The Alpine Obituary

by Mary Daheim

  “That sounds terrific,” I said with a big smile. Scott wasn’t always a self-starter when it came to story ideas. “We can put the feature along with a couple of photos on a separate page from the big spread.”

  The issue was coming together. I didn’t feel light-hearted—I hadn’t felt that way since before Tom died—but I experienced a sense of relief. Sometimes I felt like a trapeze artist, working without a net. Would we have enough advertising for our regular sixteen pages? Could we expand to twenty-four on short notice? Was it possible to publish thirty-two plus an eight-page insert every Christmas, Easter, and Thanksgiving? Could we survive at all? I often felt as if I were continually holding my breath, at least in a metaphorical sense.

  Yet the impromptu special edition’s progress was reassuring, thanks to Leo. I went back into my cubbyhole and tried to decide on an editorial. Maybe it would be fitting to laud the firefighters. I could combine the singing of their praises with dire warnings about careless campers and hikers.

  Before I could make up my mind, the phone rang. It was Marje Blatt, calling from Doc Dewey’s office.

  “Doc told me you were supposed to call and make an appointment,” Marje said in her nasal voice. “We haven’t heard from you, but Doc just had a four-thirty cancellation. Is that convenient?”

  “Um . . .” It was convenient, but it didn’t please me. I knew that Doc was going to give me a lecture. “Okay,” I sighed, “I’ll be there.”

  I spent the rest of the afternoon writing what seemed like an insipid forest fire editorial. Fits and starts, changing leads, switching emphasis from the doughty pounders to the shiftless campers. Speculating, too, about more fires before the fall rains set in.

  ARE WE OUT OF THE WOODS YET?

  I stared at the editorial headline. I was the one who wasn’t out of the woods. Maybe I should get reckless and call for a complete closure of the surrounding forest land. Logging had already been curtailed. Why not ban recreationalists as well? The idea didn’t seem unreasonable.

  The phone rang again just as I was getting ready to leave for the clinic. It was Milo.

  “You’re going to be mad at me,” he said. “Fleetwood’s got another scoop.”

  “About what?” I asked, sounding cranky.

  “We just got word that somebody was killed in that fire up by Martin Creek.”

  My hand tightened on the receiver. “Who?”

  “Can’t tell,” Milo replied in his laconic manner. “The body’s burned to a crisp.”

  August 1916

  It was hot in Alpine, with a cloudless sky and no hint of a breeze. Frank and Mary Dawson stood by the railroad tracks, awaiting the Great Northern’s Empire Builder. Frank removed his cap and wiped perspiration from his high forehead.

  “Don’t say it,” Mary warned.

  “What?”

  “What you usually say,” Mary replied, cocking her head at her husband. “ ‘Hot enough for you?’ It drives me crazy. One of these days, I’m going to hit you with a flatiron.”

  Frank smiled faintly, then turned away from Mary as the whistle of the oncoming passenger train could be heard from a half-mile away.

  “Vincent better be here today,” Frank muttered. “I wonder what his excuse will be for not showing up yesterday or the day before.”

  “You can’t blame the boy,” Mary said. “Your parents probably didn’t have the train fare. I suppose they were waiting for money from England. As usual.”

  Just as Frank and Mary caught sight of the locomotive, two young boys ran down the hill to join them.

  “Do you think Vincent’s aboard?” Louie asked, out of breath.

  Frank shrugged at his eldest son’s question. “Who knows?” He put one hand on Louie’s shoulder and the other on his nephew Billy’s. The boys were eight years old and virtually inseparable. “Keep clear,” Frank warned them. “This train’s wider than some of the freights.”

  The train slowed to a crawl as it approached the water tower. From the cab of the locomotive, they could see Harry Geerds leaning out and waving.

  “Sorry, Mrs. D.,” the engineer called, “I can’t stop for pie and co fee today. They’ve got me harnessed to the passenger train. See you next week.”

  “Blackberry or huckleberry?” Mary called back.

  Harry grinned. “Doesn’t matter, as long as you or Mrs. Murphy bake them. You two sisters are the best cooks from Seattle to Chicago.”

  “Oh, go on!” Mary laughed as Harry Geerds and the locomotive moved up the line.

