The Alpine Journey (3 page)

“Is it?” Vida seemed disinterested. “Do you think,” she continued after an awkward pause, “that Carla is seeing that Talliaferro person from the college?”

I didn't know and, for the moment, didn't care. But for the rest of the journey, I got absolutely nothing more out of Vida about the Runkels who dwelled in Cannon Beach. It was unlike her, and I was worried.

MAVIS
'
S
WELCOME
WAS warm if flippant, typical of her exuberant, irreverent personality. She was almost ten years older than I, and her husband, Ray, had recently retired from the advertising department at Jantzen. Their newly acquired condo was situated on the Willamette River, with the Broadway and Steel bridges on either side, rather like bookends. With their three children grown and on their own, the Fulkerstons had shed themselves of all but their most cherished furnishings from the old split-level, and acquired some tasteful antiques.

“Our original stuff was almost antique,” Mavis said as we sipped cognac in the comfortable living room with its splendid view of the river traffic. “Officially, that is. But who needs a bunch of Sixties crap that looks like it came off a bad mushroom trip?”

I admired a rewoven Turkish carpet, a Queen Anne breakfront, a Japanese screen, and a small but enchanting Etruscan carving of a stag. “I envy you. I'm lucky to have the basics. Weekly newspapering is no way to get rich.”

“It is if you own a string of them,” Mavis said. “I'll bet Tom Cavanaugh isn't complaining. How is he, anyway?”

The mention of my onetime lover and the father of my son made me flinch. I hadn't spoken to Tom in almost
two years. The brief resumption of our affair had come to a dead end when he reneged on his promise to divorce his rich but nutty wife, Sandra.

“I don't know,” I said, trying to sound casual, and failing. “I suppose he suffers losses like anybody else in the business these days. But at least he has Sandra's family fortune to keep him in Brooks Brothers suits and Beluga caviar.”

“Well.” Unlike some people, Mavis wasn't embarrassed by her question or my response. “It sounds like you two aren't an item anymore. But then you never were when we worked together at
The Oregonian
.” She laughed, and turned to her husband, who was looking bemused. “Emma kept Mr. Cavanaugh a deep, dark secret until one night after work I got her gassed at Trader Vic's.”

“Devious,” Ray remarked with good humor. He's a man of few but measured words who prefers to let his wife do most of the talking. Or maybe he has no choice. “I always figured that was how you got your interviews for the paper.”

“Sometimes.” Mavis shrugged. She is a small, athletic brunette with gold highlights in her shoulder-length hair. “I wasn't devious enough to get a deal on this condo, though. Last winter when the river rose as high as we'd ever seen it, some of these places were flooded. We'd already had our eye on them, so Ray and I figured the prices might come down. They didn't.”

Ray's lean, homely face wore an ironic expression. “In some cases, the prices went up. But that was mostly the rentals. These units aren't all condos.”

“But what a great setting,” I said enthusiastically, grateful that the conversation had veered away from Tom. “You're close to everything, and the view is terrific.”

Mavis nodded, one hand gesturing toward the window, where we could see the lights of a small freighter moving against the backdrop of the new Rose Garden sports arena and the older Portland Coliseum, which had been dubbed the Glass Palace. “It constantly changes. We watch the ebb and flow of the city. And then there are the trains behind us and all the traffic that goes over the bridges.”

“In Alpine, I see trees and an RV parked across the street,” I said in mock self-pity. It wasn't quite true. On a clear day, I could also see Mount Baldy and the surrounding foothills from my cozy log house.

“Alpine must be pretty,” Ray put in.

“It's a pretty setting,” I admitted. The town itself was another matter. There were too many storefronts boarded up in the small commercial district, too many ramshackle frame houses with tin roofs, too much junk left lying on overgrown lawns, too much rural blight, which shriveled the souls of local residents and made hope as elusive as the spotted owl that had helped bring about Alpine's hard times.

Mavis was offering the brandy bottle, but Ray and I both refused. “I wanted to meet Veda—or is it Vida?” She paused for the correction before continuing. “You should have brought her in for a drink.”

