Authors: Mary Daheim
Vida drew back, her eyes narrowed. “I got my bifocals that week. I couldn’t read proof properly.” She shifted her
gaze in my direction, as if daring me to make an untoward comment.
Todd Wilson had slumped into a rose-colored armchair. “God, Wendy,” he said, in a tired voice, “you women remember the damnedest things! That was seven years ago.”
His wife gave him a sharp glance. “Eight, come June. I’ll bet you don’t even remember which day.”
Todd didn’t contradict Wendy. “I don’t remember yesterday. Life at the PUD wipes out my memory. It wipes me out, too. That wind last weekend knocked down a bunch of branches on the line to the fish hatchery. I spent all afternoon sawing down trees and trying not to deck that mouthy guy from the State Fisheries Department.” Todd’s close-set brown eyes traveled across the room to his sister-in-law. “Was today a bitch or was it not, Cyndi?”
Cyndi let her head loll back on the sofa. “It always is. The middle of the month, all those cutoff dates for the deadbeats. I get tired of answering the phone and listening to their excuses. They won’t wait until I can connect them to Danielle in credit.”
“Not them.” Todd waved a freckled hand in dismissal. He was a pleasant-looking fellow in his midthirties, with wavy brown hair highlighted by hints of red. His forehead, however, was prematurely creased. “I mean the complaints about the water-shortage surcharge. We either got water or we don’t. This year’s not as bad as last, but you’d think we were personally responsible for the lack of rain. Hell, this last February was the driest on record for—”
Todd’s complaint was cut short by the appearance of Shane Campbell, now wearing blue jeans and a pale blue shirt. He greeted us all with a diffident wave, then went directly to the kitchen. I saw Wendy’s gaze follow her brother out of the room. She didn’t look pleased.
“Shane should go back to Seattle,” she declared. “He’s the perfect example of the you-can’t-go-home-again syndrome.”
“Shut up,” snapped Cyndi. “Shane’s doing fine. He’s waiting for Fred Meyer.”
Wendy leaned forward in the white leather club chair, all traces of her earlier good humor gone. “You shut up, Cyndi. Why do you and Shane always take sides against
me? I’m only thinking about what’s best for him. You haven’t thought about anybody but yourself since the day you were born.”
In his recliner next to the fireplace, Lloyd Campbell chuckled. “Come on, kids, knock it off. We’ve got company.” He turned his genial face to Vida and me. “Siblings. They never get over squabbling. What about your three girls, Vida?”
Vida considered. “They debate. They also live in different towns. That helps.”
Lloyd inclined his head, conceding the point. Before he could ask for my opinion, Jean returned from the kitchen. “We’re almost ready,” she said, a bit breathlessly. “Shane is watching the meat. Would anyone care for more sparkling cider?”
“More?” Todd made a face. “Wendy and I haven’t had
any
. You got a beer? I’ve had a hell of a day.”
Jean frowned at her son-in-law, but Lloyd got up from his recliner. “Believe it or not, Todd, I have a six-pack stashed away in the woodshed. I was saving it for a fishing trip.”
Moments later, Todd Wilson was caressing his can of beer as if it were a family pet. His wife ignored him. His sister-in-law looked envious. Lloyd Campbell made another trip into the kitchen and disappeared. I wondered if he’d liberated a second beer for himself and was drinking it in the backyard.
Our hostess could be seen through the French doors that separated the living room from the dining room. Jean had brought out two serving bowls; she returned with a bread basket; on the third trip, she carried a large platter.
“Dinner,” she called, then went back into the kitchen.
Wendy led us into the dining room with its solid oak table and chairs, a big breakfront jammed with china, and a buffet decorated with a pair of brass candlesticks and a bouquet of tulips.
Swiftly, I counted the place settings. There were nine. Eight of us had already shown up. Marilynn Lewis was missing. Shane carried in a big bowl of salad; Jean brought a ladle for the gravy. We were still in the act of sitting down when we heard the sirens.
Vida craned her neck in the direction of the double window that looked out onto Seventh Street. It was still broad daylight. “That’s the sheriff,” she said.
Lloyd eased himself into his chair at the head of the table. “Probably a wreck out there at the four-way stop. Damned fools come tearing down First Hill Road and don’t bother to see if anybody’s coming off Highway 187. Kids, I’ll bet.” He passed the potatoes to Wendy on his left.
