Alpine Gamble

by Mary Daheim

  Of course it was. I allowed as much. Vida retaliated by invading my privacy:

  “What have you heard from Tommy?”

  Nobody but Vida referred to Tom Cavanaugh as Tommy. The great love of my life and the father of my son was finally getting a divorce. I had confided only in Vida—and Ben, of course—that Tom's mentally unbalanced wife, Sandra, had left him. Given Sandra's erratic, even criminal, behavior over a quarter of a century, Tom had far more provocation to call it quits. But Tom also had an enormous sense of responsibility, as well as a few tons of guilt. Thus, when Sandra fell for Zorro, a stand-up comedian half her age, she was the one who had decided to end the marriage.

  “I spoke with Tom Saturday morning,” I answered carefully. “It's getting complicated. Sandra's been living with Zorro in a cabin near Big Sur, but suddenly she's decided she wants the house in San Francisco. She says it's impracticable for Zorro to be so far away from the city, because of his comedy gigs. He's also, I gather, too far from his drug supplier.”

  “Oh, dear.” Vida took off her hat and fanned herself, despite the cool, rainy weather. “Sandra wants the house as well as half of Tom's newspaper holdings? My my—that doesn't seem fair, given the circumstances.”

  Maybe not, though it was Sandra's inherited money that had given Tom the stake in building his empire of weeklies throughout the West. For the first time in my life I grudgingly allowed a point scored for Sandra Cavanaugh. As for the house, it didn't seem to me that either would want it. Sandra and Tom's two children were in college, and while I'd never seen the place, I'd gathered it was of mansion proportions. Perhaps Zorro wanted some room for his horse. The double entendre made me smile.

  “What is it?” Vida demanded. “How on earth can you find Tommy's problems funny?”

  “I don't,” I readily admitted. “I was thinking about Zorro.”

  “Well, don't. He's not worth the mental effort. Nor is Sandra.” Vida radiated disapproval, though she had never met Sandra and knew Tom only from his brief visit to Alpine three years earlier. “When are you going to tell Adam?”

  Nervously, I ruffled my shaggy hair with both hands. “When he gets here,” I said, without much confidence. “It will be better to have Ben with us.”

  “Oh, good grief!” Vida rolled her eyes. “Since when did you require moral support? Hasn't your whole life been lived as though you didn't need Tommy or anyone else?”

  Vida's comment stung. It was true. Having discovered that the man I loved had gotten both his wife and me pregnant at about the same time, I'd spurned Tom's offers of help. I'd kept him out of my life—and Adam's—for the first twenty years. Then, with reluctance, I'd permitted Tom to meet his illegitimate son. The two had gotten along quite well. Better late than never for Adam to realize that being a bastard didn't mean he was also fatherless.

  “Ben and Adam have become very close,” I explained. “Besides, one of the things I've learned in the last few years is that you can't always do everything by yourself.”

  In a painstaking manner that was uncharacteristic, Vida rose from her chair. “Yes,” she said in an odd voice. “That's so, isn't it?”

  * * *

  Friday was relatively uneventful, if busy. I'd called Adam in Tempe around eight o'clock and managed to catch him just as he was going out. To study, he said, but being a Friday night, I suspected otherwise. I inquired into his most recent speeding ticket. He mumbled a bit, something about Uncle Ben advancing him the money and how he planned to pay it back by doing something or other.

  “Have you talked to Ben since you got back to Tempe?” I asked.

  Adam hadn't, which didn't surprise me. “I've been in deep stuff here, Mom. I've got a term paper due and finals are coming up. You've forgotten how hard college is. And it's a lot tougher these days, with all the competition. You wouldn't believe the kind of stress I'm under.”

  If Adam thought I would swallow that line of tripe, the only thing he was under was a delusion. But it cost money to argue long distance. “Just make sure you pay Ben back,” I warned my son.

  Adam's tone became indignant. “Oh, yeah, sure, as if … you think I'd pull some dumb stunt on Uncle Ben? I'm not a kid anymore, Mom.”

