The Alpine Kindred (3 page)

Shortly before four-thirty, I'd just finished conferring with Carla and Kip MacDuff, our back-shop manager, when Vida hurtled into my office.

“Honestly!” she exclaimed. “I thought Carla would never leave! She finally went out to the back shop with Kip. Now, what is this baby business? Is it that college dean?”

“It must be,” I responded. “She's been going with Ryan Talliaferro for a year.”

Vida began to pace in her splayfooted manner. “Are they living together?”

“I don't know.” I felt like adding,
How should I, when you don't?
“As far as I know, Carla hasn't had a roommate since Marilynn Lewis left town to get married to Dr. Flake.”

Vida gave a brief nod. “That was last fall,” she said, referring to the nuptials between Peyton Flake, M.D., and his nurse. Rake was Caucasian, and Marilynn was African-American. While both had courage to spare, they had felt that their interracial union stood a much better chance of survival in a more cosmopolitan environment. Yet the timing of their departure seemed somewhat ironic: since the college opened the previous year, Alpine was becoming increasingly, if somewhat microscopically, more integrated.

“That's the trouble,” Vida groused, “with you assigning so much of the campus coverage to Carla. I really don't know as much as I should about these newcomers. Goodness, I'm not sure where Dean Talliaferro lives! For all I know, he could have moved in with Carla. Tsk, tsk.”

I assumed the tsk-tsks were not aimed at the couple's illicit merger, but at their lack of communication with Vida. “I've dropped by Carla's a couple of times the past few months,” I said, “but I didn't notice if there was any sign of him living there.”

Vida shot me a disparaging look. “That's the problem— so few people notice. Really, Emma, I expect better of you.”

I let the remark pass. “So what's Carla's big news?”

“Oh, that!” Vida waved a dismissive hand. “Now that she's told us she's pregnant, I can guess. She and Dean Talliaferro no doubt are getting married. Such a letdown! And how like Carla to do things backward!”

That much was true. Carla often wrote her news stories backward, paying no attention to whether the pyramid was inverted or not. The who-what-when-where-and-why of the classic newspaper lead might get buried in various
parts of the story or show up in the last paragraph. Despite a degree from the University of Washington's school of communications and six years of experience, my reporter's professional lapses still appalled me. She was, however, an excellent photographer, which, along with my wishy-washy managerial tendencies, kept her safely employed.

Yet it occurred to me that if Carla was going to have a baby before the year was out, I'd need some fill-in help while she took maternity leave. “An intern,” I muttered.

“An intern?” Vida scowled. “We don't need an intern, we need a full-fledged GP. Poor Doc Dewey—he's working himself into the ground since Peyton Flake left.”

“I meant an intern for here, while Carla's having the baby. You know,” I clarified, “maybe someone from the college. It would only be for a few weeks.”

“Oh.” Vida made a face. “I thought you were referring to our current shortage of medical personnel. Do you know that Grace Grundle has to wait four weeks to get her bunions off?”

I didn't know, nor did I care. The search for a qualified physician had gone on too long, however. Only the previous week I'd written yet another editorial about the county health department's foot-dragging. Until the influx of college students, Alpine and its environs had one of the oldest populations in the state. Between the longevity of its many Scandinavian residents and the migration of young people to the city, the average age in Skykomish County was almost five years older than that of other, larger counties. But for all my carping in
The Advocate
, Alpine still remained a one-doc town.

If I was temporarily disinterested in the current medical crisis, Vida wasn't concerned about a replacement for Carla. “Plenty of time to worry about that,” she said. “For now, we must concentrate on this baby business. Why
don't you come over to dinner tonight at my house? I'll fix a nice casserole.”

Like most of her cooking, Vida's casseroles were a mixed bag. In fact, they tasted more like she'd used a paper bag as part of the ingredients. “Don't go to the trouble,” I said hastily. “We can eat at the Venison Inn.”

“Well …” Vida fingered her chin. “I do have some errands to run after work. Why don't I meet you there a little before six? We'll avoid the rush.”

The rush
in Alpine is always a relative term. What Vida really meant was that she wanted to make sure she got a window table so she could keep her eye on the passing parade down Front Street.

“Okay,” I agreed. “I'll stick around here and get caught up on a few things.”

