The Alpine Escape

by Mary Daheim

  “The funny thing about women is, they never shut up, but they don’t say anything.” He hesitated; I made no reply. “Liza never bitched about me,” Leo went on. “She’d yak her head off about her relatives or the neighbors or the other teachers at the high school. I could never keep track of all of them and their problems. And our kids—she’d rattle on until my ears would damned near fall off. Katie’s boyfriend’s doing coke, Brian’s wife can’t cook, Rosemary’s husband quitting graduate school. Yakkety-yak-yak. But Liza never—never—tells me what’s bothering her. So what does she do? She packs up and moves in with the guidance counselor from the high school! Some guidance! Some counselor!” Leo snorted in disgust. “Twenty-seven years of marriage down the toilet! And our kids blame me!”

  The indictment seemed to demand my response. “Why?” It was the best I could do while negotiating the turn from Highway 101 to 104.

  “I ignored my wife. I worked too much, I was too self-absorbed, I didn’t show enough interest in her career. Hell, who told her it was okay to go back to college? Who gave her the go-ahead to get a teaching job? Who listened to all that bullshit about Aunt Lorena’s broken toe and Principal Mendoza’s new rockery? What more did she want, and why the hell didn’t she say so?”

  I didn’t know if Leo expected me to provide an answer. He seemed like a runaway train. Maybe my best bet was to stick to driving and let him get the bitterness out of his system. I suspected he hadn’t vented his frustrations until now. Or that he hadn’t done so while sober.

  “It was New Year’s Day, not this year but the year before. I was sitting there watching the Rose Bowl, and I look up to see Liza in the hallway with a bunch of suitcases. She says, ‘Goodbye, Leo. I’m going away. You think you’re going to miss me, but you won’t.’ And she left.” He snapped his fingers. “Like that!”

  We passed the turnoff for Port Ludlow. Leo was shaking his head, apparently still marveling at his wife’s defection. “You didn’t try to stop her? Or were the Huskies about to score?”

  Leo gave me a shamefaced grin. “It was the Wolverines. They trounced the Huskies that year. Hey, you like sports?”

  “Sure. Baseball especially.”

  Leo seemed amused. “Liza hated sports. When we were going together, she pretended she didn’t. I used to take her to all the Bruin basketball games. That’s where we met, UCLA. Back then, in the early Sixties, Walt Hazzard and Gail Goodrich were the big guns. Remember them or are you too young?”

  I nodded. “Goodrich went with the Lakers. Hazzard played for the Sonics’ expansion team. They traded him to the St. Louis Hawks for Lenny Wilkens. It seemed like a bad idea at the time, but it wasn’t. Leo, let’s skip the sports stuff. That’s probably part of what got you into trouble in the first place.”

  He stretched out his legs and chuckled. This time the laugh was almost authentic, if wry. “Liza and I had quite a bit in common, though. Music. Movies. The kids.”

  We were coming onto the Hood Canal Floating Bridge. Its two predecessors had sunk, but I never had any qualms about making the long crossing. The steel-blue water was too calm and the forested shoreline too green for alarm. We, too, seemed to float across the natural canal. Neither of us spoke until we were on the other side.

  “Pretty country,” Leo remarked. “I haven’t been up this way in twenty years.”

  “Did you go on vacations with Liza?” I asked, taking the turn for Winslow.

  “Sure.” Leo sounded defensive. “We went to Banff and Lake Louise one year. Mount Rainier. The Oregon coast.”

  “That’s it?”

  “I’m not counting places in California.” His tone was growing hostile. I didn’t say a word. “Okay, so we hadn’t been anywhere together in the last few years. So what? I was busy, she was taking summer courses, we couldn’t get away. It happens.”

  Another silence filled the car as we headed south on the Kitsap Peninsula. This time I was the one who broke it.

  “So you quit your job and decided to make a fresh start.”

  “I got fired. I was drinking too much. I was feeling sorry for myself. I just hung around for about six months, like a sabbatical. We’d already sold the house. The divorce was final this past April. Good Friday. What’s good about it?” Leo’s laugh had disintegrated again.

  “You’re still feeling sorry for yourself,” I said firmly. “You’re still drinking too much. When are you going to change all that?”