Wendy pursed her lips. “We need a real traffic light there. We’ve had two assemblies on traffic safety already this year at the high school, but nobody listens. Drivers’ ed, yes—that works pretty well. But not everybody takes it …”
Her voice trailed off as another siren sounded nearby. “Ambulance,” said Vida, taking the meat platter from Shane. Her eyes flickered around the table, lighting on the vacant chair between Cyndi and Todd. “Where’s Marilynn?”
The question had been on my mind ever since we arrived half an hour earlier. Glances seemed to fly around the table: Lloyd at Jean, Jean at Shane, Shane at Cyndi, Cyndi at both Wendy and Todd.
It was Shane who finally spoke. “She was going to be late. She said not to wait for her.”
Wendy gave a little snort. “Well, we didn’t.” She spooned green beans onto her plate.
The awkward lull that ensued was broken by Jean Campbell, who urged us not to skimp on the meat. “It isn’t often that flank steak’s on special, so I always get plenty of it. And I hate having leftovers. Lloyd won’t eat them.” She gave her husband a benevolent smile.
The mood seemed to relax, though I noticed that Vida was leaning back in her chair, as if listening for further action from outside.
Apparently, Lloyd also noticed her attitude. “You should have brought your camera, Vida. Front-page car crashes always get readers’ attention, I’ll bet.”
But Vida shook her head. “Those sirens didn’t go all the way to the intersection. In fact, they didn’t even go past your house. It sounded to me as if they stopped a couple of blocks up Spruce.”
Spruce was the next east-west artery, between Tyee and my own street, Fir. It went past the high school field before petering out at Highway 187 and First Hill Road. I felt a wave of uneasiness creep over me. I didn’t know why.
No one argued with Vida’s pronouncement about the sirens, Instead, Wendy began to talk about the essays her American lit students had handed in that day. Her parents wore interested expressions; her siblings looked bored; her husband left the dining room, possibly searching for his father-in-law’s stash of beer.
“They can’t get it through their heads that science fiction isn’t literature. Neither are romances or spy stories or those thrillers that make your hair stand on end.” Wendy was pontificating, using her fork for emphasis. “I’m not asking them to read Hawthorne or Henry James—I’d settle for Hemingway, even J. D. Salinger. I had one kid who turned in a paper on a comic book version of
Call of the Wild!”
Jean Campbell wore a look of concern. “Salinger? I remember when you and Shane and Cyndi read his book. It was awfully frank. I don’t think Hemingway is suitable, either. What’s wrong with Sir Walter Scott and Louisa May Alcott?”
“The smokers’ grocery.” It was Vida who spoke, tapping her fingers on the linen tablecloth.
Everyone, including Todd, who had returned from the kitchen beerless, stared at Vida.
“The what?” asked Jean, diverted from her diatribe against immoral literature.
“That little store across from the high school,” Vida explained. “You know, where the students go to smoke. And do heaven knows what else these days.” Her face puckered in disapproval.
Wendy buttered a chunk of sourdough bread. “They don’t go there anymore except to buy candy and pop. After old Mr. Whipp retired, his son cleaned the place up. That’s probably why he’s going broke.”
Shane was looking out the window, though there was nothing to see except the backyard and a large blue house across the alley. Dark clouds were moving in over the mountains. Our fine spring weather seemed about to break.
“Do you suppose the store got robbed?” Shane asked in an apprehensive voice.
Lloyd Campbell chuckled. “You’ve spent too much time in Seattle, son. We haven’t had a real robbery in Alpine since the 7-Eleven got held up three years ago. Even then, the robbers were from Everett.”
“A robber wouldn’t get much from Marlow Whipp,” Wendy asserted with authority. “I go in there once in a while to buy gum or a can of diet pop, and there’s never anybody around. I’d guess he loses as much to the kids who shoplift as he makes off the ones who pay.”
Jean Campbell was pressing more food on all of us. Her forehead creased as she offered Vida a second chance at the potatoes. “I hope Marlow hasn’t had a heart attack. He’s not a kid anymore. We went to school together. He was always nice, rather quiet, and not much of a scholar. He couldn’t spell, and he was even worse at math. I wonder how he manages to keep his accounts straight.”
“Math!” Vida sniffed. “As I recall, Marlow flunked shop twice. No mechanical aptitude. Still, he may be dumb as a bag of sawdust, but he comes from sturdy stock. His parents are still alive and kicking. Reva Whipp got a new knee this morning, and she’s well over eighty.”
“Vida and I were in school together,” said Lloyd Campbell, giving me a wink. “Of course she was a couple of years ahead of me.”
