by Mary Daheim
Vida, Carla, and I all cover our share of civic and social gatherings. We each usually get stuck for at least one a week. But not on this first Monday in November.
I explained about going to church and getting gas. Vida listened as she put on the teakettle. Her usually cozy kitchen was covered with old newspapers, including The Advocate. The house smelled strongly of Comet cleanser.
“I’m cleaning,” she announced, waving a rubber glove at various appliances. “I’m having Thanksgiving. I like to get a head start for the holidays. I’m also having Roger this weekend. Amy and Ted are going to spend the weekend in Seattle. They have tickets to the Repertory Theatre.”
Personally, I would have waited until after Roger had left to clean house. Then I would have called in the Bomb Squad first. Roger is Vida’s ten-year-old grandson, and the apple of her eye. Amy is the only one of Vida’s three daughters who lives in Alpine. Never mind that Roger is a horror. While Vida is highly critical of other people’s children, Roger can do no wrong.
I tried to conceal my dismay. As far as I’m concerned, a weekend with Roger would be like a month in the clutches of the Spanish Inquisition. I didn’t ask how Vida would amuse him, but she told me anyway.
“Friday, we’re getting videos, all his favorites. Saturday, I’ll take him to the mall and he can buy something special. In the evening, we’ll get a big pizza. Sunday, we’ll go to church and then practice shooting his new BB gun in the woods.”
I blinked. Roger with a BB gun sent off danger signals. He should run up the Jolly Roger on his bike. “What if it snows?” That was the only nonpejorative comment I could manage.
Vida shrugged, then removed two bone-china teacups and saucers from her cupboard. “We could drive down the pass to Sultan. Everyone practices shooting at the gravel pit there.”
Everyone would soon stop if Roger came along. But I let Vida run her course before I got to the purpose of my visit. She was steeping the tea by the time I was able to tell her about my latest encounters with the Petersens.
“So I still don’t know why Bob Lambrecht met with Marv Petersen, and now I wonder who Linda was meeting at the Lumberjack Motel,” I concluded as Vida poured tea.
“I can’t use that in ‘Scene Around,’” Vida remarked with some asperity. “If I mentioned everyone having an extramarital affair in this town, we’d run out of room.”
“I know that, Vida.” I allowed myself a teaspoon of sugar. Vida is a diligent housekeeper and a fine gardener, but her culinary skills are limited. Even her tea lacks flavor. “I’m not really prying. If there’s a bank buyout in the works, this is big news.” I ignored Vida’s scowl. “I need background on the family.”
Vida refused to address the issue. Instead, she asked if Leo had gotten his financial life straightened out at the bank. I assured her he had, then steered the conversation back to Linda.
Vida removed her glasses and vigorously rubbed her eyes, always a gesture of annoyance or distress. “Ooooh … This is all very silly. The Petersens would never sell out. It would be tantamount to admitting that the town itself is going under.”
I didn’t say anything. My arrival in Alpine had coincided with the downturn in the timber industry. Since then, Front Street had become dotted with FOR RENT signs. Some of the vacancies were caused by businesses that had moved to the mall, but others had simply failed. Not only had Buzzy’s BP gone belly-up, but so had the Chinese-American restaurant in the same block, a gift shop, a feed merchant, a pet store, and a building contractor. I waited for Vida to face reality.
“After high school, Linda went to Everett Junior College.” Vida put her glasses back on and gave me a look of resignation. “During the summers, she worked for her father as a teller. She had a very unhappy romance with a boy from Gold Bar. They called off the wedding less than a month before they were to be married. Linda has always been difficult. She married Howard Lindahl on the rebound and moved to Everett. She was—what?—twenty-three, I think. They had a daughter who must be about twelve. Howard worked for one of the mills over there, but later he started his own cabinetry business. That was before the divorce, which was three years ago, just after you moved to Alpine. Linda came back here and went to work for her father again, first as a teller, then as his bookkeeper when Alma Olson retired. Howard has custody of young Alison.” Daintily Vida sipped her tea.
“Interesting. Why?”
“I can only guess.” Vida set the cup down with great care. “Howard’s remarried, for one thing. Linda never struck me as very maternal. I’ve always suspected that Alison was a mistake. When Linda and Howard broke up, I think she wanted to be free of responsibility.”