“Vida still had that long drive out to Cannon Beach,” I said, avoiding Mavis's cat's eyes gaze. “She was anxious to get going.” It wouldn't do to mention that Vida had practically thrown me out of the Buick in her haste to head for the coast.

Ray was on his feet, stretching and yawning. “Golf tomorrow. I'm heading to bed. Good to see you again, Emma.” He gave me a friendly pat on the shoulder and kissed Mavis. “Don't talk all night.”

After he had left the room, Mavis laughed in her throaty manner. “He's the world's worst golfer. In thirty-five years he hasn't broken ninety. But he likes to pretend.” The green-and-gold-and-brown cat's eyes glimmered at me. “So do you. What's up with Cavanaugh? I thought you'd gotten back together, if briefly.”

“We did, but it's been a while.” Mavis knew all about how I'd excised Tom from my life when I discovered I was pregnant with Adam some twenty-four years ago. Tom had resurfaced a year or so after I bought
The Advocate
, and finally met our son. Despite Tom's avowals of unceasing love for me, he couldn't quite cut the deformed bonds that tied him to Sandra. He called it honor, I called it cowardice, and the truth was probably somewhere in between. I knew Tom and Adam kept in touch, which was a good thing. I'd been wrong to turn father and son into strangers. But after a quarter of a century I'd finally stopped loving Tom. I had, I really had. I'd said it so often that it must be true.

I said it again to Mavis, who, typically, did not comment. My old friend is quick to speak her mind, unless the matter at hand is serious. Then she mulls and waits and eventually pounces. “So how's Adam?” she inquired. “Is he still thinking of becoming a priest?”

“Yes, he is,” I answered, trying not to notice the skepticism on Mavis's face. “He's finally finishing his degree at Arizona State. After the first of the year he expects to enroll in a seminary somewhere in California. He and Ben are working on it.”

“And you resent that,” Mavis said with her usual acuity. “Your brother has confiscated your son.”

“I don't know squat about seminaries,” I retorted. “Ben does. He's a priest.”

“It's too bad he's a Catholic priest.” The cat's eyes
danced. “Now, if you were all sensible Episcopalians like us, Adam could be a priest and still get married.”

Over the years Mavis and I had engaged in good-natured banter about each other's religious preferences. But when it came to Adam's decision to enter the priesthood, I seemed to have lost my sense of humor.

“It could still happen,” I said defensively. “A married Catholic priesthood may be down the road.”

“A long, bumpy road,” said Mavis, polishing off her brandy. “You should live so long. So should Adam.”

“I just hope he's sure,” I said. “He's changed majors and colleges so often that I can't really believe he's got a vocation.”

“Once he's in the seminary, he'll find out.” Mavis uttered a small laugh. “We never think our children know what they're doing. Look at our three—just because Jeff liked to scuba dive, he decided to become an oceanogra-pher. Ray and I thought he was nuts. But he's down there in San Diego, loving it. And Brent wanted to make movies, which really struck us as harebrained. He'll never get to Hollywood, but he's happy as a clam producing films for the City of Portland.”

I smiled, recalling the Fulkerston boys as little kids who couldn't have been more different: Jeff was an obstreperous, fidgety child who, if the condition had had a name in the Seventies, probably suffered from Attention Deficit Syndrome. Brent was shy, withdrawn, almost introverted, yet gifted with tremendous imagination. But it was Mavis and Ray's daughter, Jackie, who I knew best. I had stayed with her and her husband, Paul Melcher, in Port Angeles three years ago. The baby that Jackie had been carrying that summer was now working his way through the Terrible Twos.

“They're all fine,” Mavis responded in answer to my
question about the Melcher menage. “Little Rowley is a terror, but he'll get over it. Maybe. It's a good thing Jackie has so much energy. When she isn't down in the dumps, that is.” Mavis made a face.