  The train finally stopped. Several crewmen got out, but there was no sign of passengers. Scowling, Frank approached the conductor, who was lighting his pipe.

  “Have you got a youngster on board?” Frank asked. “Sixteen years old, reddish dark hair.”

  The conductor, whom Frank didn’t recognize, took two pulls on his pipe. “Yes, I think I do, in the last car. Is he supposed to get off here?”

  “He sure is,” Frank retorted. “What did he tell you?”

  “That he was headed for Minnesota,” the conductor replied, then frowned. “Come to think of it, he didn’t show me his ticket. Hold on.”

  The conductor climbed back onto the train. Mary, along with Louie and Billy, had joined Frank.

  “What now?” Mary asked, annoyed.

  “Vincent’s pulling some stunt,” Frank sighed. “Good God, I hope he isn’t taking after his worthless father.”

  The conductor reappeared toward the end of the train with a boy who struggled in his grasp. “Here’s your kid,” the conductor shouted, and unceremoniously dumped Vincent Burke onto the ground. “He’s all yours, and you’re welcome to him.”

  Frank hurried to his nephew. “Vincent! Here, do you need a hand?”

  “No!” Vincent shouted, getting to his feet. “I don’t need anything from you! I want to go to Minnesota! You’ll see,” the boy went on, red in the face. “I won’t stay here! I hate this place! I hate all of you!”

  Vincent ran past Frank’s outstretched arm. The heedless youth didn’t see Billy Murphy extend his foot. A moment later, Vincent was once more sprawled in the dirt.

  He was crying.

  Chapter Six

  I’D BEEN A step away from exiting my cubbyhole when Milo called. Now I sat down again. “I don’t get it,” I said, grabbing a pen. “Are you saying that the body was someone not known to be at the fire scene?”

  “Everybody from the Department of Natural Resources, the Forest Service, the national parks, the firefighters, and even the volunteers has been accounted for,” Milo replied. “I suppose it could be a curiosity seeker or even a hermit.”

  “You don’t have any missing person reports?”

  “Nope.”

  “Maybe it’s too soon,” I ventured.

  “You mean,” Milo put in, “some hiker or camper who planned to be gone for several days and nobody’s worried yet?”

  “Exactly.” I posed another question. “The body’s that of an adult?”

  “As far as we can tell,” Milo said.

  I glanced at my watch. It was twenty-eight minutes after four. The two-minute warning for my doctor’s appointment went off in my head. “Do you know of any hermits or recluses in that area?”

  “No,” Milo replied. “The fire started fairly close to what those mountain men call civilization.”

  “Male or female?”

  “Not sure.”

  “Teeth?”

  “Yeah, the body has teeth. Jeez, Emma, why do you need to know all this crap? The paper doesn’t come out until next week.”

  I gazed up at the ceiling. “Gosh, Milo, maybe I’m just curious. You find somebody who’s been turned into a French fry up on Martin Creek, and I’m supposed to be disinterested?”

  “You know damned well I’ll give you the details when I get them,” Milo countered. “Right now, I’ve got to run these stiffs over to Everett.”

  I was taken aback. “Did you say ‘stiffs’ or ‘stiff’?”

  “Stiffs
,” Milo reiterated. “We’ve still got Jack Froland here. The Snohomish County M.E.s are backed up in Everett. They won’t get to Jack until next week. Still, I’d like to move him and this other corpse out of here before the weekend. So unless you drive a hearse, I’ll see you later, Emma.”

  The sheriff hung up. I was used to Milo’s crass detachment when it came to death, knowing it was the only way he could survive in his job. But ever since Tom had been killed, I couldn’t help but wince at the sheriff’s synonyms for the deceased. Even in death, Tom had never been “the body” as far as I was concerned. He was still Tom. With a small shudder, I left the office and started for the Alpine Clinic.

  Passing Mugs Ahoy, I could see that the door was open. It looked as if the owner, Abe Loomis, had drawn quite a crowd on this late Friday afternoon. Most of the regulars were probably hoisting a stein in memory of their boon companion Jack Froland.

  Despite being almost ten minutes late for my appointment, I still had to wait for Doc Dewey. From behind the reception desk, Marje Blatt inquired rather archly if I’d purposely been tardy.