  Well, he wasn't. Maybe I should start treating him like a man, I thought. My glance fell on a framed photograph of Adam and Ben at the Anasazi dig the previous summer. In their sweaty exuberance, both son and brother looked happy and fit. I'd liked the picture so much that I'd had it enlarged. Hie play of sunshine and shadow emphasized Adam's increasingly chiseled features, and heightened his likeness to Tom. Ben, on the other hand, looked playful, like the big brother I'd always known. If I tried very hard, I could imagine they were here with me, all the time. “I'm not sending you any of the things you asked for,” I said, fighting off maternal guilt. “You can wait until you get to Alpine.”

  “Mom!” The outraged whine indicated that Adam was feeling about twelve. But to my surprise, he regrouped. “Okay, fine.” The pout in his voice was minimal. “It's only a couple of weeks. But I'm almost out of socks.”

  “It's hot in Tempe. You can go barefoot.” I laughed evilly.

  “Sure, and get my toes chewed off by scorpions.”

  “I thought they were iguanas.”

  “Whatever. Hey, got to go. My buddies are here with the … study guides. See you.”

  Funny, I could have sworn the word he'd intended to say rhymed with “here.” Maybe I was mistaken. After all, Adam was trying to be a man.

  By Saturday the rain had stopped, though the clouds still hung low over the mountains. About ten o'clock I called Vida to ask if she really wanted to hike up to the hot springs site. She did, but her grandson Roger was staying with her. The steep trail might tucker out the poor little tyke.

  Since the ten-year-old terror couldn't be stopped by a SCUD missile, I was surprised. On the other hand, I certainly didn't want Roger tagging along. After hanging up, I debated the wisdom of making the trek on my own. I was still mulling when Stan Levine called at ten-fifteen. He wanted to come over and bird-watch.

  I'd forgotten my casual invitation. Caught off guard, I told Stan that would be fine, though the sooner the better. I didn't want to spend my entire Saturday sitting around waiting for a boy and his binoculars.

  Fortunately, Stan showed up in the next ten minutes. I watched him park the black Range Rover in my driveway and then pause to admire the contours of my log house. Or so I assumed.

  “Very nice,” Stan said, stepping back on the small front porch. “This style is hot in L.A. these days. Several stars have built log houses.”

  Inviting Stan to come into the living room, I accepted the compliment. “I didn't build it, I just bought it,” I said. “They require quite a bit of upkeep. Mine needs to be stained again. The exterior wood gets very gray with all the rain and snow. It's probably time to rechink, too.”

  Stan was now studying my inner walls. The kitchen, hall, and bath had been finished with gypsum board, but the logs in the living room, dining nook, and bedrooms had been left exposed.

  “Lodgepole pine?” Stan ventured.

  “No. Douglas fir. Speaking of which,” I continued, “would you like to come outside? The birds usually congregate in the evergreens behind the house.”

  With his binoculars slung around his neck and a small three-ring binder clutched in one hand, Stan followed me out the back door. I offered him a cup of coffee, but he declined. “Yesterday I saw a varied thrush by the ski lodge. You probably call them Alaskan robins. We don't usually get them in southern California.”

  “They look like a robin,” I remarked, glancing up at the tall trees that stood at the edge of my backyard. Only a couple of crows were hopping among the branches at present. “Last year I had a pair of goldfinches hanging out for almost a week. I've never understood why they're the state bird. You hardly ever see them, at least in western Washington.”

  “Ah!” Stan's thin features became animated. “Otherwise known as the wild canary.
They're great birds, wonderful birds.” He whipped through the pages of his small binder. “See—I've made a note about them. They nest later than any other bird, any time from the last week of June to Labor Day. Very compact nests, usually lined with dandelion or some other kind of down.”

  I gazed at the cramped, yet artistic handwriting. Stan had noted that the goldfinch often built in saplings or blackberry bushes. “Darn,” I murmured. “My backyard was overgrown with blackberries when I moved in. I got rid of them.”

  Stan took the binder back, then tore out the page I'd just been perusing. “I didn't realize the goldfinch was Washington's state bird. Take this, I've made notes about what a special character it is. Their song is absolutely delightful. It's not just their yellow color that makes people call them canaries.”

