Alpine Icon

by Mary Daheim

  I recalled the busy lines at Marisa's and at the rectory. “Do you know who phoned him?”

  Leo looked perplexed. “No. It was none of my business. It's not like Kelly's my new best bud. We just had a drink and yakked for a bit. Who do you think called him? The Village Harlot?”

  “Hardly.” My tone was priggish. “In case you haven't been reading The Advocate, and since you don't attend church, you may have missed the controversy that's going on at St. Mildred's.”

  Leo feigned terror. “Wow. Which is the greater sin, missing Mass or skimming your stories?”

  My ad manager's disposition may have improved, but mine was deteriorating. “Look, a member of the parish was found dead last Friday night. Maybe it was an accident, maybe not. But if somebody deliberately drowned Ursula Randall, then it could have something to do with what's going on at St. Mildred's. Don't tell me you haven't noticed, Leo, or I'll have to cut your salary.”

  “Relax, babe. I've noticed. Parish politics are a pain in the ass. Even in those dark, dim days when I used to go to church, I kept out of that crap. It's pure poison. If people want to backstab and spread scandal and incite hostilities and screw up basic ideologies, then they should join the Democratic party. The trouble is,” Leo went on, now looking quite serious, “you've always got a bunch of the Little People in any group who have to prove they exist by causing trouble. The bigger the institution, the nastier the attack. They're not only weasels, they're hypocrites. Fuck 'em, I say. That's another reason I don't go to church.”

  I was sure that Leo's list of reasons for staying in bed on Sunday morning was lengthy. But he was right about parish troublemakers. “I should go see Father Den,” I said, more to myself than to Leo. “I've felt all along that there's more to this parish conflict than meets the eye.”

  “It wasn't all Liza's fault.” Leo made the statement while staring at the GM mock-up.

  “What?” It took me a moment to recall that Liza was Leo's ex-wife.

  “The breakup.” Now he did look at me. “I was an asshole. It's a wonder she put up with me as long as she did.”

  I knew that Liza had left Leo for another man, or so he had told me. I also knew that the reality was that Liza had left, period. The other man may have been waiting in the wings, but he wasn't the reason that the marriage had failed. Leo had had difficulty keeping a job, he had been an unsatisfactory parent, he had neglected his wife, he had drunk too much. All of these things he had acknowledged, but never had admitted what a disastrous impact his flaws had had on his marriage.

  I didn't know exactly what to say. “You're not an asshole now,” I finally allowed. “Not often, anyway.” I smiled.

  “People don't change,” Leo said, his voice a little ragged. “But maybe they sort of mutate.”

  The phone was ringing in my office. “Maybe.” Gingerly I patted Leo's shoulder. “I'm glad you finally sat down with Father Den.”

  “Yeah. Me, too.” Leo returned to his mock-up.

  I returned to my office and caught the call just before it trunked over to Ginny. Delia Lucci's anxious voice touched my ear.

  “Could I see you, Ms. Lord? I need … some advice.”

  Giving advice is a trap. If volunteered, it's usually scorned. If sought, it's rarely taken. People don't want advice, they want sympathy and reinforcement of their own beliefs and actions.

  But Delia was pathetic. She was still at the shelter, so I said I'd meet her there in twenty minutes. Unlike larger cities, where anonymity is more easily achieved, there is nothing secret about Alpine's shelter. It's located in an old three-story house on First Hill off Highway 167. Officially run by the town's churches, the staff is made up of volunteers. When I arrived just after ten-thirty, Shirley Bronsky met me at the door.

  “Emma!” she squealed, jiggling around in her lime-and-black-striped tank dress. “Have you come to lend a hand? We could use it—Mrs. Bartleby from Trinity Episcopal and I have been here since six this morning. The place is jammed—as usual. Do you know that we've got women who've come all the way from Wenatchee?”

  Female figures skittered in and out of doors along the narrow hall while children yipped and skipped around the living room, which had been turned into a play area. With a twinge of guilt, I informed Shirley that I hadn't come to relieve her or the wife of the Episcopalian rector, but to see Delia Lucci. Since I wasn't a volunteer, Shirley immediately became officious. Had Delia sent for me? Did she expect me? How had the meeting been arranged?

