Alpine Icon (3 page)

Nunzio Lucci sat bolt upright. “Hey! Whaddya mean about Italian men? We
are
macho! So who gives a shit?” He flexed the muscles that showed in his forearms below the sleeves of the frayed cotton work shirt.

“Oh, shut up, Luce!” Francine snapped, glaring at her neighbor to the left. “We're not here to talk about your manly prowess!”

Father Den gave Francine a grateful look. “I think,” he said in his mild voice, “it's important to keep to the agenda.” His gaze traveled down to the small brown-haired woman at the end of the table. “Let's withhold extraneous comments for now, okay, Greer?”

Greer sniffed, but kept her mouth shut. I leaned forward to tap Roseanna Bayard's shoulder. “Greer who?” I asked, trying not to move my lips.

“Fairfax,” Roseanna murmured. “Married to Grant Fairfax, some kind of naturalist who commutes to Monroe. Greer weaves.”

I jotted down the names. Nunzio Lucci was still speaking about money. I'd missed part of what he said, but the gist seemed to be that while Father Den was willing to allow the parish council a voice in expenditures, he reserved veto power. Judging from the stir that was caused in the audience, a number of people didn't approve.

The next twenty minutes were devoted to a discussion of whether or not our pastor—or any pastor—had a right to hold the purse strings. Of the parish-council members, Luce was vehemently in favor, as was Francine, who argued forcefully, using all the persuasive powers that kept a handful of well-dressed Alpine women in debt. After some vaguely incoherent remarks, Monica Vancich disagreed. Brendan Shaw of Sigurdson-Shaw Insurance Agency could see both sides of the issue. In his role of council president, Jake O'Toole felt obliged to remain temporarily neutral.

The discussion from the audience grew heated, though
not particularly newsworthy. As I had done Sunday at Mass, I began to drift. It was now after eight, and I'd told Milo I'd be home around nine. Trying to focus, I observed the rest of the people up on the stage. There was Greer Fairfax, of course, who apparently was on the school board. So was Buddy Bayard, Roseanna's husband and owner of Bayard's Picture Perfect Photography Studio, where our film is processed. And of course I knew the third member, Bill Daley, proprietor of Daley's Fine Furnishings and one of our advertisers. Trying not to attract attention, I moved quietly around the auditorium, snapping pictures: Father Den and Jake and Francine, looking thoughtful; the school principal, Veronica Wenzler-Greene, raising a point about parish subsidies; Monica Vancich, gesturing nervously at a scowling Luce; Brendan Shaw, laboriously taking notes. I passed on the chance to capture Ed Bronsky sneaking over to the refreshment table to nab a handful of sugar cookies.

“Look,” Jake was saying in a reasonable voice just after someone in the front row had called for a vote, “we aren't in regular session. We have garnered the consensus of opinion on monetarial responsibility and will duly comprehend your views. Could we move on?”

In the third row, a raven-haired woman who was almost as smartly attired as Francine Wells put up a manicured hand. “Mr. President,” she said in a throaty voice that was laced widi a slight giggle, “may I point out that you have a mission statement, bylaws, and a contract with your pastor. A parish council is strictly consultative. The pastor may listen to advice, but he has final authority and is responsible to his bishop. If you have questions, I suggest you contact the chancery office in Seattle. Otherwise you're simply wasting everyone's time and showing your ignorance.” With a graceful movement, the woman sat down. I recognized her as Ursula O'Toole Randall.

I couldn't help but look at Francine. Her eyes had narrowed
as she stared down on the woman who was about to become her ex-husband's third wife. Ursula tilted her head and smiled archly at Francine. I could tell there was no love lost between the two women. Unless, of course, you counted Warren Wells.

As far as I could tell, Warren wasn't in the audience. I hadn't met him since he returned to Alpine with Ursula in late July. He and Francine had been divorced for many years by the time I arrived in Alpine. Vida had told me that in between Francine and Ursula, Warren had married someone else but it didn't last more than a few years.

The meeting had finally reached its goal: should the school board be expanded from three to five members? Debate was heated. Old-line parishioners such as Annie Jeanne Dupre and Pete Patricelli and Buzzy O'Toole were against the proposal. Vocally for it were most of the younger set I hadn't recognized. At last Jake agreed to take the matter under advisement and to schedule an official vote at the next regular parish-council meeting. He raised his gavel to adjourn, but Ursula Randall was on her feet again.