  “Some of our patients are deliberately showing up late,” she said with a sniff of disapproval that reminded me of her Aunt Vida. “I realize that when Doc was alone at the clinic, the wait could be over an hour, but that’s changed now that Dr. Sung is here.”

  “Honestly, I intended to be here at four-thirty,” I responded. “I got held up on the phone.”

  Marje’s expression was skeptical, but she said nothing, merely holding up two fingers, indicating the number of the examination room I should take. Five minutes later, Gerald Dewey appeared.

  “How do you feel, Emma?” he inquired after sitting down in a blue swivel chair.

  “Physically?”

  Doc smiled and shook his head. “Not really. Though of course that’s important, too. I’m more concerned with your mental and emotional health.”

  I sighed. “You don’t expect me to have gotten over Tom’s death, do you, Doc?”

  “No,” he said simply. “You never will. That’s why I asked you to see me. I think you could use a little help.”

  I was wary. “What kind of help?”

  “How are you sleeping?”

  “Fairly well.” It was true, but I was in the habit of taking four Excedrin P.M.s every night.

  “Nightmares?”

  “Some, but not like at first.” I bit my lip. The horrible sleep-induced visions I’d suffered the first few months after Tom had been killed were slowly being replaced by dreams of him still alive and the two of us happily in love. I almost preferred the nightmares; at least I didn’t have to awake to the grim reality of loss. It was as if I had to go through the shock of his death over and over again.

  “That’s good,” Doc said. “It’s normal for your dreams to change.”

  “I’d rather not dream at all,” I said.

  “That can’t be helped,” Doc responded, then smiled in the droll manner that was so reminiscent of his late father. “I’m more concerned about when you’re awake. By nature, you’ve always been a pretty enthusiastic sort of person. I don’t see that any more. How do you feel when you start the day?”

  I shot Gerald Dewey an ironic glance. “You mean once I wake up and realize that Tom’s really dead?”

  “Yes.”

  I avoided Doc’s gaze. “I feel dead, too.”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Doc nod. “That’s a sign of depression. In fact, you’re exhibiting several symptoms. What would you think about trying Prozac or another of the antidepressants?”

  My head jerked up. I’d always considered antidepressants as one step above illegal mind-altering drugs.

  “I’d rather not,” I declared.

  Doc chuckled softly. “I had a feeling you’d say that. We’re not talking about witchcraft, Emma. Depression can be rooted in physical and chemical disorders.”

  “Mine’s not,” I said sharply. “If I’m depressed, it’s because my entire future died with Tom Cavanaugh. I’ve got every right to feel God-awful.”

  “Speaking of God,” Doc went on in his mild way, “have you discussed this with Father Kelly?”

  Dennis Kelly was my pastor at St. Mildred’s. “Some,” I replied. “But mostly I’ve talked with my brother, Ben. Father Kelly tends to be more intellectual in his approach. Ben’s the practical kind. And neither of them are the sort of priests who hand out comfort pap with titles like Lift Me Up Lord, I Feel Like Bird-Doo. Furthermore, I don’t blame God for what happened. I’m not a theological ninny.”

  “I’m glad to hear that,” said Doc, who was an Episcopalian. “It means you’re a sensible person. Which should also mean that you have some faith in science as well as religion. What have you got to lose by trying an antidepressant? And by the way, I don’t hand them out the way some physicians do. They’re not a cure-all, and in my medical opinion, they’re prescribed too freely.”

  I made a face. “I don’t know, Doc. . . . If I start taking the pills, it’ll be surrendering. It’s as if I lack the moral courage to fight my problems.”

  Doc chuckled again. “Most people fight with weapons. That’s what antidepressants are. Weapons in the war on depression.”

  I rubbed my forehead several times. “I don’t know what to say.”

  “I’m the doctor, remember?” Doc reached out to pat my arm. “Emma, you aren’t you any more. You’ve had a terrible loss, but you still have so much. Your son, your brother, your friends, the newspaper—what would happen if you decided to give up the Advocate and go off to mope some place? Do you want Spencer Fleetwood to buy you out and take over the news in this county?”

  Doc had pushed the right button. “Of course not!” I cried, my head jerking up again. Then I laughed. “You sly fox.”