  “Yesterday,” Leo replied swiftly. “I didn’t drink last night. I went for a long walk.”

  We were passing Poulsbo, a town like Alpine with a proud Scandinavian heritage. “And didn’t feel sorry for yourself?” I sounded a trifle arch.

  Leo gave me a sour look. “I can’t change everything at once. What about you? You’ve been letting me do all the talking.”

  “So? Weren’t you griping about Liza never shutting up?”

  Leo rested his arm on the edge of my seat. His ill humor was receding. “Hey, you’re doing me a favor and I bleat all over you. Your turn, Emma Lord. What brought you to Port Angeles?”

  “Just a getaway,” I responded casually. “I haven’t taken much vacation lately, either.” Before Leo could start prying, I went on: “I’m a single mom, with a son in college. I was born in Seattle, attended the University of Washington, graduated from the University of Oregon, and I’ve supported Adam and me ever since. I’ve got a brother in Arizona and various relatives scattered around the West and Midwest. One of these days I’ll take a real vacation and go see the ones I like.”

  “Who dumped who?” Leo asked.

  “What? Oh—you mean Adam’s father? No dumping on either side.” I refused to explain. I’d share my car with Leo but not my life.

  Leo got the message, which surprised me a little. He settled back in his seat as we crossed Agate Pass to Bainbridge Island. Pointedly, he changed the subject.

  “So what did you do in Port Angeles? Did you really find a body or was that a joke?”

  I told Leo about the Melchers’ mystery. It seemed harmless and it was certainly a safer topic than our personal histories. Leo absorbed the details like a sponge. By the time we had boarded the ferry and were in the galley on the upper deck, I expected Leo to come up with some theories.

  He didn’t. While I ate a hamburger and Leo tried the peach pie, he shook his head. “See what I mean? You women—getting caught up in everybody else’s business. Hell, you don’t know any of these people, most of them are dead anyway, and the connection with your buddies is pretty remote. So who cares?”

  I started to bridle, but Leo had a point: the most that could be accomplished by solving the mystery was the satisfaction of our curiosity. It appeared that Leo, however, wasn’t as curious as the rest of us.

  “You aren’t one for seeking truth?” I remarked lightly as the ferry slowed to maneuver into the slip.

  “Truth, schmuth,” Leo retorted, throwing half of his pie into a nearby receptacle. “A lot of good truth did me. On the last day at work my boss asked if I’d been drinking on my lunch hour. I said, ‘Yes.’ He said, ‘You’re out of here.’ So much for truth.”

  We were one of the last cars to get off the ferry at Coleman Dock in the heart of downtown. For much of the year Seattle is various shades of gray. Clouds and rain suit the city, which is like a beautiful woman who doesn’t need cosmetics. But when the sun comes out, as it did on this July afternoon, Seattle shines like the belle of the ball. Elliott Bay dances with diamond waves; Mount Rainier sits comfortably in the distance, keeping watch. The tall buildings catch the sun and take on a warm, amber hue. Steep hills rise up from the waterfront and cut through the commercial district. There is bustle but not much hustle. For all of its imported residents from California and New York and the Midwest and Asia, Seattle remains almost perverse in its reluctance to change. It’s true that smaller towns, like Alpine, are slower of pace. But it’s all relative. Boasts of being a cosmopolitan city are only obligatory civic promotion. In reality, Seatt
le is just another mill town that got too big for its tin pants. Maybe that’s why I love it so much.

  The driveway curving into the Four Seasons was flanked with brilliant summer flowers on one side and officious uniformed hotel staff on the other. I wedged the Jag in between a white rental car and a Yellow Cab. Leo and I got out to open the trunk. He grabbed his two cases and slung the sports coat over his shoulder. The brown eyes were keen; the smile was crooked.

  “Thanks for the lift,” Leo said quietly. “In more ways than one.” He shook my hand, briefly but somehow with feeling.

  “Good luck, Leo.” I realized my smile was a little tremulous.

  “You, too, Emma Lord.” He waved off the bellhop’s attempt to take the luggage. “This is a great hotel,” Leo said over his shoulder. “I wish I could afford it.” With a spring in his step he disappeared behind the gleaming brass-edged revolving door. I had the feeling that the hotel’s grandeur had swallowed him up. I had the fear that despite his bursts of bravado, the world was doing the same thing to Leo Fulton Walsh.