  Thanking Stan for the notes, I slipped the sheet of lined paper into my slacks. “By the way, congratulations on the pending sale,” I said, hoping to sound enthused. “I'll be checking in with you and Blake before we go to press.”

  Stan pocketed the binder. “Oh—yes, by all means. We intend to stay here until Tuesday afternoon. Then we fly back to L.A. to firm up the financing.” He was moving slowly around on the grass, peering through his binoculars. His own manner was rather birdlike.

  While Stan Levine might have the leisure to wait for the arrival of a rara avis, I didn't. Insisting that he make himself at home, I started back inside.

  “Say,” Stan called after me, “have you been up to the hot springs yet?”

  I confessed that I hadn't. Stan ankled closer. “Blake and I are going up this afternoon. Would you like to join us?”

  The suggestion sounded good. Somebody from The Advocate should get a firsthand look at the site. It didn't seem likely that Carla could be coerced into making the climb.

  “That's fine,” I said, smiling in what I hoped was a gracious manner. “I'll drive down to the office to get my camera first.” With that as my exit line, I went into the house. Stan didn't seem to mind; he had his binoculars in place and was following the flight of what appeared to be an ordinary English sparrow. He seemed content.

  Later, I would remember his pleasure with sadness.

  Chapter Four

  ALMOST NOBODY IN Alpine comes by The Advocate over a weekend, which is why I was surprised to see a small beat-up car parked in my usual place. I was even more astonished when I heard someone call to me as I approached the office door.

  A young woman in jeans and a plaid shirt had emerged from the old car. Her slightly freckled face needed no makeup. Its classic bone structure and natural contours were sufficient for beauty. She moved effortlessly, though her voice had a slightly reedy quality.

  “Do you work here?” she asked, gesturing toward the newspaper's unprepossessing one-story building.

  “I'm the editor-publisher,” I said with a wary smile. “Emma Lord. Are you looking for me?”

  The young woman, who looked to be about thirty, put out a slim, freckled hand. “I'm Skye Piersall. I'm looking for somebody'' She pushed a stray strawberry-blonde lock off her high forehead. “Can you tell me about the hot springs project?”

  Since Skye Piersall appeared to be neither armed nor dangerous, I invited her inside. “I can give you a copy of this week's paper,” I said, stepping behind Ginny's reception counter.

  “I've seen it,” Skye replied. “Frankly, it doesn't give much in the way of details.”

  That was an understatement. “There've been some developments since we went to press. Where are you from?”

  Skye Piersall leaned against the counter. Up close, there were fine lines around her eyes and mouth. Perhaps she was closer to forty than thirty. Or maybe she'd spent too much time in the sun. “Seattle—more or less,” she answered with studied vagueness. “I move around a lot. I'm with CATE—Citizens Against Trashing the Environment. We deal more with aesthetics than ecology. This is a fact-finding tour.”

  “I see.” I'd never heard of CATE, or if I had, it had slipped through the cracks in my mind. The Advocate received a weekly barrage of information from so many groups and organizations that I tended to deep-six all but the most pertinent. “What facts are you looking for?”

  Ginny had a desk and two chairs behind the counter which she used when helping customers lay out complicated classifieds, or when she occasionally pitched in on the regular advertising copy. I indicated the extra chair and sat down. With a faint show of reluctance, Skye joined me.

  She pointed to my hot springs piece on page one. “Have Blake and Stan made some progress since this came out?”

  I regarded Skye curiously. “You know the developers?”

  Skye laughed, a heartier sound than I expected after the reedy voice. “Of course. CATE members get to know all of these people. We have offices up and down the West Coast, so we often cross paths with the same soldiers from the opposing army. Last year, these two were trying to start a retreat center in the San Juan Islands. CATE rallied the local residents and put an end to that idea.”

  Congratulations were probably in order, but I refrained. I was a journalist, and therefore trying to keep an open mind. I explained that Blake and Stan had made an offer that had been accepted. I elaborated on as much as I knew of their ambitious plans. I also pointed out the topographical problems involved. And I added that while the locals didn't favor out-of-state intrusions, they badly needed jobs.

  Skye listened attentively. “I'd like to see the site. Can you show me a map?”

