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Authors: Mary Daheim
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stilted, “that was before
my
time! Speak for yourself, Lloyd.”
“I remember,” Vida declared. “I was a small child during the Depression, but I certainly recall how my father and some of the other men kept an eye out for any vacant buildings where the hoboes might move in and start a fire. We were always so afraid of fire—especially in the forest. There just wasn’t the means to fight a blaze in those days.”
The conversation eased forward along the lines of danger, progress, and rumors of a new bond issue to increase the size of Skykomish County’s emergency facilities. By the time we had finished dessert and moved back into theliving room, we were once again on safe ground. Wendy had resumed airing her complaints about teenage illiteracy; Lloyd expounded on the wonders of high-definition TV, which he insisted was just around the corner; Cyndi critiqued the romantic comedy playing at the Whistling Marmot Movie Theatre; Todd asked Shane if he’d like to go fly-fishing on Sunday up at Surprise Lake; Jean and Vida discussed Pastor Purebeck’s stance on marital infidelity that, happily, did not include any hanky-panky on their minister’s part, but did display a surprisingly broad-minded attitude. At least for a Presbyterian. Or so it seemed to me. But then I had my own set of prejudices.
“I’m a Methodist,” Marilynn Lewis confided. “I haven’t been to church since I got here, but I understand the local minister is very respected. I’ve heard that from some of Dr. Flake and Dr. Dewey’s patients.”
I’d met the Reverend Minton Phelps on several occasions, and he seemed both respected and respectable. At least he hadn’t dropped his pants in public, which was more than could be said for the previous Pentecostal minister—who had done just that shortly before I arrived in Alpine. My perverse, puckish sense of humor dictated that I relate the incident to Marilynn, who laughed merrily at the anecdote, some of which I made up since I hadn’t been an eyewitness.
“Really, Ms. Lord,” she said, still giggling, “I think I’m going to like it here in Alpine. I’ve met several awfully nice people.” Abruptly, she sobered and lowered her dark eyes. “Of course, there are some jerks, too. But that’s true everywhere, isn’t it?”
“I’m afraid so.” I, too, had turned serious. “You mustn’t mind them. In some ways, this town is kind of backward: Isolated. Ingrown. Some of the locals need educating. And call me Emma.”
Marilynn’s smile resurfaced, though it was a little lopsided. “You aren’t from here, either, I guess.”
“No.” Briefly, I recounted my history. Born and raised in Seattle, three years at the University of Washington, an internship at
The Times
, a journalism degree from the University of Oregon, eighteen years in Portland on
The Oregonian
. Parents killed in an auto accident, brother a priest in Arizona,son a student in Alaska. I omitted the part about my married lover and my unmarried pregnancy.
Marilynn reciprocated. She had been born in Oakland, but her family had moved to Seattle just before she entered high school. Her father was dead; her mother had remarried and moved back to California. After graduating from the UDUB’s School of Nursing, she had gone to work at Virginia Mason Hospital. Four years later, she had decided she needed a change, both personally and professionally. I had the feeling she had omitted something, too.
“It’s an adjustment,” I said, referring to small-town life. “I still miss the city in many ways.”
Marilynn nodded. “I do, too. I think.” Her gaze traveled around the living room, taking in the Campbell family and Vida, who was regaling Wendy and Jean with an account of last year’s Memorial Day ceremonies wherein Crazy Eights Neffel had decorated the town’s World War I monument with balloon animals. Shane was at the window, peering into the rain. He struck me as edgy, especially when a solicitous Cyndi approached
my
time! Speak for yourself, Lloyd.”
“I remember,” Vida declared. “I was a small child during the Depression, but I certainly recall how my father and some of the other men kept an eye out for any vacant buildings where the hoboes might move in and start a fire. We were always so afraid of fire—especially in the forest. There just wasn’t the means to fight a blaze in those days.”
The conversation eased forward along the lines of danger, progress, and rumors of a new bond issue to increase the size of Skykomish County’s emergency facilities. By the time we had finished dessert and moved back into theliving room, we were once again on safe ground. Wendy had resumed airing her complaints about teenage illiteracy; Lloyd expounded on the wonders of high-definition TV, which he insisted was just around the corner; Cyndi critiqued the romantic comedy playing at the Whistling Marmot Movie Theatre; Todd asked Shane if he’d like to go fly-fishing on Sunday up at Surprise Lake; Jean and Vida discussed Pastor Purebeck’s stance on marital infidelity that, happily, did not include any hanky-panky on their minister’s part, but did display a surprisingly broad-minded attitude. At least for a Presbyterian. Or so it seemed to me. But then I had my own set of prejudices.
“I’m a Methodist,” Marilynn Lewis confided. “I haven’t been to church since I got here, but I understand the local minister is very respected. I’ve heard that from some of Dr. Flake and Dr. Dewey’s patients.”
I’d met the Reverend Minton Phelps on several occasions, and he seemed both respected and respectable. At least he hadn’t dropped his pants in public, which was more than could be said for the previous Pentecostal minister—who had done just that shortly before I arrived in Alpine. My perverse, puckish sense of humor dictated that I relate the incident to Marilynn, who laughed merrily at the anecdote, some of which I made up since I hadn’t been an eyewitness.
“Really, Ms. Lord,” she said, still giggling, “I think I’m going to like it here in Alpine. I’ve met several awfully nice people.” Abruptly, she sobered and lowered her dark eyes. “Of course, there are some jerks, too. But that’s true everywhere, isn’t it?”
“I’m afraid so.” I, too, had turned serious. “You mustn’t mind them. In some ways, this town is kind of backward: Isolated. Ingrown. Some of the locals need educating. And call me Emma.”
Marilynn’s smile resurfaced, though it was a little lopsided. “You aren’t from here, either, I guess.”
“No.” Briefly, I recounted my history. Born and raised in Seattle, three years at the University of Washington, an internship at
The Times
, a journalism degree from the University of Oregon, eighteen years in Portland on
The Oregonian
. Parents killed in an auto accident, brother a priest in Arizona,son a student in Alaska. I omitted the part about my married lover and my unmarried pregnancy.
Marilynn reciprocated. She had been born in Oakland, but her family had moved to Seattle just before she entered high school. Her father was dead; her mother had remarried and moved back to California. After graduating from the UDUB’s School of Nursing, she had gone to work at Virginia Mason Hospital. Four years later, she had decided she needed a change, both personally and professionally. I had the feeling she had omitted something, too.
“It’s an adjustment,” I said, referring to small-town life. “I still miss the city in many ways.”
Marilynn nodded. “I do, too. I think.” Her gaze traveled around the living room, taking in the Campbell family and Vida, who was regaling Wendy and Jean with an account of last year’s Memorial Day ceremonies wherein Crazy Eights Neffel had decorated the town’s World War I monument with balloon animals. Shane was at the window, peering into the rain. He struck me as edgy, especially when a solicitous Cyndi approached
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