  Chapter Seventeen

  IT WAS FRIDAY on the freeway. I didn’t travel it often enough to remember that traffic could be bumper to bumper on 1-5 from three P.M. until early evening. On a brief trip to the ladies’ room aboard the ferry, I had soothed my soul by promising to do some heavy thinking between Seattle and Alpine. But for the first half hour I had to concentrate on my driving. It was only after I had crossed Lake Washington on yet another floating bridge and exited at the Monroe turnoff that I was able to relax a bit.

  Love is intangible. I think. It strikes without warning and there’s no defense for it. Two decades ago, I had never intended to fall in love with Tom Cavanaugh. My goal was a degree in communications at the University of Washington. It was a time of student dissent, of enormous social upheaval, of noisy rebellion. I chose to abstain. I was going to be a journalist, and I had to keep my perspective. Even then I’d questioned my refusal to join the many protests and causes. Was it a cowardly way to avoid committing myself? An excuse for not jumping into life with both feet? Was this what my desire to go into reporting was all about? Did I want to write about the doings of other people while I stood on the sidelines and merely observed?

  Twenty-odd years later I still didn’t know the answer. There were only two things I knew for certain: I loved my work and I loved Tom Cavanaugh. I had progressed in my profession, but my personal life was stagnant. Was it possible to move on and find a man who could replace Tom as the object of my thwarted affections? Tom would always be in my life. Tom was Adam’s father, and in the last two years he had asserted his paternal rights. That was okay with me, now that I’d gotten used to the idea. Making mad, passionate love with Tom at Lake Chelan was also okay with both of us. But as a couple we had no future.

  There had been other men, four in all. Number three had seemed the most promising. He was an attorney for the city of Portland I’d met while doing an in-depth series on rapid transit. Jack was in the middle of a divorce at the time, and we would rendezvous at the Red Lion Motor Inn. One of us always brought food, since we were too discreet to order from room service. After almost a year of sexual delight, I arrived early one afternoon without having had breakfast. We were engaged in amorous conduct when Jack asked if I wanted to proceed swiftly or slowly. I knew he was in the mood for a leisurely pace. Wanting to accommodate him, I said, “Slow is fine.” Then I added, “But can you reach that ham sandwich from here?” Given our physical involvement, he couldn’t. It had been the last time we saw each other.

  Except for the reunion with Tom, there had been no romantic attachments for me since I’d moved to Alpine. Milo and I had shared a lot of things, including an impulsive kiss, but otherwise we were very careful about avoiding intimacy. He had his potter, Honoria Whitman; I had my old love, Tom Cavanaugh. Milo and I didn’t seem to make magic together. But then we’d never really tried.

  And yet I’d been aware that while I was in Port Angeles, I missed Milo. With a dawning sense of wonder I realized that Milo’s laconic, unimaginative common sense was a source of solace in my life. Milo might not be the most exciting man in the world, but he sure was dependable.

  As for other men, they didn’t seem to exist. Mike Randall probably was a decent sort, but his contemporary man act drove me nuts. Mike Randall didn’t exist. He was a walking textbook, full of platitudes.

  Driving through Sultan, I thought about Leo Walsh. Leo was the flip side of Mike’s coin. Leo was living in a time warp, where women were only allowed to do things of which their men approved. Phooey on Leo.

  The bald fact was that any man in my peer group was going to be burdened with the problems of having lived for five decades. He would, most commonly, have at least one ex-wife, various children, and as many neuroses as I had. In addition to my personality defects, I was also Catholic. A divorced man would present spiritual problems. The church had grown more lenient about granting annulments, but I hadn’t. A dozen canon lawyers couldn’t convince me that after twenty years of marriage and four kids, the sacrament was invalid because the couple had wed in a state of delirious confusion.

  I was passing the turnoff to Index. Traffic was still heavy but moving at the speed limit. Shafts of sunlight filtered through the tall stands of Douglas fir and hemlock. Involuntarily, my lips curved in a smile. I was climbing steadily, going up the pass, almost home.

