The measure had passed, ninety-six to seventy-nine.
“So who've announced as the candidates?” I inquired, eyeing the formal notice on my desk that all timber operations had ceased due to the high fire danger.
Father Den cleared his throat. “They have until Friday to submit their names. So far, we've got only two—Rita Haines and Derek Norman.”
I'd never heard of Derek Norman, but Rita had been a Patricelli before her marriage to a man named Haines. Since Rita seldom attended Mass, I knew her better fromher job as the Chamber of Commerce secretary. Mr. Haines wasn't around, so I assumed they were divorced. There were children, but I knew virtually nothing about them. Rita had always struck me as mercurial in temperament.
“Who's Derek?” I asked.
“He works at the state fish hatchery,” Father Den responded. “His wife, Blythe, is a writer who does some tutoring. They have a second grader and a kindergartner. I think they moved to Alpine at the end of June.”
More newcomers, I thought. “Do they come to Mass?”
“Well…” Father Den's laugh was lame. “They're not Catholic. But they believe in private education. School-board members don't have to be Catholic. In some cases, they don't have to be parents, either.”
I jotted down a note for Vida or Carla to set up an interview. Obviously the Normans had slipped through the cracks. “So we'll vote at the weekend Masses? Do you expect anybody else to jump in or will these spots be uncontested?”
“You'd better ask Ronnie Wenzler-Greene about that,” Father Den said. “I try to keep out of the school side of the parish as much as I can. I've already got enough headaches.” Judging from the weary note in his voice, the pastor was having one now. I didn't want to add to his woes, but felt compelled to mention Polly Patricelli's cracked vase.
Father Den laughed. “Somebody brought it up the other day,” he said. “But Polly hasn't said anything. You know how rumors get started in this town.”
“You mean … Polly isn't taking it seriously?” If ever there was a candidate for a home miracle, Polly Patricelli struck me as at the top of the list. She was what I called an “old-fashioned” Catholic, with a houseful of sentimental religious paintings, plaster statues of saints, and blessed palms stuck everywhere except behind her ears. Or so Vida claimed.
But Father Den shrugged off the alleged portrait in thevase. “I've seen the Blessed Mother in a waffle, St. Therese in dry wall, and the Holy Spirit flying out of a cigar humidor. Believe me, they weren't miracles, just optical illusions. I'll bet your brother has seen his share, too.”
It was true. One of Ben's most memorable “visions” had occurred during his Mississippi assignment when an otherwise sensible young woman had reported seeing the Holy Family in a plateful of chitlins.
On that note of skepticism, I rang off. I had to grab some lunch before my one-thirty appointment with Veronica Wenzler-Greene. Carla and Ginny had already gone out to eat, Leo was nowhere in sight, and Vida was munching radishes and celery sticks.
“Well?” She looked up as I came into the news office.
I knew that she had been dying of curiosity about the school-board vote. “It passed,” I said simply. “Who are Derek and Blythe Norman?”
“What?” Vida all but shot out of her chair. “Norman? I've never heard of them! Where did you get such names?”
I recounted my conversation with Dennis Kelly. “They've been here since the end of June,” I said with a hint of reproach. “He works at the fish hatchery.”
“He can't,” Vida muttered, clearly in denial. “The state would have sent a news release.” Her eyes darted in the direction of Carla's vacant desk. “She threw it out. I've seen her discard news releases before this. Last week it was the Burl Creek Thimble Club's Fall Remnant Sale! It should have come to me in the first place. Do I have to start going through her wastebasket
“So who've announced as the candidates?” I inquired, eyeing the formal notice on my desk that all timber operations had ceased due to the high fire danger.
Father Den cleared his throat. “They have until Friday to submit their names. So far, we've got only two—Rita Haines and Derek Norman.”
I'd never heard of Derek Norman, but Rita had been a Patricelli before her marriage to a man named Haines. Since Rita seldom attended Mass, I knew her better fromher job as the Chamber of Commerce secretary. Mr. Haines wasn't around, so I assumed they were divorced. There were children, but I knew virtually nothing about them. Rita had always struck me as mercurial in temperament.
“Who's Derek?” I asked.
“He works at the state fish hatchery,” Father Den responded. “His wife, Blythe, is a writer who does some tutoring. They have a second grader and a kindergartner. I think they moved to Alpine at the end of June.”
More newcomers, I thought. “Do they come to Mass?”
“Well…” Father Den's laugh was lame. “They're not Catholic. But they believe in private education. School-board members don't have to be Catholic. In some cases, they don't have to be parents, either.”
I jotted down a note for Vida or Carla to set up an interview. Obviously the Normans had slipped through the cracks. “So we'll vote at the weekend Masses? Do you expect anybody else to jump in or will these spots be uncontested?”
“You'd better ask Ronnie Wenzler-Greene about that,” Father Den said. “I try to keep out of the school side of the parish as much as I can. I've already got enough headaches.” Judging from the weary note in his voice, the pastor was having one now. I didn't want to add to his woes, but felt compelled to mention Polly Patricelli's cracked vase.
Father Den laughed. “Somebody brought it up the other day,” he said. “But Polly hasn't said anything. You know how rumors get started in this town.”
“You mean … Polly isn't taking it seriously?” If ever there was a candidate for a home miracle, Polly Patricelli struck me as at the top of the list. She was what I called an “old-fashioned” Catholic, with a houseful of sentimental religious paintings, plaster statues of saints, and blessed palms stuck everywhere except behind her ears. Or so Vida claimed.
But Father Den shrugged off the alleged portrait in thevase. “I've seen the Blessed Mother in a waffle, St. Therese in dry wall, and the Holy Spirit flying out of a cigar humidor. Believe me, they weren't miracles, just optical illusions. I'll bet your brother has seen his share, too.”
It was true. One of Ben's most memorable “visions” had occurred during his Mississippi assignment when an otherwise sensible young woman had reported seeing the Holy Family in a plateful of chitlins.
On that note of skepticism, I rang off. I had to grab some lunch before my one-thirty appointment with Veronica Wenzler-Greene. Carla and Ginny had already gone out to eat, Leo was nowhere in sight, and Vida was munching radishes and celery sticks.
“Well?” She looked up as I came into the news office.
I knew that she had been dying of curiosity about the school-board vote. “It passed,” I said simply. “Who are Derek and Blythe Norman?”
“What?” Vida all but shot out of her chair. “Norman? I've never heard of them! Where did you get such names?”
I recounted my conversation with Dennis Kelly. “They've been here since the end of June,” I said with a hint of reproach. “He works at the fish hatchery.”
“He can't,” Vida muttered, clearly in denial. “The state would have sent a news release.” Her eyes darted in the direction of Carla's vacant desk. “She threw it out. I've seen her discard news releases before this. Last week it was the Burl Creek Thimble Club's Fall Remnant Sale! It should have come to me in the first place. Do I have to start going through her wastebasket
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