The Alpine Legacy

by Mary Daheim

  “That's what she said about me,” I sneered. “Remember her editorial week before last?”

  “‘Where did Emma Lord go wrong?' Or some such idiocy.” Vida sat back in the chair at my kitchen table. “Yes, yes, I remember it. So silly. What did you think of April?”

  “Poles apart from her sister,” I said, reaching for the teapot. “A decent woman. Her grief seemed rather superficial, though.”

  “Exactly.” Vida's eyes brightened. “Shocked, yes. But not devastated. Perhaps not even surprised. Don't you find that curious?”

  I considered the question. “Not really. Crystal hadn't lived here for twenty-odd years. I'm assuming the sisters had grown apart. And didn't you say that Crystal gave April a bad time when they were kids? Siblings don't have to like each other.”

  “Very true,” Vida agreed. “Still, I would have expected April to say something about how she wished she might have prevented her sister's suicide. You know—'If only I'd listened, ‘ or some other such useless babble.”

  “Maybe she'd already said that to Mel before we arrived,” I suggested, stirring sugar into my tea.

  “Perhaps,” Vida allowed. “No doubt Mel grunted, an indecipherable sound that would bring no comfort to April.”

  “She's used to it, I imagine.”

  Vida took a last sip from her mug and stood up. “You've had enough tea. We must go see Carla and Omar.”

  I'd almost forgotten about the Talliaferros. On this trip, we drove to the hospital in Vida's Buick. As usual, she rubbernecked for the entire five blocks to Pine Street.

  “Richie Magruder shouldn't take his grandchildren sledding down Fourth. Very dangerous. It's Seventh that's been closed just for that purpose.” “Why on earth is Veda Kay MacAvoy pushing that grocery cart uphill in the snow? So silly, considering her varicose veins.” “Oh, good heavens! Here comes Durwood!”

  Vida slammed on the brakes as Durwood Parker, the worst driver in Alpine, plowed through the intersection on a red tractor. As was customary, he didn't look to right or left, but stared straight ahead through glasses so thick they could have stopped bullets.

  “Where did that old fool get that tractor?” Vida demanded, wrestling with the steering wheel. “The Parkers don't own a farm. They have a perfectly nice house in town, though I can't say much about their garden. Dur-wood's useless, and Dot has no sense of color. One year, all her annuals were white.”

  “Since Durwood had his license yanked, maybe he got the tractor so he could still get around town,” I suggested as Vida finally managed to move the car forward.

  “Perhaps.” Vida's expression was prunelike in its disapproval. “It shouldn't be legal.”

  “It's an item for ‘Scene, ‘ though,” I said, referring to Vida's gossipy front-page column that chronicled Alpine's minutiae.

  “Yes,” she agreed. “It's that until he runs over someone, and then it becomes news.”

  We parked on the street by the hospital, though it wasn't easy to find the curb. The sun was still out, but the temperature remained below freezing. The only melting I'd detected was on some of the utility poles and the eaves of buildings with east-west exposures.

  Omar Talliaferro was the only newborn in the nursery. He was still red and wrinkled. His black hair stood up like a whisk broom. Although he wasn't crying, he refused to open his eyes while Vida and I inspected him through the window.

  “Homely,” Vida murmured. “Most babies are. Roger was one of the exceptions. So handsome, right from the start.”

  Since Roger had evolved into something like the shape of a bowling ball and had squinty, piglike eyes, I made no comment. I had thought that Adam was quite good-looking from the moment the midwife in Mississippi held him up for my inspection. Ben had thought so, too. I had gone to stay with my brother during the last stages of my pregnancy. He had been serving in a delta mission church near Fort Adams at the time.

  Our office manager, Ginny Erlandson, was just leaving when we arrived at the door to Carla's room. “Poor Carla,” Ginny whispered as she waylaid us in the corridor. “She had a terrible time. Did you know it was a breech birth?”

  I felt like saying that it figured: Carla did most things backward, including her news stories. Vida, however, expressed great sympathy as she greeted the new mother.

  “So difficult.” She sighed, squeezing Carla's hands. “But such a beautiful baby. He has your hair and Ryan's eyes.”