  I explained about the telephone call, adding that I understood Shirley's insistence on security. Seemingly satisfied, she led me to the old-fashioned, high-ceilinged kitchen, where Delia was preparing a vat of macaroni and cheese.

  “I kept the kids out of school today,” Delia said shyly as she wiped her hands on a dish towel and sat down at the long trestle table. “It's the first day, and they won't miss much.”

  “Probably not,” I agreed.

  “Is it true that Luce is in jail?” As soon as she asked the question, Delia lowered her eyes.

  “He was last night,” I said. “He got into a row with Verb Vancich over those bikes.”

  Delia looked up and blinked. “What bikes?”

  “The bikes that were stolen from Verb's store. Verb believes that your kids may have taken them.” I saw no point in softening the blow.

  But Delia was indignant. “That's dumb! Luce bought those bikes for the twins' birthday.”

  The last thing I wanted to do was get into a dispute between the Luccis and the Vanciches. “Verb thought otherwise,” I said, dumping the burden where it belonged. “In any event, Luce threatened Verb, and Verb called the sheriff. I suspect that your husband will be released today.”

  “Mmm.” Delia cupped her round chin in her hand. “So where does that leave me? Not here—I hate it. The kids hate it. But I won't go back to Luce. I hate him.”

  The words were spoken without rancor, a simple statement of fact, which made them all the more jarring. “So you plan to leave Luce?” I asked.

  Delia sighed, her plump bosom heaving under the same stained shift I'd last seen her wearing at Sunday Mass. “I guess. I just don't know where to go, Ms. Lord. That's what I wanted to ask you.”

  I began by quizzing Delia about her family. She was from Skykomish, but her parents were dead and her only sibling, a brother, had moved to Montana years ago. There was a cousin—she thought—in one of the Seattle suburbs, Renton or maybe Maple Valley. She'd lost track of him some Christmases past. Luce's mother was also dead, and his father was in the local nursing home. The three Lucci sisters were scattered around the West, and their brother hadn't really kept in touch. It sounded to me as if Delia was on her own.

  “If,” I began, feeling on very shaky ground, “you could work something out with Luce, at least for a while, you might consider reeducating yourself when the new community college opens. Then you'd have some marketable skills if you wanted to make a move and look for work.”

  Delia was aghast. “Me? Go to college? Oh, Ms. Lord! I'm not that smart.”

  It was pointless to enumerate the borderline morons I'd known who had been given degrees by supposedly reputable institutions of higher learning. “The college will offer vocational training,” I pointed out. “I've heard that food services will be among them. You've had experience, cooking at the high school.” Indeed, I wondered why Delia wasn't there now. Perhaps it was because the first day was usually over at noon. “Think about it, Delia. And please stop calling me Ms. Lord. We must be about the same age.”

  “But you're …” Delia's spindly voice trailed off. I knew she was going to say that I was a college graduate, a newspaper editor, a writer, for God's sake. In her eyes, I was virtually canonized as a secular saint.

  “Never mind,” I interrupted. “The point is, can you reconcile with Luce?”

  Before Delia could answer, her two youngest children raced into the kitchen, the boy chasing the girl. He was around nine and had a garter snake in his hand.
I let out a little yelp while the girl screamed and flung herself against Delia.

  “He's got a poison snake!” the girl cried. “He's going to kill me! Help!”

  Delia retained her implacable air. “It's just a garter snake, Megan. Put that down, Joe-Joe, or I'll cook it in the pot.”

  Joe-Joe waved the snake over his head. “You can't cook it It's full of poison. If you eat it, you'll die, just like Pa said he wished you'd do.”

  Delia's plump shoulders sagged. “Pa was making a joke. He doesn't mean what he says. Put that snake back outside, or I'll have to use this.” She pointed to the wooden spoon with which she'd been stirring the macaroni. “Go on now. Don't make me mad.”

