Authors: Mary Daheim
I was properly surprised. “It is?” Not having seen Jackie since her mother’s retirement party two years ago, I couldn’t imagine why she’d been invoking divine intervention to hear my voice.
“Yes! It’s incredible, the next best thing to having Mom show up. Paul and I need an inquiring mind.”
I was beginning to think that Jackie could use any
kind of a mind that operated on a more even keel than her own. “Oh? How come?” My tone was neutral.
Jackie lowered her voice, and instead of a tearful vibrato, she giggled. “It’s so
weird
, Emma. You won’t believe this!” She tittered, she gasped, she let out an odd howling sound. “We found a body! In our basement! Isn’t that
great
?” Jackie burst into fresh sobs.
There was a bit of comfort in finding someone whose mental state was more unstable than my own. Or so I mused as I leaned against a lamppost at the comer of Ninth and Lincoln, waiting for Jackie Melcher to pick me up.
I wasn’t alarmed. The alleged body could be anything, including a dog, a squirrel, or a gopher. Jackie’s sense of high drama was probably exacerbated by pregnancy. She’d always been a volatile girl, full of energy one minute, given to morose moodiness the next. She would often exasperate her mother but never her father, who doted on his daughter.
Fortunately for the Fulkerstons, their two sons were rock-solid specimens. One was an oceanographer in California; the other produced films for the city of Portland. Jackie, as I recalled, had majored in French at the University of Oregon, where I’d finished my senior year.
But, I reminded myself, while Jackie was young and pregnant, I had no such excuses for capricious behavior. After twenty-two years of waiting for the father of my son to get up the nerve to leave his wife, I’d come to the realization that while Tom Cavanaugh might care for me as much as I cared for him, he put duty above love. Of course he’d call it
honor
, as men often do, but it boiled down to the same thing. Sandra Cavanaugh was the mother of his other two children, and when it came to mental instability, I couldn’t hold a candle to
her. But then neither could Napoleon. Sandra suffered from a variety of emotional problems, all no doubt caused by the fact that she was born rich. Or so I’d always told myself.
Tom and I had met when I interned on
The Seattle Times
. Sandra’s mental disorders were only beginning to surface then, but living with her had become sufficiently difficult that Tom had sought comfort in my arms. He’d also apparently sought something in Sandra’s because we both got pregnant about the same time. Not without regret, Tom had chosen to stay with his wife. I had chosen to leave Seattle and have my baby in Mississippi, where my brother, Ben, was serving as a priest in the home missions. I had also chosen—fiercely and proudly—to raise Adam alone. If Tom wouldn’t give me his name, he wasn’t going to give me any help, by God. For almost twenty years I had shut him out of my life. And out of Adam’s, which wasn’t entirely fair to either of them.
In the past two years I’d relented. Tom had shown up in Alpine, and I’d succumbed to his entreaties to let him meet Adam. Father and son had gotten along very well. Father and Mother had, too, so much so that when I’d attended a weekly newspaper conference at Lake Chelan in June, Tom and I had ended up in bed.
For three days and three nights we pretended it was forever. We knew better, though. Tom no longer needed Sandra’s fortune as a base for his newspaper ventures, but Sandra needed Tom. He wouldn’t forsake her, and I would have loved him less if he had. Tom neither loved nor lived lightly, which I suppose is why I could never quite let go. We are too much alike.
But there was no future in it. If I wanted to marry, maybe even have another child, I had to put the past aside. “Keep your options open,” Vida Runkel had
counseled. “You’ve put up a barrier to everyone but Tommy.”
Only Vida could get away with calling Tom
Tommy
. And only Vida could speak so frankly to me. Even my brother, in his kind but indecisive manner, wouldn’t take such a resolute stand. Ben not only sees both sides of every issue, he considers all the angles and contours. I am prone to do the same. Ben vacillates; I’m objective. Either way, the result is that it’s very hard for both of us to make crucial decisions.
Thus Vida was right. I needed a shove in order to get going. Over the years there had been a few other men in my life, but never one I really loved. I wouldn’t let myself love them, asserted Vida. I had built a dream house on sand and the tide was coming in fast.