  “Well?” There was a twinkle in Doc’s eyes.

  “Okay,” I sighed, “I’ll try it.”

  Doc nodded slowly, then picked up a prescription pad from the desk at his elbow. “You can take this to Parker’s Pharmacy now. They don’t close until eight.”

  “What are you prescribing?”

  “Paxil,” he replied. “It doesn’t have as many side effects as Prozac and some of the other drugs. But once you begin taking it, don’t stop. It doesn’t jump-start you. Give it time, up to a month.”

  “Okay,” I said as we both stood up and Doc handed me the prescription. “By the way, I have to ask you one more time— were you surprised that Jack Froland died so suddenly?”

  Doc was ushering me out the door of the exam room. “At eighty, and with colon cancer, you can hardly be surprised. I will admit, he seemed more chipper lately.” Doc paused, fingering his round chin. “Feisty is more like it. But then Jack was always feisty.”

  “When did you see him last? That is,” I amended, “before the night he died?”

  Doc reflected. “The last week of August. That’s when I noticed he seemed in a better mood.”

  “Did you ask him why?”

  Doc gave me a puzzled look, then gave a nod. “Oh, I see what you mean. Yes, I suppose I did. I don’t recall exactly what he said, though. I think it was something about believing he could still beat what he referred to as his ‘gut buster’. I’d removed some of his colon, you know. He’d been pretty angry when he had to wear a colostomy bag. That was a low point, even when we found the cancer had recurred and was inoperable. But once he didn’t need the bag after the colon healed, he cheered up.”

  I was doing a backward shuffle down the corridor to the waiting room. “I gather you didn’t feel he was at death’s door the last time he came to see you?”

  “No, I didn’t,” Doc said slowly. “But at Jack’s age and given the prognosis . . .” He stopped and narrowed his eyes at me. “Emma, you’re not taking this silly rumor about foul play seriously, are you?”

  “Not really,” I said.

  “Good.” He patted my arm again. “Don’t forget to stop at the pharmacy.”

  I thanked Doc, gave Marje a
wave as I passed her desk, and headed out into the sunlit afternoon. I’d parked in the clinic’s small lot across the street from the hospital. Parker’s Pharmacy was on Front Street, in the block between the Advocate and the sheriff’s headquarters. As I turned the corner from Third Street, I saw the metal hands on the sidewalk clock outside of the bank click to exactly five-thirty. Traffic on the town’s main drag was as heavy as it ever gets, which meant I could count at least twenty vehicles within a four-block stretch. Hardly gridlock, but what annoyed me was that a car was parked in my usual place outside of the newspaper office. I was forced to take a left off Fourth and come around the other way to see if there was a space by the drugstore.

  While I waited behind two cars at the four-way stop, I realized that the usurping car looked familiar. It was a black BMW. Moving up a spot, I could see the front vanity plate, which read MRKSKY.

  Sure enough, Spencer Fleetwood was coming out of the Advocate office. I honked as I reached the intersection. Spence—and another half-dozen pedestrians—turned in my direction. I took a left and pulled up by the fire hydrant on the corner. MRKSKY walked toward my car, his tanned face wearing a big grin along with the inevitable Gucci sunglasses.

  I rolled the window down on the passenger side. “Were you looking for me?” I asked.

  Spence leaned down, the gold chain around his neck dangling above the car’s window frame. “In a way,” he said. “When Leo Walsh told me you’d left early I thought maybe it was to avoid me. We didn’t part on chummy terms the other day. Would you care to drink and make up?”

  I hesitated. But I was curious as to why Spencer Fleetwood had come to the newspaper office. “Okay,” I said. “The Venison Inn’s closed. How about the ski lodge?”

  “Sure thing,” he replied, giving my Lexus a couple of raps on the door frame. “See you there.”

  By the time I went around the block, I ended up following Spence out Front Street to the Burl Creek Road. We both slowed down as we wound up the slope of Tonga Ridge, over the bridge that spanned the creek, through the tall grand and Douglas firs, the western hemlocks, the red cedars, the Sitka spruces, and the white pines. I rolled all the windows down to savor the scent of the evergreens. It was like having Christmas in my car.