  I hesitated. “Are you on speaking terms with Blake and Stan?'

  Skye laughed again. This time the sound wasn't quite as pleasant. “Oh, definitely! What we say to each other varies wildly.” Her green eyes were unreadable.

  I explained my own minor involvement. “You'd probably run into us somewhere along the trail this afternoon anyway, so you might as well join us. If Blake and Stan share your tolerance, they won't mind.”

  But Skye had turned thoughtful. When she finally spoke, there was a defensive note in her voice. “Okay, why not? If it's a steep climb, Blake will have to shut up or he'll get winded.”

  “True. And Stan doesn't talk as much.”

  The enigmatic expression had returned to Skye's face. “But he says more when he does.”

  I shrugged. We agreed to meet at the Burger Barn around one. There would be room for all four of us in the Range Rover. Blake and Stan might not be thrilled at hauling along the enemy, but I'd been put on the spot.

  By the time I got home with my camera and a couple of rolls of film, Stan was just leaving. He had seen blue jays, a downy woodpecker, several robins, a pair of purple finches, and countless sparrows. Even Stan didn't seem much interested in the noisy, contentious crows that flapped among the trees and often frightened the smaller birds away.

  “Maybe I'll sight the cedar waxwings next time,” he said optimistically.

  Somewhat awkwardly, I told him about Skye Piersall. His thin features changed dramatically, and I thought there was alarm in his dark eyes.

  “Skye Piersall is here! Oh, God!” He turned around on his long, thin legs, a hand to his balding head. Then slowly, almost shyly, he looked at me from over his shoulder. “Skye's a terror when it comes to preserving the natural environment. This rock, that tree, those ferns—everything is sacred. She hates anything man-made. If Skye had her way, she'd live naked under the stars.”

  Strangely, the idea seemed to calm him. He was now smiling and looking back off into the evergreens. I wondered if he'd seen another bird. Or maybe the image of Skye Piersall. Naked.

  Whatever I imagined about Stan Levine's reaction to Skye Piersall, the initial encounter was uneventful. He and Blake greeted Skye politely, but with reserve. On the way up to the turnoff, I was left to make small talk. I filled the Range Rover's empty air with an account of the Iron Goat Trail and the enthusiasts who spent their spare time preserving the Great Northern Railroad's old route.

  “They come from all over,” I pointed out, “though they're
restricted by the weather. Some of them use their vacations and camp out along the way.”

  None of my listeners, with the possible exception of Stan, seemed to give a damn. I switched to the topic of mountain goats and the National Park Service proposal to blast them off the ridges. Blake was indifferent, Stan reacted with a frown, and, to my surprise, Skye endorsed the idea with enthusiasm.

  “That's where CATE differs from other organizations,” she declared, setting her jaw. “It isn't only humans who harm the environment. Animals cause great damage, too. The worst of it is, you can't reason with them. Of course some people are just as bad.” Her green eyes flashed at Blake and Stan. Neither responded, though I thought there was a faint smile on Blake's lips and Stan seemed to stiffen a bit.

  Fortunately, die drive was brief. The Californians obviously knew their way, which was more than I did. After we'd bumped along for a short distance on a rough washboard of a road, Stan pulled into what passed for a parking area under the huge power lines that cut across the Cascade Mountains.

  The trail began nearby, a narrow, steep incline almost immediately swallowed up by trees and underbrush. Standing next to Blake, I hesitated. Despite living amid raw nature, I wasn't exactly the hearty outdoor type. My so-called hiking shoes were a pair of sturdy Rockports. Fortunately, my companions pretended not to notice. The two Californians and Skye Piersall were properly attired in laced-up boots that looked as if they could have scaled K2.

  The ascent was taxing. Except for safety ropes tied to trees, Leonard Hollenberg obviously hadn't bothered to maintain the trail. Despite the sun, which occasionally filtered through the evergreens, the air turned chilly as we gained altitude. Upon reaching the last quarter mile, the ground itself grew muddy. I was about to remark on a patch of dirty snow between two rotting logs when the trail took a sudden dip and we saw a wooden sign that read: HOT SPRINGS—USE AT OWN RISK.