The Alpine Pursuit (5 page)

Milo was taken aback. “Huh?” he said around the cigarette that he’d stuck in his mouth while he stood up and put on his parka. “What do you mean?”

“Never mind.” I turned away and tromped toward the entrance. I still didn’t think much of his taste in women.

∗ ∗ ∗

Ben had managed to get us tickets to a production of
Don Giovanni
at the Rome Opera House. The seats were in the third balcony and off to the side, but it was a fabulous production. All of the singers were in marvelous voice. It was a traditional setting, unlike some of the
Dons
I’ve read about in the last few years. On my feet and clapping so hard that my hands hurt for the next hour, I shouted cheers and shed some tears along with the rest of the audience.

Rome. Mozart. The venerable opera house. I hadn’t felt so exhilarated in years. Maybe I’d finally detected a pulse.

∗ ∗ ∗

I remembered that wondrous night as I drove to the Thyra Rasmussen Theater. Making comparisons would only put me in a bad mood. Rome was then; Alpine was now. My temper had settled down during the afternoon. All I had to do for the rest of the evening was sit in my seat and try not to doze off.

It wasn’t hard to spot Vida in the lobby, since she stood well over six feet in her black suede pumps and a maroon satin hat with long matching feathers springing out of a garnet clasp. She was wearing a three-quarter black mouton coat I’d never seen before, but I estimated that it had been in her closet since before the Korean War. I would have approached her, but she was surrounded by not only Roger’s parents, Ted and Amy Hibbert, but several others. Buck’s brother, Henry Bardeen, Grace Grundle, and Dot and Durwood Parker completed her coterie.

Except for smiles and nods as I passed through the throng, I tried to keep a low profile. But I was stopped in my tracks by gasps and squeals behind me. At five-foot-four, I was too short to see over the people who stood between the entrance and me.

But the theatergoers parted to make way for the newcomer. Using two canes adorned with Egyptian temple dogs, Thyra Rasmussen moved slowly, painfully, and proudly across the lobby. The woman who had built the theater must have been close to a hundred. She had been a tall, handsome woman in her younger days and had ruled Snohomish like an empress. Despite the tragedies that had befallen her family in recent years—including the death of her husband, Einar Sr., a year ago—she still lived in the big Victorian-era family home on Avenue B. Thyra was accompanied by her surviving son, Harold, and his wife, Gladys. Mary Jane Rasmussen Bourgette and her husband, Dick, were nowhere to be seen. When Mary Jane married a Catholic, the senior Rasmussens had cut her out of their lives. It was said that Mary Jane’s appointment to Einar Jr.’s position on the Board of Trustees had been looked upon with great disfavor by her mother and had almost put a crimp in the plans to build the theater.

If Vida’s attire went back half a century, Thyra’s dated from the post–World War One era. She wore a long black taffeta grown with what looked like a brown sable cape. Her turban was wreathed in pearls, as was her neck. Indeed, the necklace’s triple strands hung below her waist. Black kidskin gloves crept above her elbows, with a pearl-and-diamond bracelet on her left wrist. The only items that didn’t go with her costume were a pair of soft carpet slippers.

Thyra’s sharp gaze flashed around the lobby as if her eyes were taking photographs. The eagle glance set briefly on Vida, then darted away. The two women had a history, dating back to an unpleasant encounter between Thyra and Vida’s mother involving homegrown gourds. No truce had ever been called. Vida looked fit to spit.

Just beyond her nemesis, Thyra stopped, lifted her chin, and addressed the crowd. “Do you all
love
the living theater?” she called out in her surprisingly strong voice.

We’d damned well better,
I thought as nervous affirmatives mingled with heartier endorsements.

Leaning on her canes, Thyra studied the gathering more closely. “The theater is life,” she proclaimed. “Life is a theater.” She paused. “I was an actress many years ago, before my marriage to Mr. Rasmussen. He encouraged me to continue with my career, but I felt I should be a homemaker. Those were the old days, when a woman stayed home and raised her family.” There was a sneer on her face as she stopped again and took a deep breath. “But the theater was in my blood. Through this wonderful building and upon this handsome stage I can vicariously relive my golden days before an audience.”

“Oh, good grief!” It was Vida, and I could hear her stage whisper from fifteen feet away.

If Thyra heard her, she ignored the remark. Resting one cane against her skirt, she raised a gloved hand. “As is said at the beginning of
I Pagliacci
,
’Andiam. Incominciate!’
”

Thyra’s Italian phrase to begin the show couldn’t help but remind me of Rome, at least in a weird kind of way. She was a little like the Forum, ancient, degenerating, and yet imposing. Vida, however, was glaring at the old lady as if she were debris floating on the Tiber.

