verb's bikes,” he called over his shoulder.

  I looked up from the sink where I was pouring water into a kettle. “You did? Where?”

  “Under the Burl Creek Bridge on the way to the ski lodge.” Milo nudged the screen door open
with his elbow. At least four bugs flew in. I winced but kept silent. “They were the ten-speeds,” he went on. “The mountain bikes and the other ten-speed are still missing.”

  “Verb ought to be relieved,” I said, turning the burner on under the kettle.

  “He was pretty riled up about the theft,” Milo remarked as I joined him on our progress to the backyard. “I guess he operates close to the bone during the off-season. What's he going to do if Warren Wells opens up that sports shop?”

  Since Milo hadn't yet checked the barbecue, I was poking around the foil-wrapped shish kebabs. My hand slipped, almost dislodging the grill. “What sports shop?” I demanded.

  Milo had settled himself in the chaise longue. “The one he's talking about starting. It'd go into Buzzy O'Toole's old BP location. But I think Warren'd tear the whole thing down and start over. Buzzy didn't have much space.”

  I slammed the lid down on the barbecue and waved the long metal meat fork at the sheriff. “Why haven't I heard about this? Why didn't Leo tell me? What's wrong with Vida's grapevine?”

  Milo shrugged, though he looked a trifle sheepish. “Damned if I know. Maybe it's because Warren only told me a couple of days ago. I ran into him at Harvey's Hardware. I was scouting new reels for winter steelheading. Do you know that I haven't hit the river in almost a month? It's too damned low.”

  At the moment I wasn't interested in Milo's latest complaint about the lousy fishing in the Sky or its feeder streams. “Back up,” I ordered. “Tell me about Warren.”

  “I already did.” Milo waved off some no-seeums that were flying in formation somewhere in the vicinity of his forehead. His long arms were nicely tanned and muscles rippled below the short sleeves of his thin blue cotton shirt. “He doesn't plan to sit around on his dead ass watching Ursula run your gang up at St. Mildred's. Warren worked as a salesman at several sporting-good stores in Seattle—Big Five, Warshal's, the one that used to be over by the University District.”

  “Seattle Sporting Goods,” I interjected absently.

  “Anyway, Warren knows the business,” Milo went on. “He couldn't say much in front of Harvey Adcock, because a sports shop would provide competition for the hardware store's outdoor section. I kind of gathered that Warren wants to cover all the bases, maybe even supply the local teams with equipment and uniforms. You know how the high school and the rest have had to go through Everett and Seattle all these years.”

  Sometimes I am absolutely flabbergasted by the layman's perception of what is news—and what is not. I felt like shaking Milo. On impulse, I jumped out of the lawn chair and did just that. Naturally, I ended up on his lap.

  “Hey—what'd I do now?” he asked, half-humorously. One hand tickled my ribs, then strayed to my breast.

  “You … frustrate me!” I squeaked.

  “I can cure that.” Milo nuzzled my neck.

  “Not now you can't,” I said, trying to sound severe. “I've got to put your blasted pasta in the pot.” Wriggling free, I went back into the house. When I returned, I decorously resumed my place in the lawn chair. “Warren's plans are news. Big news, in a town that hasn't had a business debut since Starbucks opened two years ago.”

  Milo brushed at his graying sandy hair. “It hasn't happened yet. What's the rush? I thought you didn't deal in rumors.”

  “I don't,” I replied, “but if I can get Warren Wells to confirm his plans, then it's not a rumor—it's hard news.”

  “Harvey won't like it,” Milo noted, his hazel eyes following a blue jay that was hopping from branch to branch in the nearest Western hemlock. “Neither will Verb.”

  “1 know. But,” I pointed out, “once the college is built, they should all be able to withstand the competition.”

  “That's a year away.” Milo's gaze was still out of range. “Harvey should be okay—his sporting-goods inventory is a lot smaller than his hardware section. Verb's situation is different. Basically he depends on whether or not it's a good ski season. Who knows what'11 happen this winter? Remember a few years back when there wasn't enough runoff to fill the reservoirs?”

  The drought was still fresh in my mind: hardly any snow, very little rain, and endless days of sun had left an indelible dry mark on the Pacific Northwest soul. One of the many casualties had been the ski industry.

  “Who do you think took the bikes?” I inquired, my mind veering back to Verb Vancich.

  “Damned if I know,” Milo replied, now watching me lift the shish kebabs off the grill. “We got some prints, but there're pretty smudged. Maybe the mountain bikes'11 turn up eventually. It looks like whoever stole the things didn't bother trying to sell them.”

  “Joyriders, just like stolen cars?” I asked.

  Milo grunted. “I guess. Kids, of course.”

  “It sounds like it.” I returned inside to get the pasta, the rice, and a loaf of French bread. During the course of our meal the conversation veered to other topics. Milo was concerned about the upcoming weekend, which he knew would keep him jumping; I enthused over Ben's visit.