Watching traffic pass by, half of which bore out-of-county license plates, I thought of Sheriff Milo Dodge. Like me, Milo was afraid of letting go. Divorced for the past six years, Milo refused to commit himself to his current ladylove, Honoria Whitman. Honoria was getting impatient. I didn’t blame her. But I didn’t blame Milo, either. Like me, he was afraid. Sometimes I wondered if Milo and I were afraid of each other. We spent quite a bit of time together but had only kissed once, which had been sort of an accident. Or so I had thought in the heat of the moment.
A white Honda Accord pulled up to the curb. Behind the wheel Jackie Melcher waved frantically, her heart-shaped face wreathed in smiles. I jumped in and we shot across the intersection before I could fasten my seat belt.
“Emma, you look great! You got your hair cut!”
I laughed, patting the gamine style I’d acquired not long before going off to Chelan. “It’s nice and cool for summer,” I said noncommittally.
Jackie was heading through the main part of town,
past the handsome old redbrick courthouse I remembered from my last visit. A large, new modem building stood next door. Apparently it now housed the county offices.
“The old courthouse is a museum,” Jackie said, following my gaze as she stopped at a traffic light.
“How do you like Port Angeles?” I inquired, having decided to hold off asking Jackie about her alleged body in the basement. It was the sort of question best discussed over strong coffee or weak drink.
Jackie wrinkled her button nose. “It’s okay. The setting’s great. But I miss Portland.”
“Me, too,” I replied. After four years in Alpine I still missed the vitality and variety of the city. My plans to spend as many weekends as possible in my native Seattle had never quite worked out. I was lucky to get into the city once every couple of months.
But Jackie was right about her surroundings. Port Angeles was nestled at the base of Mount Angeles, which seemed to glower over the town like a sullen guardian angel. The outskirts were dense with evergreens, signaling the start of the vast Olympic National Park. While new businesses seemed to abound on the long stretch of highway that led into the heart of Port Angeles, the mountains to the south and the strait on the north were a reminder that residents lived close to nature.
We turned on First Street, which is also Highway 101. The houses were sturdy and old, though none reached quite as far back as the Victorian era. Like Alpine, Port Angeles was built into the foothills of the mountains. Unlike Alpine, the ascent was more gradual, starting at sea level.
Jackie pulled into a paved driveway that led to a detached garage that couldn’t have held more than one modern car. I stared. The house, which was set back
among the Douglas firs, was huge. The style suggested a Spanish mission reinterpreted by a late-Victorian mentality. A giant monkey tree stood in the middle of the front lawn, with a smaller, less imposing oak near the comer of the house. A concrete retaining wall separated the newlyweds’ house from a two-story ramshackle edifice that looked deserted. Jackie followed my gaze and emitted a little snort of disgust.
“That was the old livery stable that served the whole neighborhood. It’s a
wreck
. I don’t know why it doesn’t fall down in a strong wind.” She led me back onto the sidewalk so that I could get a better view of the house from the front.
Several of the camellia bushes appeared to be at death’s door. The magnolias didn’t look much better, and even the peonies seemed lifeless. Three stories of faded amber paint, a wraparound porch with peeling Moorish arches, a big lawn choked by weeds, a scarred river-rock foundation, and a roof with missing shingles all combined to validate Jackie’s description.
“You must have gotten a real deal on this place,” I said.
Jackie laughed immoderately. “We sure did. It was free.” She started back toward the driveway. “Paul inherited it from his uncle,” she explained, leading the way to the back door. “Uncle Arthur lived here until about fifteen years ago when he got Alzheimer’s and had to go into a nursing home. Uncle Arthur died last year. Aunt Wilma bought a condo in Sequim, but she died before he did. We decided to move here and fix the place up. That’s how we found the body.”
The interior of the house appeared to be in much better shape than the exterior. We were in the kitchen, which had been renovated and enlarged. I guessed that Jackie and her groom had enclosed the back porch. Gleaming black appliances were set off by red and
white accents. A white-tiled island stood in the middle, with a rack of stainless-steel cookware suspended overhead. The basic design was orderly, but the counters were cluttered with pizza boxes, old newspapers, grocery bags, and empty bottled-water containers. My toaster oven was all but hidden by a half-dozen cookbooks that looked as if they’d never been used. Jackie headed straight for the refrigerator and pulled out a jug of white wine.
