The Alpine Kindred

by Mary Daheim

  Vida looked vaguely sheepish. “Not exactly. It's just that when Mary Jane and Dick got married almost forty years ago, the rest of the Rasmussens cut them off. I suppose I don't think of them as having anything to do with the rest of the family, because they don't. Besides, the Bourgettes only moved to Alpine two years ago when Dick started working as an electrical subcontractor on the college construction. Dan and John joined their father, but now they want to branch out. Dick and Mary Jane had lived in Monroe until then, and I understand they wanted more space to entertain their grandchildren. The Bourgettes have quite a brood.”

  I realized then that I'd seen members of the Bourgette clan at Mass only in the past couple of years. Vaguely, I recalled Vida's story on the family and how they'd taken up residence in the old Doukas house on First Hill. But of course Vida hadn't mentioned the Rasmussens in her article, so I was unaware of the connection.

  “I think the Bourgettes have a great idea,” Carla said after I'd told her to go ahead and send the restaurant story to the back shop for publication on page two. “We could use another place to eat. I get tired of the Venison Inn and the Burger Barn and those fast-food places at the mall.”

  I agreed. “Let's hope they have better luck than the Californians who tried to fix up the old hotel,” I noted, referring to the L. A.-area transplants who had tried to renovate the old Alpine Hotel in the hope of turning it into a bijou hostelry, complete with a gourmet kitchen. Five years ago their timing, as well as their financing, had been dicey. The project had collapsed, and the hotel was currently being considered by the local churches as a battered women's shelter.

  Which, it occurred to me, would provide editorial fodder for next week. Like the county health department's slow selection process in hiring a new doctor, Alpine's clergy were taking their time to finalize the shelter project. I understood the locals' resistance to change, but in both cases, I felt they were shooting themselves in the foot.

  Or was it feet? I wondered idly, still in my proofreader's mode. But the paper was in Kip MacDuff's hands, and it was time to go home. Once again, I dodged Dodge. Behind the wheel of my aging green Jaguar, I turned off Front Street and headed for Railroad Avenue. It was about time I took a good look at the future diner site.

  The loading dock and the warehouse were located just off Alpine Way by the bridge over the Skykomish River. The structures had originally served the Alpine Lumber Company, which had stood on the site of Old Mill Park just across what is now the main thoroughfare in and out of town. The charred remnants of what had once been the bustling hub of Alpine were flanked on the north by River Road and on the south by the railroad tracks. The fire had started during the night last October while Vida and I were out of town. Except for the sagging wreck of a building, damage had been minimal. The loading dock was rarely used, and the warehouse had been empty for years. Like the rest of Alpine, the structures had been waiting for better days.

  Getting out of the car, I surveyed the burned timbers and piles of rubble. Though I'd often driven past the ruins, I hadn't paid much attention until now. The site would be a good location for a restaurant, I decided. There'd be plenty of room for parking, a river view, and proximity to the main thoroughfare in and out of town. Maybe the Bourgette brothers had more business sense than Einar Rasmussen Jr. gave them credit for.

  With a nod of approval, I got back in my Jag and headed for my little log house at the edge of the forest. Alpine is built on the steep slopes of Tonga Ridge, with residents nestled among the second-stand evergreens. The Douglas fir and hemlock and cedar are seventy years old, and bare patches on Mount Baldy and other nearby peaks attest to more recent harvests. The old growth, which yielded pre-Columbian giants, had been cut down in the first quarter of the twentieth century to supply the Alpine Lumber Company. For almost two decades, the mill had been the town's economic base. But once the founder and owner, Carl Clemans, finished clear-cutting his stand, he shut down operations. Alpine was faced with extinction until Vida's future father-in-law, Rufus Runkel, and a Norwegian fondly recalled as Olaf the Obese, built a ski lodge. Other mills and logging companies had come and gone since the late Twenties, but environmental concerns put timber towns such as Alpine up against the wall. One local mill remained, with a scant half-dozen cutting areas on nearby mountainsides. Feeling like an endangered species, Alpiners had welcomed the new community college with open arms.

  Or almost. As usual, there were holdouts who feared newcomers, especially those whose skin was of a different hue. It was one thing to live side by side with commuters from Everett and Monroe, whose fair complexions suggested Northern European kinship. It was something else to stand in the checkout line at the Grocery Basket with shoppers named Kittikachorn or Kuramoto or Cardenas.