“Unless I'm ill informed,” she said in that husky, purring voice, “school will open before the next council meeting. Wouldn't it be wiser to settle the matter now so that if the expanded membership is approved, the school will have the benefit of knowing who the new board members are and where they stand?”

Three rows behind Ursula, Verb Vancich, Monica's husband and owner of Alpine Ski, got to his feet. “I agree with”—Verb grimaced, then shrugged his narrow shoulders—”the last speaker. Why can't we call for a voice vote right now?”

Verb's presence puzzled me. While Monica Vancich was very active in the parish and school, her husband wasn't. He rarely came to Mass, except at Christmas and Easter. But I knew that the Vanciches had two children, one of whom attended St. Mildred's. The other was a
preschooler. Perhaps Verb had decided it was time to get involved. With ski season coming up, it certainly wouldn't hurt his position as an Alpine merchant.

Everybody onstage was looking bewildered. An anxious muffled discussion ensued. Murmurs and a couple of guffaws ran through the onlookers. At last Jake pounded for order.

“We've determined to present a ballot this weekend inquiring if parishioners favor incrementing the school-board members,” he said, looking uneasy. “If the affirmatives pass, we'll request candidates to come forth and hold the election the subsequent weekend, September second and third.” He glanced at Francine, who nodded confirmation of the dates. “That way,” Jake went on, “we'll have the board members in place by the time school inaugurates September fifth.” Despite the buzz from the auditorium, Jake slammed his gavel down. “We're adjourned.”

It was nine-fifty. I was the first one out the door. It was exactly ten o'clock when I called Milo.

“What happened?” he asked in a sleepy voice. “I thought you said you'd be home by nine.”

I explained about the tedious, inconclusive session. “I'd like to choke Ed. He said it was going to be hot stuff. But it was just another Alpine meeting, with the usual insults and long-winded bilge. I get enough of that from the county commissioners and the regular school board.” I paused to catch my breath. “Do you still want to come over?” Despite the closeness between us, the veiled innuendo embarrassed me.

“Well …” Milo paused, and I could hear him lighting a cigarette. “It's kind of late, Emma. You want to drive over to Leavenworth Saturday?”

It was unusual for Milo to think of a more adventuresome date than a couple of drinks, a steak at the Venison Inn, and a roll in the hay afterward. I was surprised.

“It sounds like fun,” I said. “What time?”

“Noon? I'll want to check in at the office Saturday morning. Jack Mullins is on vacation this week.”

Jack was one of Milo's deputies. He was also a fellow parishioner. It occurred to me that I hadn't seen him at the meeting. “Okay, see you tomorrow maybe.”

“ 'Night.” Milo yawned. “Hey—I'm sorry about tonight.” The gruffness in his voice masked what I assumed was genuine emotion.

“Me, too. I wish I hadn't gone to that stupid meeting. It was a waste of time.”

“Most meetings are.” He paused again. “It's okay. I'm not going anywhere.”

“Neither am I.”

“Right. 'Night.”

We hung up. I smiled down at the receiver. The exchange between us was about as sentimental as Milo and I ever got. But we knew that under the casual conversation, there was real affection. It was as if we spoke in code. We were too mature to need endless verbal reassurance.

Weren't we?

C
ARLA'S FRONT-PAGE PHOTO
of the community-college construction site was going to look good when the paper finally came out of the back shop. The administration building, the student union, a lecture hall, and a dorm were all beginning to take shape. After much argument, the state had selected a location almost three miles west of town, beyond Ptarmigan Tract and the fish hatchery. There was a rumor that our state legislator, Bob Gunderson, owned the land chosen for the new college. After a lengthy title search, it was discovered that the property belonged to the state. Nor did Gunderson own the nearby land on which he parked his mobile home. In fact, he didn't own the mobile home either, having been “loaned” it by the car dealership he'd worked for on Railroad Avenue. Naturally rumors had spread that Gunderson was a crook, but he managed to turn them to his own advantage, proclaiming that he was one public official who not only didn't own anything, but couldn't be bought.

I held back on writing about the parish meeting. By our next deadline, the vote would be in on expanding the school board. That was the real news. As far as most of Alpine's non-Catholic majority was concerned, St. Mildred's controversies were unimportant. My article would probably run less than two inches and go on page three.

