Authors: Mary Daheim
M
Y FIRST REACTION
—other than an urge to kick Carla—was that the stranger had come to Alpine High School to recruit for a college sports team. Or that he was a tourist, out to join Carla for a morning jog on the track. Perhaps he was a teacher, interviewing for a job in the upcoming school year. He might be a forest ranger, newly posted to the area, or sent from one of the state agencies on a fact-finding mission. He could even be a nature lover, making sure that nobody was taking potshots at the spotted owl. I couldn’t think of a more endangered species in Alpine than an African-American environmentalist.
But on second thought, I feared that he was probably none of the above. Never mind that my initial responses made perfect sense. My gut reaction told me that the black man at the high school field wasn’t in town on official business. I hoped I was wrong.
“So he hurried away?” I asked, remembering to transfer and save my swimming pool editorial before we had one of our frequent power failures.
Carla nodded. “Yeah, you know, sort of furtive. As if he didn’t expect anyone to be there except him. I knew Coach Ridley had scheduled track-and-field practice for this afternoon because I interviewed him about the big meet coming up in Seattle. Of course, it
was
early—just after seven o’clock. I wouldn’t dream of being late two days in a row.” Carla had assumed an air of virtue.
I let Carla’s assertion pass. Seven
A.M
. wasn’t all that early for activity at the high school field. Practice for various sports often took place before classes started. But this particular Friday in May wasn’t one of those days. I confessed that I was at a loss for an explanation.
After Carla drifted away, I resumed regaling my readership with the need for a bond issue to build a public pool. The site was ready and waiting, right on Alpine Way, where the original bowling alley had stood, and a series of enterprises, including a pool hall, a swap shop, and a buffet-style restaurant, had tried and failed to make a go of it.
I was attempting to dispel the myth that swimming in the river was good enough for Alpine’s founders, even in January at fifteen below, when I heard Vida arguing heatedly over the phone. By the time I entered the news office, she’d banged down the receiver.
“Edina Puckett! Honestly!” Vida raised her arms and flexed her muscles like a weight lifter. I suspected she wanted to put a hammerlock on Edina. “Why can’t people use
sense?
This Junior Miss controversy has all these parents at each other’s throats!”
I knew the story behind the story of the previous weekend’s local Junior Miss pageant. As usual, Vida had covered it and taken some rather fuzzy photos. Also as usual, Vida had discreetly chosen to report only the bare bones of what had actually happened. According to her, the annual competition brought out the worst in Alpine’s mothers, fathers, and children, too. Hair pulling, name-calling, and hysterics could set the stage for family feuds that lasted a lifetime.
This year the talent segment had featured everything from whisking eggs to hand puppets made out of milk cartons. The most serious incident had been caused by fifteen-year-old Kerri Rhodes, daughter of the Venison Inn’s bartender, Oren, and his wife, Sunny, the resident Avon Lady. Kerri’s talent was tap-dancing with a pig named Kash. Wearing matching yellow tutus, Kash and Kerri had hoofed their way through “Old MacDonald Had a Farm.” On the last “E-I-E-I-O,” Kash had become overly excited and wet the boards. No one seemed to notice, thus setting the stage—literally—for Trisha Puckett and her unicycle. Trisha, sixteen, skidded four feet before crashing in full view of the audience. Only her dignity had been seriously hurt, but her parents, Edina and Clayton Puckett, were threatening to sue Oren and Sunny Rhodes. Naturally,
The
Advocate
would say nothing until formal charges had been filed.
The disaster would never have occurred, argued Pageant Chairman Stilts Cederberg, if the contestants had stuck to the rules that banned the use of wheels.
“Wheels?” I asked, somewhat dazed.
“Wheels,” Vida responded firmly. “The rule was originally made for musical instruments. In the old days, some of the contestants played tunes on mill machinery. You know, band saws, donkey engines, re-covered oil drums. Back in ‘forty-five, Veda Kay MacAvoy won for her rendition of ‘The White Cliffs of Dover’ on the original mill whistle.”
“On wheels?” I asked, trying to keep a straight face.
“No, of course not. Why would you put the mill whistle on wheels? It was the handcar that was a problem that year. The Gustavson twins stole it from the railroad tracks, and it flew off the stage and landed in the audience while they were singing ‘Tea for Two.’ Millard O’Toole suffered three fractured ribs, and Mrs. Pidduck’s glasses got broken.” Looking severe, Vida returned to her typewriter.