  Leaving the Jag in the carport, I went to my mailbox, where I found several bills and a couple of catalogues. Inside, my answering machine revealed a big red zero. On Tuesday nights during the year and a half that Milo and I had been a couple, I often celebrated completion of the weekly edition by making him dinner or going out. Since our breakup, I came home, made myself a bourbon and water, then wondered what dismal concoction I could eat by myself. On more than one occasion, I'd ended up with a bag of microwave popcorn. At least I used the kind that had full butter flavor.

  Leo was right. Not only was I crabby, but full of self-pity. Nursing my drink, I wandered back into the kitchen and gazed out to the tall evergreens where a couple of chipmunks were darting among the branches. A couple of chipmunks, I thought. Even chipmunks came in couples.

  I made another drink.

  By Friday, my mood had improved, if only because I was so busy. On the way to work, I'd stopped on Alpine Way at Cal Vickers's Texaco station to get gas. Cal had informed me that the Bourgettes were starting to clear away the debris from the warehouse site. I made a mental note to tell Carla to get a picture for the upcoming edition.

  I'd also decided it was time to talk to Ginny about Brad's continuing presence on The Advocate's premises. I hated to do it, but if her sister-in-law would take Brad in free of charge, at least the Erlandsons wouldn't be out of pocket. The wages I paid Ginny weren't exactly prodigal, and Ginny's husband, Rick, worked at the Bank of Alpine, where his salary was modest at best.

  Thus I tried to be tactful in making my suggestion to our office manager. “Brad's such a lively little boy,” I said, forcing a bright smile. “I was wondering if it isn't time for him to be with other kids his age. What do you think, Ginny?”

  Ginny's pleasant, if plain face fell. “You mean—day care?” She made it sound as if I'd suggested a chain gang. “But I'd be away from him all day!”

  I winced, but tried to keep smiling. “I'm thinking of Brad,” I said, lying only a little. “As he gets older he needs more freedom, companionship, experiences.”

  “I don't know.” Ginny propped her chin on her freckled hand. “I've never thought much of moms who dump their kids on somebody else all day and go off to work.”

  “I did.” My smile grew bittersweet. “As a single parent, I had to leave Adam with a sitter when I worked on The Oregonian.”

  Ginny, who is serious by nature, didn't respond immediately. “Did he mind?” she finally asked. “Did you mind?”

  “I had no choice,” I replied candidly. “It was either that or welfare.”

  I'd said the wrong thing. Ginny's skin flushed and her nostrils quivered. “That's not an option for us! Rick's been promoted at the bank. You know he's assistant manager now. If I quit tomorrow, we'd survive.”

  The idea of losing Ginny was too much. She was very efficient, and not only ran the office, but kept the books. It hadn't occurred to me that in getting rid of Brad, his mother might go with him.

  “Okay,” I said hastily. “Don't worry about it right now. It was just a thought.”

  Ginny, however, still looked upset. “If you think Brad's a problem …”

  The phone rang before I could deny that having a one-year-old toddler bite me in
the thigh, throw his diaper on my computer keyboard, spit up apple chunks in my in-basket, and piddle in my purse bothered me in the slightest.

  “Don't worry,” I repeated, with an airy wave of my hand. “Really.” I grabbed the receiver before the call trunked over to Ginny's vacant desk out front.

  To my chagrin, the voice on the other end belonged to Ed Bronsky. “Don't forget, tonight's the night,” he said, at his most chipper. “Who're you bringing?”

  “Bringing?” I was somewhat taken aback. “No one. That is, the rest of the staff will be there.”

  “Ginny's husband, Rick? The baby? Kip MacDuff? He have a date? What about Vida and her air-force colonel?”

  Vida was still keeping company with Buck Bardeen, a widower about her own age. “I'm not sure,” I hedged. “Figure on six of us.”

  “What about Carla and the dean?” Ed could be persistent. I'd forgotten that, since it was not a trait he often displayed while employed as my ad manager.

  “She hasn't committed.” I accidentally knocked my coffee mug over, spilling cold liquid in my lap. “Hey, Ed, I've got to run. Someone's in my office.” It was true: Brad Erlandson was crawling across the threshold, dragging a small stuffed bunny by one ear.

