Alpine Icon

by Mary Daheim

  “That seems a bit severe,” I remarked. “Why didn't Warren simply get you squared away?”

  Verb's lifeless brown eyes moved slowly to my face. “Looking back, that's what he should have done. But I was barely nineteen, and thought it was the way people acted on the job. The funny thing was, he seemed like a nice guy. I guess he had problems of his own. Later I ran into one of the girls who'd worked there, and she said his stepson was getting into a lot of trouble and his marriage was on the rocks. That wasn't Ms. Wells, of course. I mean it was, but not Francine.”

  I knew what Verb meant. “Alexis,” I said. “She was from Monroe. I understand she died a short time after the divorce.”

  “Really? That's too bad.” Verb seemed genuinely touched. “I only met her once, when she came in the store to pick up Mr. Wells. Warren, I mean. She had the kid with her, and he did seem kind of nasty. You know, a real smart-mouth. He must have been about twelve at the time. I hadn't thought of him in years, but the other day somebody reminded me of him.”

  Naturally I thought of Roger. “Maybe,” I said darkly, “he's in a federal penitentiary by now.” Visions, quite delightful, danced through my mind wherein Roger was baking under a hot sun on a chain gang in a remote penal colony. I needed to refocus my brain. “Did you know Monica then?” I inquired as the penal colony faded into a dismal, alligator-infested swamp.

  “We met in high school. I went to O'Dea. Monica was at Holy Names.” Verb referred to two private Catholic high schools in Seattle, one for boys, the other for girls. Though separated by gender and about four miles, the students mingled on social occasions. “Monica and I went together for quite a while before we got married,” Verb continued, smiling softly at the windscreen. “We wanted to be sure. There are too many divorces these days, even among Catholics.”

  “That was very wise of you,” I said, though my mind was again elsewhere. “So the stint in the Ballard store was the only time you worked with Warren?”

  Verb nodded. “That's right. The only other time I ever saw him—until he came to Alpine this summer—was a couple of years later when I was working at a sportswear shop in one of the malls. One of the other clerks had caught some kid sneaking out with a Pittsburgh Steelers jersey under his coat. It turned out to be Warren's stepson. Warren came in to talk to the manager and …” Verb grimaced. “I don't like raking up all this old stuff, not when Warren's just lost his fiancee. Do you suppose I could collect my bikes now?”

  “Where are they?” I asked.

  “Out back. At least that's where the kids dumped them after I chased them up the Burl Creek Road.” Creases appeared in Verb's high forehead. “Maybe they've hidden them by now.”

  “Wait,” I cautioned. “The sheriff will get the bikes back for you. Those kids might be out there in the trees somewhere. If they're as feisty as their father, you don't want to tangle with them alone.”

  Verb's expression was uncertain, but ultimately he decided that discretion was the better part of valor. Just as he started to get out of the Jag, I detained him with one last question: “What did Warren do when he came in about the jersey?”

  “Oh … he insisted that his stepson didn't try to steal it.” Verb nervously fingered the door handle. “Then he saw me, and told the manager I'd tried to get the kid in trouble to settle an old score. Luckily the manager knew I hadn't been at work when it happened. I went into the back and stayed there until Warren and the manager sorted things out. We had quite a few shoplifters there, especially teenagers. Those team-logo items are pretty expensive, and the kids just couldn't resist trying to swipe them.” He opened the car door and gazed at the vine maple, alder, and fir trees that surrounded the Lucci house. “Like bikes. Kids can't keep their hands off them, either. Sometimes it seems as if everybody's trying to keep me from earning a living. It's not fair.” Verb got out of the car and didn't look back.

  I drove across town to Polly's house, trying to think of insightful questions to ask the pilgrims. In order to put together a serious article, I'd have to interview Father Den at length. His earlier, off-the-cuff comments didn't do him or the subject justice. I'd also talk to some of the locals who had visited the vase, preferably at least one who believed in its mystical properties and one who was merely a curiosity seeker.