“Men?”
Vida frowned, then poured more tea for both of us. “Possibly. Though Linda was never what we used to call boy-crazy. Still, she’s fond of men. Unfortunately, they haven’t always been fond of her—not after they get to know the real Linda.”
“Prickly,” I murmured. Unlucky, maybe. That’s how I preferred to describe myself. “Maybe I shouldn’t assume the worst about Linda being at the motel.”
“Why not? I always do. I’m rarely wrong.” Vida’s tone was matter-of-fact.
We were silent for a moment. My mind’s eye traveled back to the bank. “Say, Vida, why is there an empty medallion on the bank wall?”
Vida looked puzzled. I elaborated. “Ah.” She dabbed at her lips with a paper napkin. “The Silent Partner. I’d forgotten about that. The medallion, I mean. Someone—I never knew who—invested money in the original bank but wouldn’t allow his name—I assume it was a man, being 1930 and all—to be made public. Possibly it was a former Alpiner who had moved away and done well.” She shrugged. “It was, of course, before my time.”
Things that happened before Vida’s time really didn’t count for much. “What about the rest of the family?” I inquired.
Vida was eyeing her stove. Judging from what looked like a faint streak of spaghetti sauce, she hadn’t yet cleaned it. I got the impression that having disposed of Linda’s background, Vida was now anxious to resume her chores.
“You know Larry and his wife, JoAnne. She’s a Bergstrom. Their two boys are away at college. Denise just started at the bank a short time ago. Her only experience has been waiting tables at the Burger Barn and the Icicle Creek Tavern. At least she knows how to make change.” Vida was speaking very fast, one slippered foot swinging under the table. “Marv is the youngest of Frank’s three children. There’s a story—anecdotal, perhaps—that Frank was made the original president because my father-in-law, Rufus Runkel, wanted to call it Frank’s Bank. I think not. In any event, Frank’s elder son, Elmer, had absolutely no interest in banking. He still lives with his wife, Thelma, on their farm near Icicle Creek. Thelma was a Dodge. Milo’s aunt.”
I knew of the farm, which consisted mostly of chickens, ducks, a dozen cows, two horses, and a large vegetable garden in the summer. I didn’t realize that Milo was somehow connected with the Petersens. But this was Alpine, and the fact wasn’t amazing.
“Frank’s daughter, the middle child, is DeAnne,” Vida continued, still with one eye on the stove. “She married an Iverson first, then a Sigurdson, and has lived in Seattle ever since. As for Marv, the youngest of Frank and Irmgaard’s children, he went into the business because he liked it. So did his son, Larry. Marv’s wife isn’t from around here. Cathleen Petersen was born and raised somewhere near Puyallup. I don’t recall how she and Marv met. He served in Korea.”
My mental processes were awhirl. I should have taken notes. As usual, Vida’s biographical account had been thorough. “There was Frank originally,” I said slowly, “then along came Marv, with Larry waiting in the wings. Linda, too, maybe. Denise is the fourth generation.”
“Oh, Denise!” Vida waved a hand in dismissal. “She’s a feather-wit! One of her brothers will follow in their father’s footsteps. It won’t be Denise. But Larry has to have his turn first.”
I remarked that Andy Cederberg had said Ma
rv Petersen would retire when he turned sixty-five. “If the Bank of Washington takes over,” I speculated, “they might keep everyone in place.”
Vida finally stopped staring at her stove. “They won’t take over the Bank of Alpine. They can’t. They mustn’t.” She seemed to be talking to herself, or possibly communing with the banking spirits in Seattle. “Frank would roll over in his grave.”
“He died—when?” I asked, getting to my feet.
Vida seemed relieved that I was leaving. She tried to cover by picking up the teapot and tapping it. I shook my head. She put the pot back on the table.
“Frank died in 1976, the Bicentennial year. His wife, Irmgaard, went in ’seventy-nine. She outlived him, but not by much.” Vida made it sound as if mortality were a competitive event.
I made it to my car. The fog was now thick, swirling above the ground and forcing me to drive at a snail’s pace. Again I ticked off the Petersens, generation by generation: Frank, the founder, now deceased; farmer Elmer, daughter DeAnne, banker Marv; Larry and Linda, both working for their father; Denise, dim, and eventually to be supplanted by one of her brothers.
