The Alpine Obituary

by Mary Daheim

  That shot down my theory that Anna had shackled herself to lampposts or taken part in illegal rallies. “I understand her son, Zeke, has been very active in environmental issues.”

  “Zeke?” Max looked puzzled. “That would be Gabe and the judge’s brother? How many children are there?”

  “Just those three,” I replied, wishing I could pick up the empty smoked salmon plate and lick off the remaining dabs of crème fraîche.

  Max shook his head. “I don’t know anything about Zeke. But then I didn’t realize that Judge Foster-Klein was related to Lynn’s former boyfriend.” He prodded the breadbasket. “It’s still warm.”

  Max seemed to be dismissing the subject. He suggested we consider our entrees, especially since Peter was coming our way to collect the empty appetizer plates. I didn’t need to look at the menu. I usually had the duck. It didn’t matter how it was served, it was my sole opportunity to eat duck away from the Big City. Jake O’Toole would special order it only at holiday time when I felt obligated to cook a turkey.

  “Duck,” Max echoed as Peter hovered over us. “I think I’ll have that, too. It’s served with a puree of root vegetables and haricot verts. I’ll wager the green beans are very tender here.” He handed the menus back to Peter. “In that case, I’ll have another glass of this.” He tapped his almost empty glass, then looked at me. “What about you, Jackie?”

  I was taken aback, but tried not to show it. “Ah . . . Okay, I’ll nurse another drink with dinner.”

  With a curious glance in my direction, Peter left us. He knew me only slightly, but well enough to know I wasn’t named Jackie.

  Max, however, didn’t seem to notice his gaffe. “I was tempted by the quail,” he remarked. “Jackie didn’t care for game birds. Her favorite entrée was veal. She was especially fond of Italian food. Her veal marsala was exquisite.”

  “A good cook, huh?” I said, sounding like the rube that I was beginning to feel like compared to the incomparable Jackie. To further enhance my lowly image, I reached across the table and dived into the breadbasket.

  “An excellent cook,” Max replied. “We rarely ate out. Her meals were marvelous. Not that I’m a gourmet,” he added modestly.

  “Me neither,” I replied, slathering butter on a chunk of baguette.

  “Not long before she became ill, Jackie took a course in Japanese cooking,” Max went on. And on.

  Frankly, I drifted. I thought of Tom. I could picture him at the corner table, laughing easily, speaking knowledgably, inquiring about my feelings, soliciting my opinions. A bit too rapidly, I finished my bourbon. Max was still droning on when our fresh drinks arrived. He hadn’t quit by the time Peter brought our entrees. Halfway through, he requested a fourth glass of pinot gris and began to discuss his emotional state during his wife’s fatal illness. I had tuned out so much of his monologue that I’d forgotten what had caused Jackie’s death. Boredom, maybe.

  The duck, however, was wonderful. I ate more heartily than I had in months, even asking for a refill of the breadbasket. By the time my plate was clean, Max still had half of his food left. He’d been talking so much that he hadn’t had time to eat. Now on his fifth glass of wine, he suddenly stopped.

  “I hope I’m not wearing you out with all this conversation about Jackie,” he murmured. Or maybe he mumbled. Max sounded strange.

  “It’s good for people to talk out their feelings,” I replied.

  “You’re a good listener,” Max said.

  Or that’s what I think he said. The words weren’t entirely clear. The next thing I knew, Max plunged forward and his face thumped into the haricot verts.

  April 1917

  FRANK DAWSON PUMPED up the lantern next to the kitchen table. It was after eight o’clock, and darkness had descended over Alpine.

  “I think we should quit,” Tom Murphy announced, one hand holding a deck of pinochle cards. “We’ve got to finish planning for the annual community play.”

  Frank glanced at his brother-in-law. Mary Dawson looked at her sister, Kate Murphy. “Well?” Mary said, eyeing each of the men in turn. “Should we let John Barrymore and Enrico Caruso off the hook?”

  “No,” Kate retorted. “It’s early yet. We need one big hand to beat the pants off these two. What’s the score? Eleven-hundred to their six-fifty? If we get the bid, we can trounce them like our doughboys will rout the kaiser.”