  My plans, if not my prayers, seemed answered when I saw Veronica Wenzler-Greene and Warren Wells in the line that went up Polly's steps. I would wait until they emerged from the house and interview them individually. Parking my car a half block away, I decided to remain in place for a few minutes. Less than thirty seconds passed when I noticed that Vida's Buick was pulling up across the street. My House & Home editor got out, along with the odious Roger. Naturally Vida spotted my car at once.

  “Roger's parents have come down with flu,” she announced in a worried tone. “I told them he shouldn't be exposed to germs, especially after getting so wet yesterday up on Mount Sawyer. He and Grams are going to have an overnight, so that he's fresh and rested for his first day of school.” She beamed at her grandson, who looked sullen and was plugged into a Walkman. “Chocolate marshmallow treats and big bowls of—what was it, darling?—bubble-gum ice cream? A special video about the Dance. What was the name of the little show you picked out, dearest?”

  “Showgirls,” Roger replied, not looking at either of us.

  “Yes,” Vida said blithely, “a musical. Roger said he preferred it to Carousel, but then he keeps up with the latest films and Grams doesn't, I'm afraid.”

  I could have sworn that Roger snickered, but when I looked at him he was still staring at the sidewalk. Vida was still talking. “I called ahead, to ask Polly if we might sneak in just for a peek at the vase. She wasn't sure— she's never sure of anything, such a muddleheaded woman—but finally suggested we come 'round the back, through the alley. Do you want to join us?”

  I hesitated. “I've seen it, of course.” On the other hand, it would heighten the atmosphere of my story if I had another look. “Okay, let's go.”

  Roger lagged behind, so that by the time we'd gone around the end of the block and entered the alley, he was nowhere to be seen. “Really,” Vida murmured, as close to exasperation as she ever got with her grandson, “why must youngsters dawdle so? I suppose he's enjoying his little songs on his radio.”

  When Roger finally appeared, he was gyrating to what I guessed was a rap number that would have taken all the curl out of his grandmother's permanent. I considered telling her that Showgirls wasn't exactly Rodgers and Hammerstein, but a raw version of how to get to the top by lying on the bottom, at least most of the time. My opportunity fled, however, when Vida called to Roger to hurry along, as she was holding the rickety gate of the picket fence open for him.

  It took forever for Polly to reach the back door. We stood waiting amid piles of newspapers, two plastic garbage cans, and stacks of empty cardboard boxes. At last Polly opened the door a crack, then hesitated for almost a minute until she recognized us.

  “Mrs. Runkel. Mrs. Lord,” she said in a low voice. “And the boy.”

  The boy sauntered into the kitchen as if he owned it, or perhaps he was so self-absorbed that new experiences bounced right off his stocky frame. Polly, who had had at least one child go wrong, ignored Roger. “This way,” she murmured, leading us into the long hall.

  As before, the worshipers who filled the living room were representative of every age, ethnic, and economic group. I saw a man in a turban and a woman in a kimono. I also noticed several local residents, none of whom was Catholic.

  “There's a Pidduck,” Vida hissed, “from our church. Goodness!”

  The darkened room, which had smelled stale when I'd first visited with Murray Felton, now reeked of sweat and candle wax and more exotic, if not entirely pleasant, odors. I held back while Vida took Roger by the arm and led him toward the mantel. The supplicants parted with only mild grumbles of protest, though at least half of them could not have recognized Vida. She stopped in front of the fireplace, fingering
her chin. Roger, still plugged into his Walkman, fidgeted at her side. After a few moments Vida leaned down and spoke to her grandson. He dutifully gazed up at the vase, then shrugged. Vida said something else to him and started to turn away, smiling demurely at the waiting pilgrims. Roger, however, remained in front of the mantel. Then he picked up the vase, juggled it experimentally, swayed to the music only he could hear, and dropped the hallowed object onto the hearth. It smashed into a hundred pieces.

  In the pandemonium that followed, I was never quite sure what happened next. Hysterical shrieks, heartrending moans, and angry curses filled the Patricelli living room. Those waiting in the hall and on the porch and even down the steps charged forward, creating a dangerous crush. Someone—perhaps the man in the turban—tried to grab Roger, but Vida was doing her best to drag him out of harm's way. She got as far as the arched entrance to the hall before she encountered Polly.

  “Lucifer,” Polly whispered in a shaky voice, and collapsed into the arms of Veronica Wenzler-Greene.