The rest of the day was uneventful. Over the phone, I interviewed a state official in Olympia about the latest plan for selective logging, talked to Mayor Fuzzy Baugh concerning his new antilitter program, and spent almost half an hour listening to a highway department engineer drone on about the problems involved in resurfacing the road to the Icicle Creek campground. Shortly before five, I found myself staring at the WNPA invitation. The deadline for registration was May 21, a week away. I had seven days to jitter and dither.
Putting the information aside, I grimaced. My brother, Ben, had problems making decisions. His indecisiveness irked me. But I was no better. Indeed, I often excused my own waffling on the grounds that journalists aren’t supposed to take sides, except on the editorial page. I grimaced some more. This wasn’t politics or a social issue or a matter of morality—this was my life. I was Emma Lord: forty-two years old, five-foot-four, brown haired, brown eyed, passably good-looking, reasonably intelligent, a mother, a journalist, a homeowner, a university graduate, a Roman
Catholic, a Democrat, a voting resident of Alpine, Washington, Skykomish County. And I couldn’t make up my mind about going to Lake Chelan. I turned off my word processor and decided to go home.
Vida was standing by her desk, adjusting her gold straw hat with its matching gold piping on the brim. It was new, and looked ridiculous, though no more so than most of Vida’s headgear. She was gazing into a small mirror affixed to the door of her filing cabinet.
“I got this through a catalogue,” she said. “Isn’t it smart?” I was chasing an answer when she went on talking. “Tommy called. You were on the phone, so I took it.”
I gaped at Vida. She was the only person I knew who dared to call Tom Cavanaugh “Tommy.” “Tom called? Today?”
Satisfied with the set of her straw hat, Vida gave me a nonchalant look. “You were on the phone with that long-winded engineer. Tommy just bought a newspaper in the San Fernando Valley. His daughter auditioned this week for a part in a play. His son wants to join a soccer team in Europe. Sandra robbed a bank.” Vida reached for her worn alligator handbag and a copy of
The Seattle Times
. “Are you going to pick me up or shall I walk? The Campbells live only three blocks from my house.”
“Vida!” I was leaning on Ed’s desk, gritting my teeth. “I haven’t talked to Tom since February! Why didn’t you tell me he called?”
Digging into her purse, Vida pulled out her car keys. “You were busy,” she answered reasonably. “Besides, he had to go someplace. The Pacific Union Club? Something like that. And visit Sandra. She’s been institutionalized again. The robbery, you know.”
I didn’t know who to feel sorry for: Tom, Sandra—or me. While Tom’s wife had been involved in a number of shoplifting incidents, bank robbery was new. I could hardly believe it. In fact, I didn’t.
“Vida—are you talking armed and dangerous? When did this happen? Where? What did Tom say?”
Vida had started for the door. Over her shoulder, she threw me a faintly exasperated look. “I didn’t ask for details, Emma. You know I don’t like to pry. Besides, Ginny
was signaling that Ellie Pierce from the Burl Creek Thimble Club was on line three. They had their annual election last night.”
I let Vida go. But before she pulled her big Buick away from the curb, I ran after her, shouting that I’d pick her up at five to seven. She gave a toot of her horn in acknowledgment and headed up Fourth Street toward her home on Cascade.
In the sanctuary of my log house, I considered calling Tom. But Vida had said he was going out. I’d wait until morning. The rates would still be down, and it sounded as if he were alone in his handsome brick mansion high above the bay. Or so I imagined it, never having seen the place.
But I had seen the Campbell house, many times. I hadn’t, however, assigned an owner to the big, three-story white home on the corner of Seventh and Tyee. A white picket fence, a wraparound porch, and a widow’s walk lent a gracious New England air. The garden was abloom with azaleas, rhododendrons, mountain laurel, wallflowers, Dutch iris, and tulips.
Jean Campbell greeted us warmly. She was a big woman, as tall as Vida, but heavier without being fat. Her graying brown hair was swept back into a french roll with little wispy curls dancing at her high forehead and smooth temples. In her sensible two-inch heels, she was almost a head taller than her husband.
“We’re having London broil,” she announced. “Safeway had a special on flank steak. I saw it in
The Advocate.”