  Frank looked at his pocket watch. “All right. We’ll play another hand.” He resumed his seat opposite Tom, who was shuffling the cards.

  “Say,” Frank said as Kate cut the deck for her husband, “where are the boys?”

  “At our house,” Kate replied, “with the big girls. Our Monica’s in charge of the boys, Babe and Kate are watching Frances and Tommy.”

  Mary put a hand to her round belly. “It won’t be long before there’s another one to watch.” She glanced outside where the mill lights shone on the piles of snow along the railroad tracks. “It’s officially spring. Won’t this snow ever melt?”

  “It hasn’t snowed since before Billy’s birthday,” Kate pointed out. “Who wants to bet a nickel that what’s left on the ground will be gone by May first?”

  “I’ll take that bet,” Frank replied, sorting his cards. “Everybody gets so excited when the first snow comes. Well, I hope they’ve all had enough of it by now.”

  “You’ll complain when it gets too hot this summer,” Mary shot back. “You should have stayed in England.”

  “Seattle’s like England. It’s more temperate, with plenty of nice rain,” Frank pointed out. He nodded at each of his in-laws. “These two are smart. They’re talking about moving back to Seattle.”

  Mary uttered a little snort, then looked across the table at her sister. “You haven’t left yet, have you?”

  “Not yet,” Kate answered in a noncommittal tone.

  Mary gave Kate a worried look, then assessed the cards in her hand. “I’ll open for two-ninety.”

  “Three-hundred,” Frank said in an aggressive voice.

  Kate smiled sweetly at her brother-in-law. “Pass.”

  “Pass,” Tom echoed. “I can help you, partner.”

  “No talking across the table,” Kate said severely.

  Tom scowled at his wife. “What about feet? You kicked Mary when you passed.”

  “I was stretching my legs,” Kate replied with an innocent look.

  “Three-ten,” Mary said as the door opened.

  The four pinochle players looked up. Monica Murphy, Tom and Kate’s elder child, rushed over to her mother. “I can’t find the boys,” she said, tears glistening in her eyes. “Billy and Louie took Tommy and Frances down to the creek almost an hour ago, but they’re not there now! We don’t know where they went.”

  Tom and Frank both rose from the table. Kate’s skin paled as she put her cards down. “How could you lose sight of them? You big girls know better than to let them run around this late.”

  Frank was lighting another lantern. “We’ll go look. They can’t be far. The little ones should be in bed.” Tommy was the Dawsons’ youngest son, having turned two in January; Frances would be five in June. “Why didn’t you bring them back over here?”

  Monica’s pretty face was agonized. “Tommy wanted to throw rocks in the creek. Frances said that if he could go, she could, too.”

  “Good Lord!” Mary closed her eyes, both hands on her belly.

  Frank and Tom didn’t bother to put on jackets but hurried out of the house, heading for Icicle Creek. The face of Tonga Ridge was clear-cut all around the town. There were no trees on the hillside, only stumps. The children liked to play on the opposite side of the tracks, near the bunkhouses. If necessary, searchers could be found among the single men who resided there.

  “What about Vincent?” Tom asked as they checked the railroad signals, which were on amber for the passenger train that was soon due to pass through town.

  “I don’t know,” Frank replied. “I haven’t seen him since supper. He do
esn’t spend much time in the house now that the weather’s warmer.”

  Tom, whose Irish baritone had great carrying power, shouted his son’s name. “Billy! Billy! Billy!”

  Frank’s voice was not as musical, but almost as loud. “Louie! Louie! Tommy!”

  They heard nothing but the echo of their own voices, bouncing off the mountains.

  “Goddammit,” Frank breathed. “Where are those kids?”

  Tom’s high forehead was creased with concern. “Monica and your two girls should have gone with them.”

  “You’re right,” Frank replied as they followed the creek down past the railroad tracks. “They usually have better sense.”

  The men paused, shouting their sons’ names again. This time a voice called back.

  “Murph?”

  Frank and Tom spotted the spare figure of a man coming from the creek. He wore only a towel around his waist.

  “Roscoe?” Tom said.

  “It’s me,” Roscoe Moyer answered. “You looking for your boys?”