  Carla, who definitely looked wan, frowned at Vida. “Omar's eyes are blue.”

  “Yes, yes,” Vida said hastily. “All babies have blue eyes. I mean … the way they're set. In his head. Near each other.”

  I suppose it was better than saying his eyes were close together. I leaned over the bed and patted Carla's shoulder. “Have you slept much since Omar was born?”

  “A little,” Carla answered in a tired voice. “They're going to let me stay an extra day. Otherwise, I'd go home tomorrow.”

  My gorge rises whenever I hear how quickly new mothers are dispatched. The equivalent of major surgery, one of the greatest major life changes—and the medical profession can't induce the insurance carriers to allow a poor woman some time to collect her mental and physical faculties. I made up my mind to write an editorial about it. It would do no good, but I'd vent some spleen. It was one woman-related subject on which I would have needed no goading from Crystal Bird.

  “Maybe tomorrow I can find some time to write the rest of the wedding-gift thank-yous,” Carla said. “I was hoping I'd get them done before Omar came along.”

  Carla and Ryan, who taught at the community college, had been married in early November at the Petroleum Museum in Seattle. Vida was still yapping about the unusual site, but I'd found it rather whimsical. The nostalgia of old gas pumps and oilcans had somehow put me in an appropriately sentimental mood. I'd envisioned bride and groom in an old jalopy, roaring away from a church with tin cans and streamers tied to the bumper. Reality had been Carla, eight months pregnant, and Ryan, looking as if he were about to faint.

  “Your mother's coming from Bellevue, I understand,” said Vida, who had sat down in the only visitor's chair. I'd considered parking myself on a portable commode, but decided I'd rather stand.

  “Yes,” Carla replied, pausing to sip water from a plastic glass. “That's for the first week. Then Ryan's mother is coming over from Spokane. By the time she's ready to go home, it'll be Christmas.”

  “Carla,” I said, “surely you aren't going to start work right after New Year's.”

  “Why not?” Carla responded.” Winter quarter doesn't begin until January fifth. That gives me exactly a month.”

  Carla had signed on as the adviser to the student paper at the college. The thought of her instructing impressionable young minds in the art of journalism made me cringe.

  “It won't be full-time,” she went on to say. “President Cardenas doesn't expect to put out the first issue until spring quarter. The monies allocated from the student funds won't be available until then.”

  Vida was shaking her head. “It's not wise to push yourself. The wedding, the baby, the holidays—you must allow time to recuperate.”

  “I'll be fine,” Carla asserted. “Hey—what's this I hear about Crystal Bird killing herself?”

  “Unfortunately,” Vida replied, “it's true. She slashed her wrists.”

  “Bummer,” Carla remarked. “I interviewed her once on the phone. She was loaded with attitude.”

  “Yes, she was,” Vida agreed, rising from the chair. “We must go. Too many visitors are tiring.”

  “That's right,” I said. “Get some sleep.”

  Carla grimaced. “If I can, with that moron next door yelling every ten minutes for painkillers. Men are such babies. All he's got is a broken leg. Big deal.”

  “Oh?” Vida's head swiveled. “Who is it?”

  “Some foreign dweeb,” Carla replied. “He ran his car into a ditch last night down by Eagle Falls. Ever since they put me in here, I've had to listen to h
im moan and groan. He's quiet now. Maybe they finally knocked him out. I hope they used a hammer.”

  Vida bolted from the room. Blowing a kiss at Carla, I ran after Vida. She had stopped next door and was boldly removing the medical chart that rested in a metal holder.

  “Ah!” she exclaimed in her usual stage whisper. “Victor Dimitroff. I wondered.” Vida peered around the door frame. “Carla's right. He's asleep. Here, have a look.”

  A chunky nurse was coming down the hall. I recognized her from Vida's stay in the hospital a few months earlier. “Mrs. Runkel,” she said in a surprised voice. “How nice to see you. Are you visiting Mr. Dimitroff? I'm afraid he's resting.”

  Vida wasn't pleased at the interruption, but she made the best of it. “Emma and I have been calling on Carla Talliaferro, However, we learned that poor Victor had been in a wreck. Since it's the weekend, we haven't checked the police log for accidents. How did it happen?”