She gave me a big smile, showing off the slight gap between her front teeth. “Come, sit, we’ll have a drink while we wait for the poor working stiffs. Shane had a late delivery of the Tolbergs’ new gas range, and Todd got tied up at the PUD.”
Jean Campbell’s idea of a drink was sparkling cider, which was fine with me and appropriate to the family’s standing as staunch Presbyterians. I had considered having a bourbon and water when I got home, but didn’t want to show up at the Campbells’ reeking of alcohol and thus perpetuating the myth that all Catholics are die-hard drunks.
If many Alpiners are prejudiced against people of color, they also have some pretty strange notions about other religions.
While the Scandinavian Lutherans dominate the local population, I’m aware that Baptists don’t trust Methodists, Congregationalists look askance at the Pentecostals, and everybody thinks the Episcopalians are almost as strange as the Catholics. I keep waiting for somebody to figure out that Carla is a Jew.
Cyndi Campbell was the first of the younger set to appear. She greeted Vida and me with subdued enthusiasm. A pretty young woman with her father’s fair coloring and naturally pink cheeks, Cyndi wore a tan tunic top over a matching crocheted skirt. To my surprise, she smoked like a chimney. I envied her, having quit shortly before buying
The Alpine Advocate
. I was sure I’d made the right decision about the newspaper; I wasn’t sure I should have given up the cigarettes.
“How long have you been at the PUD?” I asked, in an effort to make conversation and to avoid snatching the pack out of her small, graceful hands.
“Three years,” Cyndi replied, crossing her legs under the short skirt and exhaling deeply. “I went to Shoreline Community College in north Seattle for a couple of years and got my associate of arts degree. I tried the UDUB for two quarters, but it didn’t feel right. Too big.” She exhaled some more.
I gave Cyndi a sympathetic smile. “It can seem that way, if you’re not used to crowds. You like living in Alpine, I take it?”
Cyndi’s green eyes darted from father to mother. “I guess. Seattle’s too big. I visited on weekends while Shane was living there. I thought I might like it better when I wasn’t going to school, but I didn’t. Still, I wouldn’t mind living in a bigger town than Alpine—like Bellingham or Everett.” Her attitude suggested she was throwing out a challenge to her parents.
Jean Campbell’s response was to head for the kitchen. “The flank steak ought to be marinated by now,” she said, over her shoulder. “Fifteen minutes until dinner.” I gathered she had paused in the hallway, perhaps to call upstairs. “Shane! Are you up there? Come down, have some cider! Marilynn?”
But no one appeared. The aroma of garlic wafted into the
comfortable living room with its pink flowered drapes and matching sofa. Vida was ogling the Oriental rugs. Her expression was a mixture of admiration and envy. Lloyd Campbell tossed a travel brochure at her.
“Spain,” he said. “We’re thinking of going there this fall.”
“Spain,” Vida repeated, tearing her eyes off the carpeting. “My daughters insisted I go. It’s very hot. Sort of like an old Montana in the summer.”
Lloyd didn’t seem discouraged. “Scads of history, though. Art, too. And I hear the beaches are terrific. We went to England and France six years ago.”
Scanning the brochure, Vida nodded. “I know. I did the story after you got back. The English were stuffy and the French were rude. But you liked Oxford and the Loire Valley.” She tossed the brochure back to Lloyd. “Who doesn’t? It’s criminal to hate either of them. Why don’t you go to Italy instead of Spain? Rome is fascinating and Florence has all sorts of art treasures.”
But Lloyd shook his head. “Too many Catholics. You know, the Vatican, and all those priests.” He glanced at me and flushed. “Sorry, Emma, but I hear those people over there aren’t like Americans. It’s different.”
“That’s probably because it’s Europe.” My tone was dry.
We were saved from further embarrassment by the arrival of Wendy and Todd Wilson. Wendy was taller than her sister, not quite as pretty, but more outgoing. Her dark blonde hair hung in a carelessly combed pageboy; the hem of her blue wrap skirt was uneven; her navy jacket was draped at an odd angle. Her clothes looked expensive, yet everything about Wendy Campbell Wilson seemed off balance. She almost tripped over the magazine rack that stood next to the flowered sofa.
“Well!” Wendy lunged first at Vida, then at me. “Surprise! Mom said we were having unexpected company. Vida, do you remember the wedding story you wrote about us? You said I wore a borrowed blue
farter.”
Wendy threw back her head and laughed in a gusty manner.