By five, everyone else had gone home. By five-thirty, I finished going through the handouts and news releases that had piled up in my in-basket. Turning out the lights and locking up, I stepped cautiously onto the sidewalk. I would never admit it, but every time I left the office, I checked to make sure that Milo Dodge wasn't in sight. Maybe that was why I was eating lunch in so much these days. I didn't want to see him, not because I hated him, but because he didn't want to see me.

Strange, I thought, glancing the two blocks down Front Street to the Sheriff's office, how we had agreed to stay friends when we broke up. But maybe not so strange that Milo hadn't been able to keep the promise. It was my idea to stop seeing each other. He had reacted much more bitterly than I'd expected. Maybe he'd cared more than I'd ever guessed. It would have been nice if he'd told me so along the way.

There was no sign of his Cherokee Chief parked in front of the Sheriff's office. I assumed he'd gone home to his TV dinner and his baseball game. I didn't want to
think about Milo sitting in front of the set and eating Swanson's Hungry-Man frozen chicken.

I didn't want to think about Milo at all.

But I did.

O
N
T
UESDAY
, C
ARLA
turned into a dynamo. She managed to get a photo of a three-car collision on Alpine Way near her apartment, she turned out a creditable story on the RUB dedication, and she filled the gaping hole on page one with the Bourgettes' restaurant plans. Last but not least, she met Einar Rasmussen Jr. at the college and shot off two rolls of film in an attempt at appeasement.

“He wasn't too awful,” Carla said later that afternoon when the paper was almost put to bed. “I think he's more bark than bite.”

“Good,” I remarked from my perch on her desk where I was proofing the cutline for the accident picture. “No injuries. That's good, too.” Two of the three vehicles, all driven by local residents, had rear-ended each other when the first had stopped short at one of Alpine's few traffic lights. Carla had managed to catch the drivers as they'd emerged from their cars and were shaking their fists in anger. I recognized an Olson, an Iverson, and a Swanson.

“I'll get the proofs back tomorrow from Buddy Bayard's,” Carla said, referring to the local photography studio that handled our developing. “I hated to do it, Emma, but I told Mr. Einarssen he could have a look.”

I glanced up from Carla's copy on the Bourgette project. “You did?” I tried not to let subjects interfere— or censor, as I termed it in the darker corner of my free
press soul—with either text or visuals. But sometimes accommodations had to be made. “Well, it shouldn't be a problem. It's pretty standard stuff, isn't it? And by the way, it's Rasmussen, not Einarssen.”

“Whatever.” Carla shrugged. “Actually, I got him to stand on his head.”

My eyes widened. “You did? He could, at his age?”

At her desk, Vida harrumphed. “Einar Jr.'s not as old as I am. Why shouldn't he stand on his head?”

I tried to imagine Vida doing likewise. The vision was awesome.

“I think he got a charge out of it,” Carla said, exhibiting her dimples. “Mr. Einarssen has a frisky side.”

“Rasmussen,”
I repeated. I'd definitely have to check Carla's outline for accuracy. Only last week she'd typed Ku Klutz Klan into an article about Mayor Fuzzy Baugh's youth in Louisiana and his allegedly valiant stand against the KKK.

The Bourgette story read well, however. Dan and John had nailed down the title, and taken out a loan to buy the property from the city. The terms were generous, since Mayor Fuzzy was probably glad to get the fire-scarred eyesore off his hands.

“Say,” I said, finishing the story, “how come Einar Jr. is so down on the Bourgette brothers? He was very critical of them when he was in here yesterday.”

Vida eyed me over the rims of her glasses. “Really, Emma! Don't you know?”

I shook my head. “Know what? He said they weren't as smart as his son, Beau. The Bourgettes didn't have business sense.”

“Einar Jr. would say anything derogatory about the Bourgettes,” Vida responded. “They're his nephews.”

I was surprised—and puzzled. “Why is that? A family
feud?” The Hatfields and McCoys had nothing on Alpine. Internecine quarrels were as common as gopher holes.

“Of course.” Vida stood up, crossed the room, and handed me “Scene Around Town.” “Mary Jane Ras-mussen Bourgette is Einar Jr. and Harold's sister. She married a Catholic. Naturally, that didn't set well with Einar Sr. and his wife, Thyra. They're Lutheran to their toes.”