  “Oh, good grief!” Vida cried, hauling Roger down the hall and toward the back door. Given Roger's bulk, it was no easy task, not even for his stalwart grandmother.

  Briefly I thought about following them, but realized that my place was inside the house. That was my story. It wasn't what I'd planned, but it was certainly big news. Noting that Polly seemed in capable hands, I circumvented the stampede and went upstairs in search of a phone. First I had to find a light switch, for it was dark when I reached the second floor. Luckily there was a phone on a small wooden stand. It was the old-fashioned rotary-dial type, and my fingers didn't want to track properly. On the third try, I reached Kip MacDuff in the back shop.

  “Is it too late to stop the press?” I shouted over the din that roiled up from the lower floor.

  “What? Ms. Lord? What's that?” Kip sounded as if his mouth was full.

  “Stop everything. I'll be right there.” I hung up and raced back downstairs. Pushing and shoving my way out of the house, I slowed on the uneven cement steps, lest I take a nasty fall. Halfway down, Warren Wells grabbed my arm.

  “What's going on in there? I got out of line to have a cigarette and now it sounds like all hell's broke loose.”

  “It has,” I panted. “The devil broke the vase. Or so Polly would have us believe. Excuse me, Warren, I've got to dash.”

  “But …” Warren let go of my arm, though his blue eyes were stunned as he watched me leave. Then, cutting through the muggy night, I heard him cry out: “Alicia! Help me!”

  As far as I could tell, Alicia was nowhere in sight. Under any other circumstances, I would have queried Warren hard and fast. But not now. I had to salvage The Advocate. Five minutes later I was in the back shop, consulting with Kip MacDuff. He had only just begun the press run, having gone over to the Burger Barn to get his dinner.

  “I ran into a couple of guys I knew from high school,” he began in apology, “and that's why I was kind of late getting started.”

  “Never mind,” I said hurriedly. “It turns out to be a blessing in disguise. Wait here, I'm going to write a new lead for the miracle-vase story.”

  It didn't take long, though I realized I was missing various details, including Polly's fate. In deference to Vida, I didn't include Roger's name. We could sort out the fine points in next week's edition. The hardest part was cutting enough of the original story so that the copy would still fit without having to redo the page one layout.

  Kip was finishing a large Coke when I rejoined him in the back shop. “I never did see that vase,” he said in a musing voice after he read my new lead. “Was it really special?”

  “I don't know,” I replied in a tired voice. “There were a lot of people who thought so.”

  Kip ran a hand through his wavy red hair. “1 guess we'll never find out now.”

  In my mind's eye, I saw the long lines of old and young and black and white and rich and poor who had come to Polly's house. “Maybe not,” I said after a long pause.

  Kip eyed me curiously, then set to work. A few moments later the press was humming. I watched for a while, and then left. On the way home, I drove by St. Mildred's. The church was dark, as I'd expected. All the same I stopped the car and sat for a few minutes, staring up at the single wooden spire that was outlined faintly against the September night. My eyes traveled up to the cross, which legend said was made of iron fashioned from a piece of machinery in the original Alpine mill. During the past few days I had been so caught up in my work that I hadn't taken time to think about the makeshift shrine in the Patricelli living room. My concerns had all been worldly, the outward signs of a life caught up in material goals. Did we purposely make ourselves so busy that there was neither time nor room for spiritual contemplation? It was much easier to think about deadlines than death.

  I had not seen Christ in Polly's vase, but I could see the cross. Maybe, I thought, there are many things we cannot see.

  But they are still there.

  Chapter Sixteen

  VIDA WAS CASTIGATING herself. “I should have driven to the funeral in Seattle,” she fretted that Wednesday morning. “Someone should represent the paper. Hardly anyone from Alpine is going as far as I know.”

  “It's a workday,” I pointed out. “Ursula hadn't kept up with her old friends here. You said so yourself.”

  Vida pursed her lips. “That's not important. Now. Oh, Jake and Betsy went, perhaps Laura and Buzzy. Warren, of course, with Alicia.”

  “Alicia?” I gave Vida a curious look. “Why not Francine?”