“I can’t drink but you can,” she said, waving the bottle at me. “I’ll have some mineral water.”
I didn’t question her abstinence, though I recalled downing reasonable quantities of Canadian whiskey with Ben while I awaited the birth of Adam. Neither Ben nor I ever got seriously drunk, and my son seemed sober enough when he finally arrived. But it was over twenty years later, and perhaps medical knowledge had made progress. Then again, doctors were still practicing. They probably never would get it perfect.
Carrying a delicate, long-stemmed glass, I followed Jackie into what she called the den but what I suspected had once been a library. This space was also littered with magazines, videocassettes, tapes, CDs, and more newspapers. It appeared that Jackie didn’t spend her spare time cleaning house.
The room was freshly painted in a soft shade of green. A tiled fireplace was flanked by glass-fronted bookcases that contained mostly paperbacks. Along the middle molding were the brass heads of monks, at least a dozen of them, their expressions ranging from puckish to surly. The furnishings were sparse, befitting a monk’s cell. The absence of more than a small sofa, a huge cushiony footstool, and a TV set didn’t bespeak a disdain for worldly goods but rather a credit limit on a charge card.
Jackie collapsed onto the footstool which seemed to
devour her small frame. The flannel shirt she wore over her jeans concealed any signs of pregnancy. Running a hand through the natural waves of her taffy-colored hair, she sighed.
“It’s going to take forever. I hope we get the roof replaced before winter sets in. The baby’s due at the end of December.” Jackie had turned pensive. The topsyturvy emotions she’d displayed earlier over the phone seemed in abeyance. “We’ve already spent a fortune on making the house livable. Paul can do some of the work himself, but not the major stuff.”
I tried to remember what Mavis had told me about Paul Melcher. She and Roy liked their son-in-law, I knew that much. It seemed to me that Paul was some sort of engineer. I fished a little, hoping not to show my ignorance.
“Paul was lucky to get a job here,” I remarked, thinking that the bare green walls cried out for a framed print or two.
Jackie nodded enthusiastically. “It was a near thing. We thought we’d have to move here and wait it out for a while, but then that opening came along at Rayonier. In fact, he actually started work right after New Year’s, before we got married. That’s why we couldn’t go on a honeymoon. He didn’t have any vacation yet.”
ITT Rayonier was the big pulp plant down on the water. I’d seen its billows of smoke from the tow truck. Like Alpine, Port Angeles was still dependent on the timber industry, though it had been able to diversify over the years. Fishing and tourism also contributed to the town’s economic base.
“He gets off at four,” she said, glancing at her watch. I did the same. It was just three fifty-five. I postponed asking the inevitable and switched to baby-related inquiries instead. Jackie beamed and glowed, discussing
plans for the nursery upstairs and promising to take me on a tour of the house when I finished my wine.
The phone rang as she was listing potential names for both a girl and a boy. Jackie heaved herself out of the cushioned footstool and left the den. A moment later she shouted for me. It was the Chevron station. Jake had finally returned from the West End. He didn’t have the foggiest notion what was wrong with my car. Could I have it towed over to Dusty’s Foreign Auto Repair?
I could, of course. I’d have to. I wondered if my towing insurance covered two trips in one day. I sought the Yellow Pages and called a local tow company. Then I turned glum.
“They can’t possibly fix it before evening,” I moaned out loud.
“Big deal.” Jackie shrugged and led us back into the kitchen. “Have some more wine. We’ve got tons of room. Six bedrooms, take your pick. Except ours.” She showed me her dimples.
I started to make the usual demurs about not wanting to impose, but Jackie ran right over me. “Hey, why not? I haven’t told you about our body yet. I’ll send out for pizza.” The light behind her eyes went out. “I usually do lately. I get sick every time I look at the stove.”
She was pouring me a second glass of wine when Paul Melcher came home. A stocky young man in his early thirties, he sported a neatly trimmed blond mustache and a faintly receding hairline. His handshake was firm and sincere.
“I’ve heard Mama Mavis talk about you,” he said with a diffident grin. “You two used to get into a lot of trouble at
The Oregonian
, right?”
If trouble was sneaking out for a beer and a burger while working after hours, then I guess we qualified. But I merely laughed and tossed my head as if Mavis and I were indeed a couple of scamps.