  “What about Adam?” Milo asked, buttering his third slice of crusty bread.

  My expression soured. “I still don't know if he's coming. Do you ever feel as if you've become disconnected from your kids?”

  After the divorce eight years ago Milo's three offspring had moved to Bellevue with their mother. They were now adults, and technically out from under their mother and stepfather's wings. But occasionally they visited Milo during the summer and for holidays.

  The sheriff took his time to answer my question. Maybe he hadn't given the idea much thought. Milo isn't very introspective. “I guess I don't feel all that close to them anymore. Isn't that the way it's supposed to be when they're grown up?”

  “Define grown up” I retorted, then felt a pang of remorse. “Never mind—maybe it's different for mothers than it is for fathers. It's harder for us to let go.”

  “Could be,” Milo said, setting his empty plate on a metal side table. “You raised Adam by yourself. That makes a difference, doesn't it?”

  “Yes. Yes, it does.” I knew I sounded defensive. “It's that since he's been away—no, since he's been in Arizona,” I corrected myself as I realized that the change in my son hadn't occurred until after his college stints in Hawaii and Alaska, “he doesn't talk to me the way he used to. Part of it's because he's got Ben down there, but that's not the whole reason. It's as if a barrier has grown up between us. Who built it?”

  Milo stretched and yawned. “Nobody, probably. The kid's gotten older, that's all. It happens.”

  The sun was beginning to slip down over the foothills. Clusters of gnats circled above the barbecue. I thought— I hoped—I could feel a slight breeze stir the evergreens. Back in March, I'd flown to Arizona to visit my son and my brother. Adam and I had driven the two hundred miles from Tempe to Tuba City. I had hoped that the journey would give us an opportunity to exchange confidences, to resurrect our intimate affinity. And Adam had talked—but almost exclusively about the Navajos and the Hopis and the ancient Anasazis. He was all wrapped up in that world on the reservation, full of pie-in-the-sky plans to help the Native Americans, to preserve their culture, their dignity, their identity. I'd listened with half an ear, knowing that my son had a problem finishing anything he started, including college.

  During that time in Tuba City—a time my brother and I had earmarked for a discussion of Adam's career plans—my son had worked on the dig or hung out at the local truck stop or visited one of the nearby hogans. On our return to Tempe, he'd slept until we reached the Arizona State University campus. Ben had told me not to worry—he insisted that Adam had his head squarely on his shoulders. I'd laughed at my brother. He didn't know Adam the way I did. My son had lost his head, his heart, and his wallet so often over the years that I'd stopped counting.

  Surprisingly it was Milo who broke the long, lazy silence. The sheriff not only avoids self-examination, he seldom delves into the minds of others. Silences between us are comfor
table, stretches of time in which I busily analyze every nuance of phrasing from previous conversations. Milo, however, simply sits, and seems to enjoy the quiet time. But on this sultry evening, he actually came up with an unexpected insight.

  “You think it's Adam's dad?”

  Startled, I almost knocked over my empty highball glass. “Tom Cavanaugh?” It had only been in the last year that I'd fully confided in Milo about Tom. “You mean because he and Adam are finally in contact after all these years?”

  Milo scratched at his cheek. “Well … it's a change. Adam's never had a father figure before. Not even Ben, since he was off in Mississippi until the last few years. Now your kid's got two men in his life. One's a rich publisher, the other's a priest. I mean, they're authority figures. You know—somebody Adam can look up to. Not dirtbags or con artists or … you know what I'm saying.”

  I did. For the most part, I felt I'd done the right thing in allowing Adam and Tom to meet. But I still resented any influence my ex-lover might exert over my son. Initially I'd felt it was a case of better late than never; now I wondered if never might have been better.

  “I don't know. … Maybe.” My voice sounded tired, depleted. “Adam doesn't see that much of Tom. They talk on the phone, though. I think.”

  Untangling his long legs, Milo got out of the chaise longue. “Hey, stop worrying. Adam's not in jail, he's not on drugs, he hasn't knocked up a bunch of girls. You keep pushing him about his college degree. Maybe he still isn't sure what he wants to do.”

  I looked up at Milo, who was now standing over me. “Did you, at that age?”

  Milo's long face screwed up in the effort of recollection. “Twenty-two, twenty-three? Yeah, I did. I was finishing up my college law-enforcement courses then. It wasn't so much that I wanted to be a cop but that I didn't want to be a logger. I'd seen too many guys come out of the woods on stretchers—or not at all.” He leaned down and kissed the top of my head. “You want to stay out here and let the bugs eat you?”

  I offered Milo a feeble smile. I hadn't talked out my distress over what I perceived as an estrangement between Adam and me. Like most women, giving voice to every angle of a problem was comforting; talking the subject to death was therapeutic. Like most men, Milo dreaded confrontation and dismissed dilemmas with a few pat phrases. “It's still awfully warm inside the house,” I hedged.