  I had gotten only the briefest glimpse of Victor Dimi-troff. Black hair, black beard, and muscular arms were all that I could discern. I stood back, waiting to see how much Vida could wheedle out of Constance Peterson, LPN. Or so her name tag read.

  Constance backpedaled, presumably out of Victor's hearing range. If he was listening, of course, which didn't appear likely.

  “It happened last night,” the nurse responded, looking grave. “He was going along Highway 2, right around Eagle Falls. He either turned off the road or skidded and landed in a ditch. Barclay Creek comes in there, so we assume he went into the area where it joins the Sky. It's hard to tell, with all this snow.”

  “Yes,” Vida said. “And he broke his leg, correct?”

  “In two places,” Constance replied. “Nasty breaks. He'll be on crutches for a good six weeks.”

  “Tsk, tsk, “Vida clucked. “Was he alone?”

  Constance looked vaguely surprised. “I think so. No one else was brought in with him. Why do you ask?”

  “For The Advocate,” Vida answered. “Of course we'll get the details Monday from the sheriff's office.”

  “Oh. Of course,” Constance said, in apparent understanding. “Shall I tell Mr. Dimitroff you came by?”

  “That's not necessary,” Vida said, starting off down the hall. “Thank you, Constance. It's nice to see you.”

  “Eagle Falls, huh?” I said when we were out of earshot. “Barclay Creek. Are you thinking what I'm thinking?”

  Vida gave a single nod. “Certainly. They're right there at Baring, where the road leads into Crystal's cabin.”

  * * *

  When I got home shortly before five, there was a frantic message on my machine from Paula Rubens. I called her back immediately.

  “Do you mind if I come up to see you?” she asked in an unsteady voice. “I heard about Crystal this afternoon when I was talking to Shawna Breseford-Hall at the college.”

  I told Paula to come ahead. As usual, I had no exciting plans for Saturday night.

  Paula must have left right away, since she arrived twenty minutes later from her house on the Wallace Falls road at Gold Bar. Her long red hair was more disheveled than usual and the flowing caftan that covered her ample figure looked as if she'd put it on backward. Of course with caftans, it's hard to tell.

  “I can't believe it,” she declared by way of greeting. “Who would have figured Crystal would do such a thing?”

  I didn't quote Father Den. “People are hard to figure,” I said, ushering her into the living room, where I'd just finished building a fire. “Can I fix you a drink?”

  “Please.” Paula collapsed into one of my matching green armchairs. “Not too stiff. I'll have to drive home.”

  I remembered that Paula was a gin drinker, and mixed my best version of a martini along with the standard bourbon and water for me. She gave me a grateful smile when I returned from the kitchen.

  “I feel terrible,” she said, raising the glass to her lips. “I meant to call you first thing to find out how the meeting went.” She paused, then lifted the glass in a toast. “To Crystal. Poor crazy Crystal.”

  I leaned forward and we clicked glasses. “Do you mean that? Was she crazy?”

  “Oooh…” Paula flung her free hand in the air. “Aren't we all? Let's say that Crystal was kind of obsessed. She'd had two lousy marriages, which is enough to make any woman spin out.”

  “What happened?” I inquired.

  “Crystal got married almost straight out of high school, to some guy from around here. Sultan, I think. His name was Dean Ramsey, and he had a scholarship to Oregon State University.” Paula paused to remove the olive from her drink. “They moved to Corvallis, and she worked to help put him through school. I don't think the scholarship was for a full ride, maybe only the first year. Anyway, she had a couple of miscarriages before they had a daughter. After Dean graduated, he got a job with the county. I forget what he did—something agricultural, like an extension agent. They lived in Salem, where Crystal worked as a bank teller. After about ten years, she left him.”

  “She left him?” I wanted to be clear on the background.

  “That's how she put it when she told me,” Paula replied, chewing the olive slowly. “Crystal felt the relationship had come apart. They couldn't communicate, and she was stifled. After they separated, she moved to Portland.”

  “What about the daughter?” I asked. “Her sister, April, never mentioned her.”

  Paula made a sad little face. “She ran away when she was seventeen. It happened while Crystal was married to Aaron Conley. I think the girl's name was Amber.”