I had the family lined up. I knew the players. But I didn’t know the facts. Tomorrow I’d try to pry the truth out of the bank personnel. I’d also call Bob Lambrecht in Seattle. I hoped to be out of my mental fog by deadline.
My hope was unrealistic. Bob Lambrecht was an intelligent, courteous man who was perfectly willing to give me a concise rundown of his banking career. He spoke affectionately of his wife, Miriam, and their four children. He even gave me a quote about his impression of Alpine after a thirty-year absence. But he only chuckled when I asked if he’d come to the bank on business.
Nor were the Petersens more forthcoming. I went over to the bank around eleven, after I finished writing the feature on Bob Lambrecht. Larry was engaged in an earnest conversation with Garth Wesley, the current owner of Parker’s Pharmacy. Linda, according to Andy Cederberg, was tied up in her office. Marv, however, could spare me a few minutes.
Marvin Petersen’s usual geniality seemed strained on this cold, overcast November morning. His blue eyes were wary and his handshake was tentative. Marv was taller than his son by an inch and heavier by at least twenty pounds. He grunted as he sat down in his leather-covered swivel chair.
“Emma, let’s be frank. I hate rumors. This town is always full of them.” He picked up a gold ballpoint pen and twirled it in his stubby fingers. “If I say anything for public print, everybody will interpret it six different ways. When—and if—I’ve got something to tell you, you’ll be the first to know.”
Briefly I considered baiting Marv by telling him that I was now forced to write “… that when asked if the Bank of Alpine was for sale, President and CEO Marvin Petersen had no comment.” But I wanted to keep Marv on my side.
“If you change your mind, will you call me before five o’clock today?” I asked. “We have to send the paper off to the printer in Monroe first thing tomorrow.”
Marv nodded his big, balding head. “You bet. But chances are I won’t call. Honestly, Emma. I don’t have a damned thing to tell you.”
I had to be satisfied with that statement. Frustrated, I left the bank. Christie Johnston was on my heels.
“Late coffee break,” the teller explained as we stopped to wait for a US West service van to pass. “I liked your editorial on litter last week.”
The piece hadn’t exactly been my proudest moment. Usually I limit antilitter editorials to once a year in early June, just before the summer visitors start arriving. But the Rotary and Kiwanis Clubs had each voted to adopt a mile of cleanup along Highway 187 when the resurfacing was finished. I had used them as an example of public-spirited organizations, and urged others to join in the cleanup crusade.
I smiled at Christie, who is in her mid-thirties and has worked at the bank for a couple of years. She is about my size, and pretty, if sharp-featured. Her masses of curly brown hair were now hidden by the hood of her navy ski parka. “Thanks, Christie. Are you encouraging your fellow employees to take on the project?”
Christie grimaced as we crossed the street. “I don’t think so. Mr. Petersen—Marv—is kind of sensitive about the bank’s image. I don’t think he’d go for it.”
I envisioned the Petersens and their employees rooting around the side of the road that led up to the campground and the ranger station. “It might do them good. The Petersens project a folksy family image.”
Christie was poised to turn left; no doubt she was headed down the block to the Upper Crust. “Compared to bigger banks, they do,” she acknowledged. “I’ve worked for some real stuffed shirts in Seattle and Everett. But Marv still likes to keep his dignity.”
Editorial or not, I wasn’t going to knock myself out to get recruits for the litter project. I knew that Christie’s husband, Troy, worked for UPS. He’d been transferred from an Everett route to Highway 2. I made one last stab at putting my words to work.
“What about Troy and his fellow drivers?” It was almost eleven-thirty; I was hungry. If I bought something at the Upper Crust, I could work through my lunch hour. I started along Front Street with Christie at my side.
Christie hunkered down against the wind that had blown the fog away. Her teeth seemed to be chattering, though the temperature had risen into the mid-thirties. “Troy doesn’t like to be bugged in his spare time.” Her voice was almost lost inside the high collar of her parka.
I gave up. We entered the bakery, where a half dozen customers were drinking from steaming paper cups and eating fresh goodies. Christie selected a cinnamon roll and hot coffee. She paid for her purchase, then said goodbye and left.