  “Oh. Sure, no problemo. By the way, if you get a chance, would you mind stopping at the liquor store and picking up a couple of bottles of vodka and maybe one of Scotch? I'll pay you when you get here.”

  Like fun, I thought in annoyance. Rich or poor, Ed remained a moocher. “I'll see,” I said in a noncommittal voice, and rang off.

  I was mopping up my slacks when the phone rang again. This time it was Alfred Cobb, one of the county commissioners, droning on about construction of the new bridge out by the golf course. I listened with half an ear and an occasional murmur of feigned interest. If the crazy old fart had read this week's edition of The Advocate, he'd have seen everything he was telling me.

  “Alfred Cobb!” Vida sniffed after she'd come into my office and I'd finally gotten rid of the county commissioner. “Such a moron! Did you attend the April meeting when he forgot to put on his pants?”

  I shook my head. “That was Carla. I traded her that one for the schoolboard meeting.”

  “Lucky you.” Vida, as usual, didn't bother to sit down in one of my visitor's chairs. Instead, she loomed over my desk, her head and bust thrust forward like the figurehead on an old Boston whaler. “Buck can't come tonight. It's his brother's birthday. He and Heather are giving Henry a surprise party at Buck's house in Startup.”

  Henry Bardeen was also a widower, with a grown daughter who worked for him in his capacity as manager of the ski lodge. “You're not going to the family party?” I asked with more than polite curiosity. For all of Vida's outspokenness when it came to the private lives of others, she was remarkably reticent about her own affairs.

  “I'll join them later,” she said without expression. “The rain's holding off, and it's not that far to Startup. But of course I feel an obligation to attend Ed and Shirley's soiree.”

  But of course Vida wouldn't have missed meeting the au pair girl for the world. However, it meant that we would take separate cars to the Bronskys', which was fine with me, as I wanted the freedom to leave at the earliest opportunity.

  Thus, shortly before eight, I found myself weakening as I pointed the Jag east on Front Street. The liquor store was still open, and I would drive right by it. Aware that I was playing the patsy, I stopped to fill Ed's request. The worst that could happen was that I'd be out forty dollars.

  I followed Railroad Avenue past the holding pond almost to where the paved section ended, then turned into Ed and Shirley's steep, winding drive. The entrance to their property is across from a dilapidated old water tower, which makes the gilded lions and the grilled gate look a little silly. But Ed and Shirley are a little silly, which fits. Or so ran my uncharitable thoughts as I pulled in behind a row of cars in front of Casa de Bronska.

  The house is two stories of Italianate design, with a red tiled roof and twin turrets. The tall windows are arched and, on the main floor, covered with more grillwork. The purpose is to evoke the villas of Capri, but somehow the steel girding reminds me of security bars on a pawnshop.

  Since the night was mild, the front door stood open. I could see the sparkling Venetian chandelier in the marble entry hall and the rather handsome replica of a sixteenth-century inlaid credenza. I could also see Ed, wringing Mayor Baugh's hand while Irene Baugh handed her London Fog raincoat to the eldest of the Bronsky offspring, nineteen-year-old Molly.

  “Emma!” Ed cried, spewing some sort of crumbs from his mouth. “Glad to see you're here! Come on in, and chow down. Oh—you brought the extra liquor. Thanks a million, I'll get some cash for you in just a sec. But first, meet Birgitta. She's a peach, right, Fuzzy?”

  “Um,” the mayor murmured, “Irene and I haven't yet met the charming newcomer. But we'll take your word for it, Ed. After all, you're a man of honor.” Fuzzy, who occasionally betrayed his Southern roots, pronounced the word honah and moved into what Shirley called the salon.

  Having handed over the vodka and Scotch to Ed, I gave Molly my lightweight corduroy jacket and followed Irene Baugh. “They've got quite a crowd,” I remarked, figuring that at least forty people had already congregated in the so-called salon.

  “Oh, you know Ed and Shirley.” Irene laughed. “They like to party.”

  “Yes, indeed,” I replied, and wondered if Irene noticed the irony of my tone. Ed and Shirley liked to party, but on their own small-town terms. The Bronskys' idea of a big barbecue was throwing some cheap hot dogs on a grill and asking their guests to bring the buns.