Accompanied by Harold and Gladys, Thyra made her way from the lobby. The Rasmussen contingent had been joined by Irene Baugh, the mayor’s long-suffering wife, and, in a rare public appearance, Justine Cardenas, Nat’s elegant, if aloof, spouse.

As seasoned journalists are apt to do when they want only to observe, I slipped around the edge of the throng and entered the auditorium through a side aisle. Except apparently for Thyra Rasmussen and her devotees, who were moving into the third row center, seats weren’t reserved. I sat two-thirds of the way back and four seats over. Nobody was yet sitting in the row, so I concentrated on reading the cast of characters one more time:

THE OUTCAST
Written and Directed by
Destiny Parsons

Narrator Spencer Fleetwood

Leroy Billingsate,
developer
Fuzzy Baugh

Dane Olmquist,
animal rights activist
Jim Medved

Ted Owens,
unemployed logger
Rip Ridley

Dorothy Oz,
a lost young woman
Clea Bhuj

Otto Meeks,
café owner
Hans Berenger

Angela D’Amato,
waitress
Rita Patricelli

Alex Garcia,
itinerant worker
Rey Fernandez

John Brown,
sheriff
Nat Cardenas

Jamie Jejune,
teenager
Roger Hibbert

Kevin Chang,
attorney
Dustin Fong

Gabriel,
an angel
Otis Poole

Chester White,
café customer
Ed Bronsky

Dodo,
a dog
Dodo

I’d finished reading the credits, the list of donors, and the ads—including our own—when Milo arrived, about two minutes before curtain time. The row I was in had filled up, mostly with students. The sheriff moved in behind me, one seat over. Reaching out with a long arm, he tapped me on the shoulder.

“It’s starting to snow,” he said, nodding at Vida, who was coming my way with the Hibberts.

“Great.” I wondered if Thyra had been carried in by her family members. Carpet slippers weren’t suitable for snow-covered ground. “Very hard?”

“Not yet,” Milo replied, looking uncomfortable in his seat. I guessed that there wasn’t sufficient room for his long legs. He was wearing a shirt and tie under his heavy nonregulation jacket. Somehow, formality didn’t suit the sheriff. In all the years I’d known him, I’d only seen him dressed up about four times. “It’s supposed to get heavier later in the evening,” Milo went on, shrugging out of the big brown parka. “I had to call Sam Heppner and Dwight Gould in to keep track of the highway and the side roads. They’re pissed. They wanted to watch Dustin act.”

Vida sat down next to Milo with Amy and Ted in the next two seats by the aisle. “Goodness!” she exclaimed. “I never thought I’d see Queen Thyra in Alpine, theater or not. I swear she hasn’t left Snohomish in thirty years. And those slippers! Couldn’t she put a pair of galoshes over them?”

The auditorium was filling up. Leo had told me that the premiere was a sellout and that sales were going well for the next three performances. All profits would be plowed back into the theater, since no one was getting paid.

Vida’s mind was running parallel with mine. “I wonder if Thyra expects to make money out of this. I wouldn’t be surprised if she took some off the top. To paraphrase the Duchess of Windsor, ‘No woman can be too mean or too rich.’ ”

I expressed my doubts about Thyra dipping into the theater’s fund. “But to quote the Duchess,” I said as I saw Scott Chamoud creeping near the stage to take pictures, “the old girl is also thin.”

“Piffle,” said Vida as the doors were closed and the houselights began to dim. “She’s not just thin, she’s scrawny. She always was. Now she’s more so.”

The audience grew silent except for someone behind Vida who asked politely if she’d please remove her hat. The request was ignored.

Spence began his narration. He was a professional, and I had to admit that he raised the bar for the performers who followed. When he finished and the café interior was revealed, the audience burst into spontaneous applause. It was, in fact, a fine set. The program gave credit to students and a couple of volunteers from Jack Blackwell’s mill.

It also seemed that the actors, who were now in costume, looked more credible. Certainly the theatergoers thought so. They seemed caught up in the drama, gasping at the confrontation between Coach Ridley and Jim Medved, sighing at Clea Bhuj’s bewilderment, laughing at Rita Patricelli’s hard-boiled comebacks to her customers, and the sight of Dodo the dog seemed to make everybody feel warm and fuzzy. Just like Dodo.

Meanwhile, Ed sat on his stool and ate. He couldn’t help but give a convincing performance.