  Roscoe, one of the unmarried yard men, pointed at the nearest bunkhouse. “I seen ’em about half an hour ago, when I started out to take a wash in the creek. I was gonna shoo ’em away, but hell, they was havin’ fun, so I just went down the hill a piece.”

  Frank felt the muscles in his body slacken a bit. “Did you see them after that?”

  Roscoe shook his head. “I heard ’em hollerin’, but they stopped a few minutes later. I figured they’d run off home. It was getting dark.”

  “Are you sure,” Tom asked, “it was Billy and Louie and Frank’s two little ones?”

  “Oh, yeah,” Roscoe replied. “I know them kids sure as I know myself. Billy’s tall for his age, and Louie’s kinda big the other way. I don’t recollect the little ones’names. Sorry.” He gave Frank an apologetic look. “I reckon they went off with Jonas and Vincent.”

  Frank practically pounced on Roscoe. “They were there, too?”

  Roscoe took a backward step. It didn’t pay to rile either Frank or Tom. Besides, Frank was the mill’s slip man, and Tom was the deck man. They deserved respect.

  Roscoe gulped. “Jonas and Vince were comin’ to the creek when I was headin’down. I didn’t see none of ’em after that. I was takin’ my wash.”

  “Thanks, Roscoe.” Tom forced a smile. “See you tomorrow.”

  Roscoe was hurrying back to the bunkhouse when Frank grabbed Tom’s arm. “Should we get some of the men to help us search?”

  Tom considered. “Let’s give it another few minutes. Hell, they can’t be far.” But the Irishman’s face was grim.

  Frank started back up the hill. “Roscoe didn’t hear or see them go by. Let’s follow the tracks.” He glanced at the sky. The stars were coming out, billions of them, so close that they seemed almost within reach. Frank silently cursed Vincent. The boy had been nothing but trouble since he’d come to Alpine.

  When they reached the tracks, Frank and Tom decided to split up. They’d started in opposite directions when they heard Kate calling to them.

  “Have you found the boys yet?” she shouted, holding her skirts high as she hurried downhill.

  “No,” Tom shouted back. “Stay put.”

  “I can’t,” Kate said, her face pale. “We have to flag the westbound train when it comes through at ten to nine. Mary’s in labor. We have to get her to the doctor in Sultan.”

  Frank, who had waited by the semaphore, swore under his breath.

  Kate tapped the small silver watch pinned to the bodice of her dress. “It’s eight-forty now. I’m going to help Mary down to the platform.” She stared into the night and wrung her hands. “Dear God, where can those boys be?”

  “We’ll find them,” Tom said with more confidence than he felt. He gave his wife a pat on the behind. “Go help Mary.”

  Kate hesitated, then resumed the uphill climb. She stopped once to look back. Darkness had brought the cold night air down from the mountains. Billy had been wearing only a light jacket. Kate avoided a snowbank and trudged toward the Dawson house.

  Frank moved briskly down the line, intermittently calling Louie’s name. He had turned the first bend in the rails when he saw the little group coming toward him. Louie, with Frances in his arms. Billy, carrying Tommy.

  “Thank God,” Frank said aloud. “Are you all right?” he called to the children even as he heard Frances screaming at the top of her little lungs.

  “Yeah,” Louie panted as he reached his father. “Just kind of . . . scared.”

  “Of what?” Frank asked, staring at his youngest daughter’s red, blotchy face.

  Frances reached out to her father. She stopped screaming when he took her in his arms.

  “Scary stu f,” Louie replied with a quick glance at Billy.

  Frank studied Tommy, who seemed none the worse for the adventure, though there were twigs and leaves in his Dutch boy bob.

  “Get down,” Tommy said, kicking at Billy. “I wanna get down.”

  Billy set Tommy on the ground but avoided his uncle’s gaze. Frank decided to wait to interrogate the boys until they got back to the house. Or to the platform. Wherever Mary was by now.

  As the little group approached, Frank saw Mary. She was lying in a snowbank about twenty feet from the tracks. Kate and her daughter, Monica, were trying to help her get up but the task was made difficult by Mary’s bulky body, long full skirt, two petticoats, and heavy wool coat.