  Whether Joe-Joe believed that his mother could exert herself sufficiently to become angry, or whether the squirming snake was beginning to lose its charm, I didn't know. But the boy thrust the snake one last time at his sister, was rewarded with another shriek, and left the kitchen. Megan continued to cling to her mother until Delia pried her loose.

  “Go play with those nice girls from Skykomish, Megan. They're building a castle for their dollies.”

  Reluctantly Megan moved away, her big brown eyes riveted on me. She looked about seven, with an intelligent face that must have been a throwback to a previous generation. Certainly neither Delia nor Luce seemed overly bright.

  “Let's go away and leave Joe-Joe here,” Megan said, slowly backing toward the door. “He's mean.”

  “Joe-Joe's a tease,” his mother declared. “Pay no attention. He'll stop.”

  Megan looked dubious, but finally left the kitchen. I wondered if her mother's advice grew out of the way she'd handled Luce over the years: maybe Delia had pretended that her husband was only kidding. Maybe she'd never acknowledged the mean streak, the latent violence, the bully in him.

  A sudden thought popped into my mind. “Is it money? I mean, would you get along better if Luce wins his suit?”

  Again, Delia looked blank. “What suit?”

  “The malpractice suit against Dr. Randall's estate.”

  “Who's Dr. Randall?” Delia seemed utterly mystified.

  So was I. “Ursula Randall's late husband. I understand that he operated on Luce a few years ago. Apparently the surgery wasn't successful and …”

  Delia was shaking her head. “Luce never had an operation. That's why he limps. After the doctors told him there were some risks, he wouldn't take the chance. Luce got real disappointed in doctors. The only person he ever sued was the logging company, but he lost because the accident was part of the job. What do they call it? An 'occupational hazard,' I think.”

  I thought back to my conversation with Murray Felton. He had assured me that Luce was one of the plaintiffs in the outstanding malpractice suits filed against Wheaton Randall. Had Murray been mistaken? Or had Luce not told his wife about taking the late surgeon to court? But certainly Delia would know if her husband had had an operation. My confusion grew.

  “I'm not going back to Luce,” Delia was saying, her plump hands now made into fists and resting on the table's worn fir planks. “If the twins want to stay with him, fine. But Megan and Joe-Joe are going with me. If I went to Monroe, where would I stay?”

  “Monroe?” I echoed. “Why Monroe?”

  “Seattle's too big. I'm scared of cities. Even Everett has grown too much.” Delia's lower Up protruded and I thought she was going to cry. “Monroe is just about right.”

  “Talk to Father Den,” I said, feeling inadequate. “He can put you in touch with Catholic Community Services. Will you do that?”

  Delia looked uncertain. “Won't Father think I'm terrible for leaving Luce?”

  “Father doesn't judge people,” I said firmly. “He tries to help them. He knows about the resources that you have at your disposal. Go see him. Today, if he's free.”

  “Ohhh …” Delia's helplessness enveloped her like a straitjacket. My mind flashed back to a similar encounter at a kitchen table, with Laura O'Toole. But Laura had more backbone. She had stood her ground, and thrown Buzzy out. Delia had less courage, and only enough initiative to bring her as far as the shelter.

  “Look,” I said as Delia continued to dither, “I'll go see Father Den. Then I'll have him get in touch with you, okay?”

  Judging from Delia's frightened expression, the idea was about as okay as third-degree burns. Change—any kind of change—clearly terrified her. She could turn her back on Luce, but she couldn't face something new.

  I left her, staring at the vat on the stove. Shirley was nowhere to be seen, though a trio of toddlers scampered after me down the hall. They seemed happy. I marveled at their resilience, or perhaps it was ignorance. What ghastly domestic situation had brought them to the shelter? I could drive away without fear, but the sordid home lives of these little exiles would go with me.

  St. Mildred's was halfway between First Hill and The Advocate, so I stopped at the rectory. I didn't like calling on Father Den unannounced, but I also didn't like having Delia Lucci on my plate, quivering like leftover Jell-O.

  Monica Vancich was on duty in the small office just off the parlor. She seemed remarkably cheerful on this overcast September morning. I couldn't resist asking her why.