Halfway through the act, the person behind Vida again asked if she’d remove her hat. The second request wasn’t quite as polite as the first. Vida paid no attention.

A few minutes later, after Clea had expressed her desire to go home to the city, the person whose view was marred by Vida’s hat—and possibly by Milo’s head—spoke sharply if not loudly:

“Ma’am, please take off that thing you’ve got on your head. With those foot-high feathers, it looks like a dead bird.”

Everyone within earshot turned to stare, including me. I didn’t recognize the young man. In fact, I could hardly see him with Vida’s hat and the sheriff’s head in the way. I guessed that he might be a college student. Whoever he was, he didn’t know Vida or Milo.

“This,” Vida said in her stage whisper, “is a special occasion hat. And this play is, I believe, a special occasion. I’m not taking it off.”

“Vida,” I heard Milo say, “lose the damned hat or I’ll have to arrest you and the bozo behind us for disturbing the peace.”

“You wouldn’t dare!” Vida retorted. “Mind your manners, Milo!”

“Hey.” Milo sounded conciliatory. “This play’s a big deal for Alpine, right? You want to ruin it for everybody?”

I was staring straight ahead, trying to focus on the introduction of a new character, Rey Fernandez as Alex Garcia, itinerant worker. Vida hadn’t responded. Rey was lamenting the fate of the Poor.

Vida emitted a huge sigh. “Oh, very well,” she said. “I can adjust the feathers. It’s a shame,” she huffed, “you can’t shout
boorish
in a crowded theater!”

I waited a couple of moments, then discreetly turned enough to see Vida, who had pulled each of the feathers down and to the side. She looked like a lop-eared rabbit.

Clea spoke of the Homeless in the city and how she longed to return so that she could help them. Rey countered with the burden of moving from town to town, trying to find work in the forests and the fields. As Clea began to realize that the big city wasn’t the only entity with social problems, the curtain came down.

Vida remained in her seat during the intermission, but I got up to stretch my legs and use the rest room. Justine Cardenas was washing her hands when I approached the triple sinks. She must have seen me in the mirror but didn’t acknowledge my presence.

“Hi, Justine,” I said, sounding overly friendly. “How are you? Does Nat come on in Act Two?”

“Oh, hello, Emma,” the college president’s wife responded as if I’d just materialized out of the drain. “I’m well, thank you. Yes, Nat appears as the sheriff in the second act. I understand there’s more violence between Coach Ridley and Dr. Medved. Oh, and Rey Fernandez. Then the runaway youth arrives.”

Roger.
“I’m getting the impression that Rey and Jim Medved and Fuzzy Baugh are modeled on the Tin Woodsman, the Lion, and the Scarecrow. Is that right?”

“Not precisely,” Justine said in her carefully modulated voice. “Jim is in fact the Scarecrow, Nat is the Tin Woodsman, and Hans Berenger is the Lion. The mayor is the Wizard.”

“Ah.” It made sense. Fuzzy would have to play a wizard. It’d go down well with the voters.

Justine offered me a cool smile and glided away, every highlighted hair in place, every line of her expensive Donna Karan ensemble in perfect order. She was replaced at the sink by the small and disheveled city librarian, Edna Mae Dalrymple.

“I can’t quite figure this play out,” she declared. “Are loggers supposed to be bad?”

“I’m sure Rip Ridley will somehow redeem himself,” I said.

“I hope so,” Edna Mae replied, her brow furrowed. “I realize that the timber industry evokes some poor images, but that’s what built Alpine. Originally, I mean. Oops!” She dropped her paper towel and bent to pick it up. “Besides, Mr. Blackwell certainly wouldn’t want to give logging a bad name.”

Early on in the second act, Edna Mae was proved right. Hans Berenger, as café owner Otto Meeks, began to timorously defend the logging industry. Jim chided him while Fuzzy rode the fence. Rip Ridley declared that Hans should put his money—or something—where his mouth was. Hans, being a cowardly lion, backed off, saying that he didn’t want to offend any of his customers. Business was bad.

The play whined on, back and forth between the issues of jobs and the environment. Clea seemed to be reaching some kind of enlightenment, but she sure was taking her time about it. Then, just as I was fighting the urge to nod off, Roger appeared. He was dressed much as he was in real life, with baggy jeans, a T-shirt emblazoned with
RUNNIN’ REBELS
, and a backpack that I figured usually contained several snacks and a couple of X-rated videos instead of school texts and notebooks. He had, however, lost a bit of weight since I’d last seen him. Or maybe he’d grown taller instead of just wider.