  But for this event, it appeared that Ed and Shirley had gone all out. A long linen-covered table practically filled one end of the room, and was laden with various appetizers, from marinated chicken drumettes to miniature crab cakes. Tim Rafferty of the Icicle Creek Tavern was tending bar in another corner. I sidled up to him and asked how much.

  “It's free,” he said, and gave me his big grin. “I know, it's not like old Ed. I guess this night is special. Have you seen the Queen of Sweden?”

  I shook my head, then Tim nodded toward the far end of the room. “She's standing in the middle of that bunch over there, with Doc Dewey and Scooter Hutchins and some of the Nyquists. She's pretty much of an eleven on a scale of ten, huh?” Tim was still grinning.

  Birgitta definitely stood out in a crowd. She was at least six feet tall, and towered over everyone in the group except Oscar Nyquist. From a distance, she looked very young, mid-twenties at most. It was no wonder that Tim Rafferty's youthful eyes were dazzled.

  I accepted my drink from Tim and moved closer. Ed, who was holding a shrimp in one hand and a chicken wing in the other, nudged me with his elbow. “Come on, Emma. I'll introduce you.” He chuckled and leered. “See how all the men are congregating around Birgitta? She's a knockout, all right.”

  She was. As Ed jostled his way up to the au pair girl, I noted the sleek blonde head, the classic features, the clear skin, and the glacier-blue eyes.

  “Gitty,” Ed called out, the self-importance in his voice diluted by a slight deference, “meet my old boss, Emma Lord, from my slave-labor days. Emma, this is Birgitta— I call her Gitty—Lindholm.”

  Birgitta—let Ed call her Gitty, I wouldn't—put out a strong, firm hand. “How do you do?” she said with an accent.

  Certain that Birgitta had already been asked how she liked Alpine about a hundred times, I searched for a noncliche response. “Is this your first visit to America?” I asked, then realized that she'd probably heard that one at least fifty times.

  Birgitta nodded gravely. “It is. I have never been anywhere but Europe before.”

  I kept smiling, despite her solemn expression. “I toured Europe many years ago, but I never got to Sweden. It must be a lovely country.”

  “It is very nice,” Birgitta replied, then turned to Scooter Hutchins, who owned the local interiors store. “You were
saying Swedish flooring is very much wanted here? Why is that?”

  Feeling dismissed, as well as old, short, and ignored, I tried to pick my way to the buffet table. More guests had arrived, and the salon was getting jammed. I assumed that Ed and Shirley would have the good sense to herd some of the crowd into the adjoining ballroom, which, in reality, held only a big-screen TV, stereo equipment, and three couches, all offering the deep imprint of Ed's behind.

  Nodding to various guests including Edna Mae Dal-rymple, the local librarian, and Stella Magruder, whose services I desperately needed to style my hair, I spotted Father Dennis Kelly, our pastor at St. Mildred's. He was talking to the young men I recognized as Dan and John Bourgette. I decided it was time to get better acquainted with Alpine's fledgling restaurateurs.

  As expected, Father Den's welcome was much warmer than Birgitta Lindholm's. Our pastor is the kind of man who manages to exude warmth while still keeping his distance. No doubt it's an art he's acquired, not just as a religious minority in a Protestant town, but because he is also an African-American. “Do you think Ed and Shirley will con their latest trophy into attending Mass?” Den asked in his wry manner.

  I laughed. “She's Lutheran, I'll bet. Frankly, I don't think Ed and Shirley will be able to con her into much. She looks about six times tougher—and smarter—than they are.” I turned to the two young men who were standing next to Father Den. “Help me out here—which of you is Dan and which is John?”

  The older of the two put out a hand. “I'm John, number-one twig on the Bourgette family tree. There are seven of us, but except for our folks and one of our sisters and Dan here, the rest of the gang is scattered.”

  Dan also shook hands. The brothers looked very much alike, with cheerful round faces, high foreheads, dark hair, and faintly ruddy complexions. John was maybe three or four years older, but the easiest way to tell them apart was because Dan wore glasses.

  I told them I'd driven by the warehouse site earlier in the week, but not since they'd started clearing away the debris. “Carla mentioned that you're aiming for an October-first completion date,” I said.