  “We had the most wonderful liturgy this morning, for the opening of the school year,” she said, her usually pale face aglow. “Sister Mary Joan and Ronnie Wenzler-Greene arranged it. Women are so much better at creating a meaningful religious experience—we're truly in touch with our feelings. Each child was given a piece of bark.”

  “Bark?” I echoed. “Why?”

  “To symbolize the external.” Monica picked up a small chunk of bark that looked as if it had come off of a cottonwood tree. “We all have outward signs of protection, whether it be pride or intolerance or a sharp tongue. When these things are peeled away, our innermost being is revealed. Just like a tree.” She gazed up at me with a sublime expression.

  I tried to imagine how children under ten had related to this analogy. “Did the students find it … meaningful?” When in buzz, speak as the buzzworders do.

  Monica's face tightened. “Well … you know how children can be sometimes. Especially boys. We had a little problem with them throwing the bark around the church.”

  “Really.” Hoping to deflect any more of Monica's liturgical anecdotes, I asked if Verb had gotten his bikes back yet. She said he hadn't, and was becoming rather cross with Milo Dodge. Not wanting to hear the sheriff criticized, I hastened to ask if Father Den was available.

  “He's in his office,” she replied stiffly. “I'll let him know you're here.”

  Dennis Kelly was going over the school enrollment figures when I arrived. He looked frazzled, even a little haggard. I wasted no time telling him about Delia and her apparent needs. He expressed concern, promising that he'd try to help. If she was serious about moving, he knew of a Seattle parish that was searching for a cook.

  “Delia's afraid of big cities,” I said with reluctance. “She was thinking of some smaller place, like Monroe.”

  “Delia doesn't have unlimited choices,” Den pointed out bluntly. “If she takes the cook's job, she'll still have to find a place to live. She can stay with the kids at the Sacred Heart shelter down by the Seattle Center for a month until they get themselves squared away.”

  “I don't think she'll go,” I said apologetically, as if Delia's fears were my fault. “She doesn't have the nerve.”

  “That's up to her.” Den jabbed at the papers on his desk. “Her two younger kids are absent today. She can't keep them out of school forever.”

  I stood up, my gaze taking in the cramped office, which still showed evidence of Father Fitz's long tenure as pastor. During that time the square little room had been called the study. Many of the volumes in the open bookcases had belonged to him, along with the old-fashioned brass pedestal ashtray, the painting of the Agony in the Garden, and a letter of commendation from a bishop in County Cork. Though Father Fitz's worldly possessions had been few
, I suspected that there was little room for more than the necessities in the nursing home where he was living out his last days.

  'Tm sorry I bothered you with this,” I said. “I tried to get her to come to see you, but she was afraid of that, too.”

  “Why?” Father Den's glance was ironic. “Am I such a monster?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  The priest let out a big sigh. “I was never a pastor until I came here. You know that. I was a teacher, and a damned good one, if I may be honest instead of modest. But you can't teach invisible students. When there are no vocations, there are no classrooms.” He clapped his hands together. “Bang! The seminaries close their doors, and become wineries or resort complexes or mental institutions. You know what bugs the hell out of me, Emma? I'll bet it bugs your brother, too. Guys like us give our lives to God, and we think it's a great thing to do. But we aren't conveying that to young men. These kids look at us, and all they think about is that we can't go to bed with a woman. Or that we do, on the sly—when we're not playing games with little boys and other men.” Den's expression became rueful. “Sorry, I don't usually rant like this. I wouldn't do it now if you didn't have a brother who's a priest.”

  I had sat back down in the old oak chair with its straight, uncomfortable back, which would have enhanced any nun's job of encouraging correct posture. “It's not your fault, or Ben's. It's that the world is too much with us.”

  “I know, I know. TV, movies, books—the material and sexual messages are clear. Maybe,” Den went on, the familiar spark of humor finally surfacing in his dark eyes, “they ought to show commercials with priests surfing or skiing or drinking beer.”

  I laughed. “We could get Leo to put together an ad showing you with ski equipment from Verb Vancich's store.”

  The humor fled. “Verb.” Father Den groaned softly. “Oh, he's all right. I guess.”

  “Monica?” The name slipped out.