  “Francine has to stay at the shop.” Vida glanced at the clock, which showed that it wasn't yet nine. “I could still make it if I left now.” She stood up, grabbing her purse and camera. “I'm going. I'll see you later this afternoon.”

  Leo watched Vida make her exit. “The Duchess wouldn't miss a good funeral for anything,” he remarked. “Do you suppose she'll take pictures of Ursula in her coffin?”

  “I hope not,” I replied rather vaguely. My thoughts were elsewhere, at St. James Cathedral. I wondered if Murray Felton would be on hand, studying the mourners. I also wondered if I should call him to pass on the news about Ursula's insurance policy. But then I remembered that I didn't have his number. Perhaps I could reach him through the TV station. “No,” I said suddenly, returning to reality. “Vida doesn't photograph dead people. It's in poor taste.”

  Carla looked up from a news release she'd been perusing. “What's being dead got to do with poor taste? Death is part of life.”

  Leo grinned at Carla. “That's deep, sweetheart. Don't tell me you've been thinking?”

  Carla made a face at my ad manager. “Leo, sometimes you're a real jerk. I think all the time. Like now, I was thinking you're a jerk.”

  The comment made no dent on Leo, who, I noticed, was acting more like himself this morning. A few minutes later, after Carla had left to interview the county commissioners about progress on the new bridge over the Sky, I came out of my office and sat down next to Leo's desk.

  “So what's new?” I asked in a lighthearted tone.

  Leo set aside a mock-up for the local General Motors dealership. “Not much. How about you?”

  “The same. Except that it's been hectic around here lately.” I gave a little shrug. “I had to stop the press last night for the first time since I bought the paper.”

  Leo took a bite out of a sugar doughnut Ginny had picked up at the bakery. “The vase deal? Yeah, that was a hell of a thing. What really happened?”

  I was still loath to name names. Vida had called me late last night, asking how I intended to handle the story. I'd informed her that it was a fait accompli, but I hadn't mentioned Roger. Naturally she had defended him, insisting that his youthful curiosity—such a fine attribute in a young mind—had triggered the incident. I had said nothing. Word would get out soon enough. Indeed, it probably had within an hour of the disaster. I wondered if that was the real reason that Vida had been anxious to get out of town.


  But apparently Leo hadn't heard the details. I was reluctant to tell him, since I knew that his opinion of Roger was as unfavorable as mine. On the other hand, I didn't want to upsfet Leo's newly regained good humor. Certainly he would find out the truth before the day was done.

  Leo, however, changed the subject before I could reply. “That Kelly's pretty sharp,” my ad manager said, brushing sugar from his plaid sport shirt. “How come you never told me about him?”

  “What are you talking about?” I asked in surprise. “I've mentioned Father Den often, and usually with praise.”

  Leo fingered his upper lip. “Hunh. Maybe I wasn't paying attention.”

  “Maybe you didn't want to hear it.” As a falien-away Catholic, Leo wasn't inclined to take in anything positive about the Church. “So now you two are chums?”

  “Not exactly,” Leo replied. “We had a little talk last night. I happened to run into him at Cal Vickers's station after work. Kelly had just come back from Tacoma.”

  I regarded Leo with amusement. “So you yukked it up around the gas pumps?”

  Leo stretched in an exaggeratedly casual manner. “Actually I went over to the rectory and had a drink with him. He's really down-to-earth. I guess it's his army-brat background. He doesn't go around with his head in the clouds like some of the priests I've known.”

  “You've met my brother,” I retorted. “Ben's as real as they come.”

  Leo tipped his head to one side. “Ben's okay. But he's like you—kind of indecisive. Neither of you likes taking a stand.”

  That much was true. In my case, I called it journalistic objectivity, and being fair in print. As for Ben, he acted out of Christian charity, unwilling to judge. To observers, we sometimes seemed wishy-washy.

  I wasn't about to argue with Leo. “Talking to Father Den seems to have improved your mood,” I said lightly.

  Leo's gaze was ironic. “Are you asking if I unburdened myself?” Before I could answer, he chuckled. “Maybe I did, in a way. But we didn't have much time. He got a phone call that seemed to throw him. I decided I'd better split.”