I frowned at Vida. “You teased me about forgetting Harold Rasmussen. Now you tell me there's a Mary Jane, too? Did you forget her until now?”

Vida looked vaguely sheepish. “Not exactly. It's just that when Mary Jane and Dick got married almost forty years ago, the rest of the Rasmussens cut them off. I suppose I don't think of them as having anything to do with the rest of the family, because they don't. Besides, the Bourgettes only moved to Alpine two years ago when Dick started working as an electrical subcontractor on the college construction. Dan and John joined their father, but now they want to branch out. Dick and Mary Jane had lived in Monroe until then, and I understand they wanted more space to entertain their grandchildren. The Bourgettes have quite a brood.”

I realized then that I'd seen members of the Bourgette clan at Mass only in the past couple of years. Vaguely, I recalled Vida's story on the family and how they'd taken up residence in the old Doukas house on First Hill. But of course Vida hadn't mentioned the Rasmussens in her article, so I was unaware of the connection.

“I think the Bourgettes have a great idea,” Carla said after I'd told her to go ahead and send the restaurant story to the back shop for publication on page two. “We could use another place to eat. I get tired of the Venison Inn and the Burger Barn and those fast-food places at the mall.”

I agreed. “Let's hope they have better luck than the
Californians who tried to fix up the old hotel,” I noted, referring to the L. A.-area transplants who had tried to renovate the old Alpine Hotel in the hope of turning it into a bijou hostelry, complete with a gourmet kitchen. Five years ago their timing, as well as their financing, had been dicey. The project had collapsed, and the hotel was currently being considered by the local churches as a battered women's shelter.

Which, it occurred to me, would provide editorial fodder for next week. Like the county health department's slow selection process in hiring a new doctor, Alpine's clergy were taking their time to finalize the shelter project. I understood the locals' resistance to change, but in both cases, I felt they were shooting themselves in the foot.

Or was it feet?
I wondered idly, still in my proofreader's mode. But the paper was in Kip MacDuff's hands, and it was time to go home. Once again, I dodged Dodge. Behind the wheel of my aging green Jaguar, I turned off Front Street and headed for Railroad Avenue. It was about time I took a good look at the future diner site.

The loading dock and the warehouse were located just off Alpine Way by the bridge over the Skykomish River. The structures had originally served the Alpine Lumber Company, which had stood on the site of Old Mill Park just across what is now the main thoroughfare in and out of town. The charred remnants of what had once been the bustling hub of Alpine were flanked on the north by River Road and on the south by the railroad tracks. The fire had started during the night last October while Vida and I were out of town. Except for the sagging wreck of a building, damage had been minimal. The loading dock was rarely used, and the warehouse had been empty for years. Like the rest of Alpine, the structures had been waiting for better days.

Getting out of the car, I surveyed the burned timbers and piles of rubble. Though I'd often driven past the ruins, I hadn't paid much attention until now. The site would be a good location for a restaurant, I decided. There'd be plenty of room for parking, a river view, and proximity to the main thoroughfare in and out of town. Maybe the Bourgette brothers had more business sense than Einar Rasmussen Jr. gave them credit for.

With a nod of approval, I got back in my Jag and headed for my little log house at the edge of the forest. Alpine is built on the steep slopes of Tonga Ridge, with residents nestled among the second-stand evergreens. The Douglas fir and hemlock and cedar are seventy years old, and bare patches on Mount Baldy and other nearby peaks attest to more recent harvests. The old growth, which yielded pre-Columbian giants, had been cut down in the first quarter of the twentieth century to supply the Alpine Lumber Company. For almost two decades, the mill had been the town's economic base. But once the founder and owner, Carl Clemans, finished clear-cutting his stand, he shut down operations. Alpine was faced with extinction until Vida's future father-in-law, Rufus Runkel, and a Norwegian fondly recalled as Olaf the Obese, built a ski lodge. Other mills and logging companies had come and gone since the late Twenties, but environmental concerns put timber towns such as Alpine up against the wall. One local mill remained, with a scant half-dozen cutting areas on nearby mountainsides. Feeling like an endangered species, Alpiners had welcomed the new community college with open arms.