I had thought she’d linger. By the time I departed with my maple bar and hot chocolate, Christie was nowhere in sight. Or so I thought until I dropped my handbag while trying to juggle the hot cup and my white bakery sack. When I straightened up, I glimpsed Christie far down Front Street, crossing over by the Clemans Building. Running errands, I thought, and dismissed Christie from my mind.
I shouldn’t have done that.
By five o’clock, I hadn’t heard from Marv Petersen. By five-thirty, the paper was almost ready to go to Monroe in the morning. I’d saved a four-inch hole on page one for the Tuesday night City Council meeting that I would cover and report. Carla had performed adequately on the jack-o’-lantern reshoot, Vida had found a high school head shot of Bob Lambrecht, and we had all contributed to filling up the “Scene” column.
Carla and Ginny had gone home. Vida was sorting through the mail that had piled up while she worked on her section of this week’s paper. Leo was getting a head start on the Thanksgiving special edition to be published November eighteenth. With our Wednesday publication date, we actually have to put out two Thanksgiving papers, with the first carrying all the grocery and other celebration-related ads. The paper that’s delivered the afternoon before the holiday is stuffed with Thanksgiving-related copy and art, but most of the ads are looking ahead to Christmas.
Leo was laying out an ad for Delphine Corson’s Posies Unlimited. “Is that a co-op with FTE?” I inquired, stopping at Leo’s desk.
“Not this time,” Leo replied with the crooked grin that matched his broken nose. “I talked her into going full-bore for Thanksgiving. A quarter page, with a drawing by one of the kids in the high school art class. Look—it’s not bad, it’s different, and it’s free. The kid just wants his name in print.”
I admired an ikebana arrangement of chrysanthemums in a wooden bowl. The sketch was signed by one of the Olson kids. His mother was half-Japanese, the daughter of a Seattle soldier and his war bride. Nancy Olson didn’t sound Asian, nor did she look particularly Japanese. Still, she was definitely considered different in Alpine, or, at best, exotic. So was her son, Matt, the artist.
“Can Delphine do ikebana?” I asked. “It’s a real art form.”
Leo shrugged and lighted a cigarette. “Who knows? Who cares? How many locals can tell ikebana from
a ripe banana? I told Delphine if anybody asked for an arrangement like this one, to charge a hundred and fifty bucks. That ought to get them to switch to a nice potted plant.”
Vida’s voice erupted from the corner desk. “Delphine’s lost weight. I almost put it in ‘Scene,’ but you never know how people will react these days. They might consider it sexist, or else they’re dying of cancer.” Vida’s expression displayed disapproval of both rationales.
Leo, who had his foot propped up on a new box of copy paper, turned to Vida. “Hey, Duchess,” he said, using the nickname he’d coined and which Vida detested, “you ought to live in L.A. if you think people around here are touchy. You wouldn’t believe the kind of shit I got myself into down there.”
“Which,” Vida replied archly, “is no doubt why you are now here.” With a withering look, she ripped open another envelope.
Leo laughed, blew out a cloud of smoke, and addressed me again. “Hey, babe, guess what? I was going to pay bills today. But I didn’t have to—one of those goddamned little gnomes at the bank is doing it for me. Thanks for hauling my ass over there yesterday.”
I nodded and smiled, albeit thinly. Ed Bronsky was hardly an upper-class kind of guy, but he’d almost never used crude language. I was no prude, certainly not after twenty years of working on a met daily, but in my tenure on The Advocate, we’d set a certain tone. Or maybe Vida had. It might be a good idea to ask Leo to watch his mouth. He wouldn’t bother Carla, who probably didn’t notice, but I was certain that he was, as Vida herself would put it, “getting her goat.” And Ginny’s, too.
This wasn’t the proper time, however. Vida was present, Leo was in a good mood, and I still had to face the City Council meeting at seven-thirty.
“I’m glad it’s all worked out for you, Leo,” I remarked, starting toward my office. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw his grin fade and an almost wistful look pass across his face. I turned slightly, throwing him a verbal bone: “You’re saving on postage, too. Every little bit helps.” I felt like a colossal nerd.