“Light-years,” snapped Vida, “in more ways than one.”
Everyone laughed, though not without a trace of awkwardness. The Campbell family wasn’t as accustomed as I was to Vida’s tart tongue.
We all grew silent as the front door opened. My eyes watched the doorway into the long hall that led from the living room, past the dining room, and on into the kitchen. A moment later, a dream came walking out of Africa. Shane Campbell looked as if he were awed by the sight, and I couldn’t blame him. Marilynn Lewis wasn’t merely young, slim, and pretty, as Carla had mentioned. She was dazzling, with classic high cheekbones, wide-set limpid brown eyes, and sculpted features that might have adorned royalty from Ethiopia. I thought of the Queen of Sheba, of Aïda, of all the goddesses I’d seen portrayed in African art exhibits over
the years. She moved with grace; she dominated the room. Yet it struck me that she was scared to death.
“I’m so sorry,” she apologized breathlessly, pushing her heavy dark hair away from her face. “I had to look at an apartment in that building across from the clinic.” She sat down between Cyndi and Todd.
Lloyd introduced Vida and me to Marilynn Lewis. Her smile was charming, if tremulous. Jean urged her to eat, then asked if she liked the apartment.
Marilynn frowned as she speared a slice of London broil. “It’s an old building, you know, but it’s certainly convenient since I don’t have a car. I told the manager I’d consider it.” She kept her brown eyes on her plate.
Vida finally leaned forward in her chair. “The manager? Isn’t that Dolph Terrill? He’s a nincompoop, Marilynn. Don’t agree to his first offer. He won’t remember what he said, and it will be too expensive anyway. Dolph doesn’t do a thing to keep that place up. He’s lazy and drinks too much.”
Over the bowl of green beans, Marilynn gave Vida a shy, nervous look. “Mr. Terrill drinks? Maybe that’s why he seemed … odd.”
“Odd!” Vida tossed her head, almost losing her straw hat in the process. “Pay no attention to anything he says. There aren’t that many apartments available in Alpine, so you have to take what you can get, but you don’t have to take it at Dolph Terrill’s first price. Do you want me to talk sense into him?”
Marilynn’s face relaxed a bit. It was clear that she was surprised by Vida’s offer. “That’s awfully nice of you, Mrs…. Runkel, is it? You know Mr. Terrill well?”
“Certainly,” Vida replied. “I used to baby-sit him. He was a horror even then. You wouldn’t believe what I caught him doing to the family collie. Her name was Venus. Do I need to say more?” Vida’s gray-eyed gaze ran darkly around the table. Everyone but Todd looked away.
“Say, Marilynn,” Lloyd put in to mercifully change the subject, “you didn’t happen to walk home on Spruce Street, did you?”
Marilynn frowned some more. “No, I came up Tyee.
Spruce is the next block over, isn’t it? That would have been out of my way.”
“Of course it would,” Lloyd replied in his genial voice. “I just wondered. We think there’s been some kind of ruckus over on Spruce. Sirens and such. You hear them?”
Marilynn considered. “Maybe. I heard the train whistling. I don’t remember. I was thinking about the apartment.”
Vida got to her feet, straightening her straw hat in the process. “Excuse me. I can’t stand it another minute. I’m going over to Spruce and see what’s going on.” She glared at me in reproach. “Newspaper people have to keep abreast of current events. They owe it to their readers. Are you coming, Emma?”
Not for the first time did I feel as if our roles were reversed. I might be the editor and publisher, but Vida was the heart and soul of
The Alpine Advocate
. Her nose for news was as great as her natural curiosity. Indeed, they walked arm-in-arm through the streets of Alpine. Feeling rebuked, I also got to my feet.
“Vida’s right,” I said in an apologetic voice. “We ought to at least check out what’s happening. We’ll be right back.”
Jean Campbell’s voice floated behind us: “I’ll hold off on dessert. It’s cherry cheesecake.”
Going down the front walk, Vida announced that it would be faster to go on foot than to take my car. The threat of rain didn’t deter her in the least. “Unless I’m crazy, those sirens stopped less than two blocks away.” She marched ahead of me in her splayfooted manner. “They haven’t left yet. If they had, we’d have heard the sirens again.”
As usual, Vida was right. The city’s only ambulance, along with one of the four county sheriff’s cars, was parked in front of the Spruce Street Grocery. I also recognized Milo Dodge’s Cherokee Chief. Whatever had happened was important enough to take the sheriff away from his official off-duty hours.