  Mary saw her children and began to laugh, almost hysterically. “Blessed be God,” she gasped, then doubled over with pain.

  “Where were they?” Kate demanded, her eyes glistening with tears.

  Frank shouted for Tom, who was no longer in sight. “Dammit,” he said, “now somebody will have to go get him.”

  “We will,” chorused his older daughters. Young Kate and Babe had appeared from behind the social hall. “We’ll stay together,” Babe assured her father. The two long-legged girls started running down the tracks.

  Frank had given Frances to his sister-in-law. It was a struggle but he finally got Mary to her feet, just as the locomotive’s headlight glowed in the distance.

  “Flag it!” Frank shouted.

  “I already did!” Tom called back, running toward them with the Dawson girls. Mary leaned against Frank taking brief, shallow breaths. “Such a time,” she gasped. “Are the children really all right?”

  “They seem fine,” Frank replied as the train slouted to a stop.

  Kate hugged Billy, then Monica. “I have to go with Aunt Mary to Sultan,” she said, picking up the leather suitcase that had been packed the previous week. “Are you sure you’re fine, Billy?”

  “Yes, Mama. Honest.” But Billy’s glance at his mother was quick, almost furtive.

  By the time the train stopped, at least a dozen other Alpiners had gathered by the tracks.

  “What’s going on?” Ruby Siegel called.

  “The baby’s on its way,” Frank responded. “Mary and Kate are going to Sultan.”

  “Good luck, Mary!” Ruby and some of the others shouted.

  The two sisters were helped onto the train while the conductor discreetly engaged in some ribald repartee with the men. Then, as everyone waved, the passenger train whistled again and slowly began to pull away from the platform.

  Frank heaved a big sigh. “It won’t take long to get to Sultan, thank God. Mary should be fine.” He looked at his eldest daughter. “Babe, take everybody up to the house. I want Louie and Billy to stay here.”

  “Yes, Papa,” Babe said. She picked up Tommy, who suddenly seemed very tired and willing to be carried. Kate reached for Frances, who backed away.

  “I’m walking,” she declared, her tears stopped and defiance in her eyes. “I’m not a baby, you big berry-head.”

  “Then walk between us,” Kate snapped, grabbing one of Frances’s arms while motioning at her cousin, Monica, to take the other.

  As soon as they were out of earshot and the others had headed back to their h
omes, Frank grasped Louie by the collar of his jacket. “What happened? Why did you boys run off?”

  Like Billy, Louie’s gaze was evasive. “We didn’t mean to.”

  “But you did.” Frank sounded severe. “Why?”

  Louie glanced at Billy who was shifting from one foot to the other under his father’s hard stare. “It was Vincent. And Jonas. They wanted to show us a bear.”

  “You’ve seen a bear before,” Frank said. “The bears have gone up into the high country this time of year. Besides, you know better than to go looking for a bear. They can be dangerous if you bother them.”

  “Vincent said it was the biggest bear anybody’d ever seen,” Louie said. “Huge.” He spread his arms wide.

  “Did you see this bear?” Frank asked.

  Louie shook his head. “No.”

  “Then why didn’t you come right back?”

  “We wanted to,” Louie said. “Vincent and Jonas wouldn’t let us.”

  Frank’s head jerked up. “Where are they?”

  Louie hung his head. “I don’t know. We ran away while they were playing on the rope.”

  “What rope?” Frank asked sharply.

  Louie looked to Billy for help. His cousin obliged, though with obvious reluctance.

  “They tied a big rope to the railroad trestle. They swing on it. And . . .” His voice trailed off.

  “And what?” Tom cut in.

  “Just . . . nothing.” Billy looked as if he were about to cry.

  “Did you swing on the rope?” Tom demanded.

  “No.” Billy wiped his mouth with his hand. “Yes. Once.”

  Frank still held his son by the collar. “Did you?”

  “Once.”

  “What else did you do?” Frank asked, finally letting go of Louie.

  “Nothing.” Louie looked as miserable as Billy. “We didn’t do anything.”

  “What did Vincent and Jonas do?” Frank persisted.