So, as I often do on a quiet Wednesday morning, I cast about for my next editorial. There was talk of turning
parts of the Skykomish River into catch-and-release. The environmentalists were all for it, but the fishermen were against it. I didn't much blame them. The concept of reeling in a five-pound steelhead and then letting it go didn't appeal to many anglers. It was hard enough to catch anything these days in Washington's lakes and streams. Of course the scarcity of game fish was the very reason that catch-and-release was being considered.

I was leafing through news releases from the State Department of Fish and Wildlife when Leo Walsh came into my office. It was only ten o'clock, but the temperature had already topped seventy degrees. Sweat stains showed under the arms of Leo's pale yellow summer-weight shirt.

“I'm guessing we can go thirty-two pages next week,” Leo announced, sitting down across the desk from me. “Safeway and the Grocery Basket both have Labor Day inserts, we've got the back-to-school specials, and I've conned some of the smaller advertisers into taking out two-inchers honoring the local teachers. Then there's the full page sponsored by the Chamber of Commerce for the Labor Day picnic and concert in Old Mill Park.”

“That's great,” I said with enthusiasm. “You come up with some really good ideas, Leo.”

If Leo was pleased by my praise, he didn't show it. “That's my job,” he said without inflection. “You got enough editorial to fill it?”

“I will,” I replied. “Vida's doing a history of Alpine High, Carla is interviewing three new teachers, and we're all working on a where-are-they-now story on former principals, going back to when Alpine had a one-room schoolhouse in its logging camp days.”

Leo gave a nod. “Sounds good. I suppose half the principals are dead.” The idea seemed to please him in a grim way.

“Some of them are, of course.” My expression turned uncharacteristically severe. “What would you expect,
when the original school opened before World War One?”

Leo had stood up, running his hands through his graying auburn hair. “I never expect much. That's why I'm rarely disappointed.” He started to turn away, then spoke again. “By the way, Verb Vancich took out a quarter of a page instead of his usual two-by-two. He bought up Buzzy O'Toole's bicycles and is selling them off for half price at Alpine Ski.”

“I suppose he wants to clear out space before ski season sets in.” I waited for Leo to comment, but he merely walked out of the office. A normally gregarious sort, my ad manager seemed to have grown withdrawn of late. He'd had a drinking problem when he first arrived at
The Advocate
, but appeared to have it under control. I wondered if he and I should have a talk.

Putting Leo out of my mind, I mulled over editorial possibilities. With Labor Day coming up, maybe I should write something on the American worker. But despite the college construction, too many Alpiners had no work. I'd already done endless pieces on the lack of jobs. I could compare the contemporary work ethic with that of the past. Glancing through the door, I saw Carla filing her nails. Maybe the work-ethic comparison wasn't a good idea, either. I returned to catch-and-release. At least Milo would applaud my efforts.

By noon, this week's edition was printed and ready for delivery. After seeing off Kip MacDuff and his pickup from the back entrance to
The Advocate
, I headed for the Burger Barn. The air smelled dry and dusty, which was unusual in Alpine. But there hadn't been much rain for the last month. The flowers drooped in the planters along Front Street, a thick coat of grime covered many local vehicles, and there were splashes of red gold on the side hills where the vine maples had begun to turn color. As a Pacific Northwest native, I, too, felt dusty and dry and in need of watering. Though some people, especially those
from more sun-drenched climes, think me odd, I swear that after more than three weeks without rain, I. can feel my roots begin to wither and my disposition sour.

Thus, while I found my own company less than amiable, I didn't mind eating alone. Milo was busy, Vida had to go to the mall, Carla and Ginny were off somewhere together, and Leo seemed to be functioning in his own little world. As I waited for my burger basket, I thumbed through the August 23 issue of my professional pride and joy.

“How can you put out a rag like that?” The gruff voice belonged to Nunzio Lucci.

Looking up, I assumed he was kidding and grinned. “Hi, Luce. How's the family?”

To my surprise, Luce seemed a bit jarred by the rhetorical question. But then he ignored it, and shook his grizzled, balding head. “You know, Emma, I expect better from you. When some dumb cluck and his fat wife go to Hawaii for a week, you guys write it up like they flew to the moon. But then comes some real news, and it doesn't even get in the paper. How come?”