  I was trying to calculate ages and dates. I figured Crystal to be about my age, which meant she had probably graduated from Alpine High School in the late Sixties. Ten years later, at the time of the divorce from Dean, she would have still been under thirty.

  “Crystal got very caught up in the women's movement,” Paul continued. “She went to work for another bank, but also enrolled at Clackamas Community College. It took her three years, but she got her associate-of-arts degree, and finished up at Portland State circa the mid-Eighties. That was when she got on with US Bank. The rest you know.”

  I shook my head. “I don't, actually. I mean I know she got some kind of buyout from the bank and moved here, but what about Husband Number Two?”

  “Oh.” Paula made a face. “An easy omission. She never told me how she got mixed up with Aaron. He was about ten years younger and yearning to be the next Kurt Cobain. That marriage didn't last long.”

  “Did you know he's in town?”

  Paula's eyes widened. “No kidding! Did Crystal tell you that?”

  “Crystal didn't tell me much of anything,” I said, and was surprised that the memory of our brief encounter could make me sound so irritable. “I heard about it from my usual source. Vida.”

  A hint of amusement played at Paula's lips. “Of course.” She paused and let out a big sigh. “We're the smart ones, Emma. We never married. How many women do you know who are happily wed?”

  I was surprised by her comment. “Several. Shall I count the Merry Wives of Washington?”

  “Don't bother.” Paula made a slashing motion with her hand. “My parents were miserable all the years that they were both alive. But they never divorced. I often wondered why not.”

  I didn't want to get sidetracked in a debate over marriage. My own feelings were strong about the merit of struggle and endurance, of commitment and love. Except, of course, that I'd never had to do any of it.

  “Tell me,” I said, “if Crystal had a current man in her life.”

  Paula shrugged. “There was some guy, a tuba player, I think. Or maybe he's a composer. Russian name—I forget.”

  “He's in the hospital. His name is Victor Dimitroff, and he was in a car wreck Friday night.”

  Paula choked on her drink. “Really! Goodness.” She dabbed at her chin with the back of her dimpled hand. “Then he must have been on the scene more than I realized. Did you talk to him?”

  I shook my
head. “I heard about him by chance. Vida and I went to see Carla Steinmetz. Carla Talliaferro, I mean. I can't get used to her married name. She had her baby early this morning.”

  “Well.” Paula gazed into her glass, which was just about empty. “That's interesting.”

  “It's a boy,” I said. “They named him Omar.”

  “What?” Paula's eyes took a moment to focus on me. “Oh. Omar? That's …different.”

  “I think so,” I agreed, standing up. “Can I fix you another?”

  “Half,” Paula replied, giving me her glass. “On second thought, why not a whole one?” she called as I started for the kitchen.

  “Do you want to stay for dinner?” I asked, pausing at the kitchen door. “I've got some chicken breasts thawed.”

  “Okay,” she said. “That way, I'll be sober by the time I go home.”

  I put the chicken breasts in the oven, set a pot of water on to boil for rice, and got out a can of French-style green beans. After replenishing our drinks, I returned to the living room.

  “Tell me,” I said, after using a poker to turn one of the logs in the grate, “why do you think Crystal killed herself?”

  “That's a tough one.” Paula stared into the fire, which was again crackling brightly. “If, as you mentioned, Aaron Conley is in town along with Victor, maybe they sent her into some kind of emotional tailspin. Honestly, I can't say, except that Crystal had mood swings.”

  “Depression?” I asked.

  “Could be.” Paula settled back in the armchair, balancing her drink on her lap. “She didn't talk about—what do I want to say? Her innermost thoughts, I guess. She was always so involved with issues. If I had to guess, I'd go for manic-depressive, or whatever they call it these days.”

  “When did you see her last?” I was beginning to feel somewhat mellow. The second bourbon, the sweet scent of wood burning, the shadows dancing around the room all contributed to an improvement in my own mood.

  “Let me think,” Paula said. “I spoke with her on the phone Thursday about meeting with you. In fact, I called her late Friday night to see how things had gone, but she didn't answer.” She gave me a sad little smile. “I guess I know why now. But the last time I actually saw her was Tuesday. She came by the college to look at the exhibit.”