  There were no eligible men in Alpine. Not for me with my college education and my city rearing. Except for Milo, small-town native that he was. If I wanted to meet a man who could fill in all the blanks on my imaginary future-husband application, I’d have to find him in Seattle. That would take a concentrated effort.

  I passed Deception Falls. Did I want a husband? I’d never had one. I didn’t know what marriage was like. A shared life, juggling schedules, allergies to my favorite foods, dirty socks, all sorts of compromises. I was accustomed to living alone. And liking it. Usually.

  Why was I beating myself up? I had a fine son, a rewarding job, a nice little home. If someone came along and we fell in love, that would be wonderful. But what was the point in putting pressure on my life? Who really cared but me?

  I turned off the highway and crossed the Skykomish River. Vida had urged me to reflect, to think, to make decisions. Why? She had been widowed in her forties, left with three girls. Had Vida tried to find a second husband? She had not, as far as I knew. Instead, she had gone to work for The Advocate and seemed to love what she was doing. What gave her the right to meddle in my life?

  Friendship, concern, affection—these were the reasons for Vida’s attempt to give me guidance. I could argue that I didn’t need it, but I couldn’t fault her for trying. In her brusque, unsentimental manner Vida was like a second mother. My parents had been killed in a car crash while I was in college. I missed them dreadfully. It was an unexpected comfort to meet Vida twenty years later.

  Alpine’s version of rush hour was different from Seattle’s. Both lanes of Front Street were busy with cars, trucks, and RVs. In the three blocks between Alpine Way and The Advocate office I spotted four out-of-state license plates, from Oregon, California, British Columbia, and Texas.

  There were a few wispy clouds hanging above Mount Baldy, but otherwise the town looked summer fresh in the late afternoon sun. Most of the shops along Front Street were still open, and quite a few people roamed the sidewalks. The Chamber of Commerce’s flower planters were flourishing. A banner proclaiming Fixer-Upper Week was stretched across the street by the Venison Inn on one corner and the Whistling Marmot Movie Theatre on the other. After four days in Port Angeles, Alpine seemed to have shrunk. There was no wide vista of open sea, no sculpted harbor, no major highway cutting through the heart of town. The Cascade foothills closed in around Alpine, as if holding the inhabitants in a cradle. But I felt no sense of claustrophobia: The rocky ground and thick forest in which Alpine had been built, log by log and shingle by shingle, provided sanctuary. I was home, and happy for it. />
  It was close to five-thirty when I walked into the news office. Only Vida was still at work. She was sitting at her desk going over what appeared to be a large diagram. At first I thought she was laying out the paper. Vida refused to use a computer program or a word processor.

  “Well, you made it.” Vida spoke without looking up. “Whatever have you been up to these past four days?”

  “It’s a long story,” I said, sinking down into the chair by her desk. “What’s that?”

  At last Vida looked at me. Her paisley blouse was more rumpled than usual and her gray curls needed taming. “My family tree. It’s difficult, but it’s all there, going back to my grandfather and my husband’s grandfather. Pre-Alpine. Well? If this isn’t a job, I’ll put in with you!”

  Vida’s version was even more crude—and extensive—than the Rowley-Melcher family tree we’d put together in Port Angeles. I couldn’t make head or tails of it. “Are we going to run this?” I asked.

  “Yes. But not in this form.” Vida removed her tortoiseshell glasses and rubbed her eyes, though not with her usual vigor. “Carla knows someone who has a family tree computer program. They can adapt my version and print it out. It’ll fill a half-page. We can use the copy.”

  “Okay.” I wasn’t entirely convinced. “Why do you need the grandfathers if they weren’t in Alpine? Couldn’t you save space by starting with the next generation?”

  Vida bristled. “I didn’t say they were never in Alpine. They weren’t born here, that’s all. My Grandpa Blatt worked for the Great Northern Railroad. He used to stop on his way through Alpine for pie and coffee with some of the local ladies. Grandpa Eldon Runkel knew Carl Clemans in Snohomish. He got jobs for his sons, Rufus, my father-in-law, and Rupert in the woods.” Vida tapped the page with her pencil. “That was back in 1919. Rufus and Rupert were mere teenagers. Neither finished high school.”