Jackie was a combination of her brothers, exuberant one minute, morose the next. I'd hoped that motherhood would put her on a more even keel, but apparently it hadn't. “I'm sorry they may have to move,” I remarked. “They had such wonderful plans for that old house Paul inherited in Port Angeles.”

Mavis shrugged. “You know all about timber towns. ITT Rayonier is closing the pulp mill, and Paul's probably out of a job, along with three hundred and sixty-five other people. He's hoping that with his engineering degree, he can find something else in the area, especially if the site is converted into some kind of similar, downsized operation. But right now everything's up in the air.”

“That's rough,” I said with feeling, and leaned back against the peach-and-plum-striped sofa. “We never stop worrying about our kids, do we?”

“Nope.” Mavis stared out through the big picture window, where a sleek pleasure craft passed close to the riverbank. The city sparkled around us, lights like fireflies dancing among the gentle hills. Even after dark, Portland seemed alive. In Alpine, the clouds come down over the mountains, and sometimes the only sound is the lonely whistle of a freight train, crying like an abandoned child. The lights of logging towns are going out in many ways.

“So,” Mavis said after a long pause, “tomorrow we'll head downtown and you can see all the changes since you lived here. We'll drive by the Rose Garden where the Blazers play and maybe stop at Lloyd Center. Then, if we
have time, we can go to a special place made for middle-aged mamas like us.”

“Which of the bars on Burn side do you mean?” I asked with a smirk.

Mavis smirked right back. “Actually, I was thinking of the Shrine of Our Sorrowful Mother. But come to think of it, I like your idea better.”

On Saturday, we did everything we'd intended to do except the shrine and the bars. By five o'clock we were still at Lloyd Center, trying on shoes. We were supposed to meet Ray for dinner at six.

“We're going to be late,” Mavis announced, staring at her feet, which were presently shod in expensive brown suede pumps. “If I buy these—and I don't think I can help doing it—I'll need a purse to go with them, and I have to have it now.”

“But don't we have a reservation for six at Jake's?” I asked, wiggling my toes around in semisensible navy flats that were reasonably suited to my informal Alpine lifestyle.

“Jake's is so jammed on weekends that you never get seated on time. I'll call Ray from here and tell him to hold down the fort for half an hour. Besides,” she added with a faint leer, “we still haven't discussed your love life.”

“Whatever that may be,” I murmured, thinking of Milo half-asleep on my sofa after a ten-hour day chasing speeders and breaking up domestic brawls.

Our salesman returned, bearing yet another half-dozen enticing boxes. Mavis, who has the usual brass of a longtime journalist, waved away the new arrivals and asked to use the phone at the sales desk.

“I'm taking these,” she said, tapping her toes. “The black lizardy ones, too.”

I hemmed and hawed. The salesman, who was very young and earnest, trotted out two more pairs in my size. “You might think green this fall,” he said. “Lime is the new neutral.”

I started to protest, but upon closer inspection, lime looked rather nice. There was no doubt in my mind that I'd be the first woman in Skykomish County with lime shoes.

If Mavis could buy two pairs of shoes, so could I. “Let's try them,” I said.

They fitted as well as the navy pair. But where were my basics? “Maybe,” I temporized, “I should try on the black ones with the patent toe again.”

I was parading around in front of the mirror when Mavis returned, looking worried. “Ray says there's a message on our machine from your friend Vida. She won't be coming back to Alpine Sunday, and wants you to call her and let her know if you can make other arrangements. Here's where you can reach her, at least until six.” Mavis handed me a Nordstrom sales-associate card on which she'd scrawled the number.

I lacked the brass to use the desk phone. Besides, it was long distance, and given Vida's message, I sensed that privacy was required. Flustered, I told our salesman I'd take all three pairs of flats, handed him my credit card, and rushed off to find a pay phone.

I was so flustered by Vida's message that it took me three tries to get through. When I finally heard the phone ringing at the other end, a charming voice informed me that I had reached the Ecola Creek Lodge. After asking for Vida, I heard another three rings before she answered.

“What's wrong?” I demanded in an anxious voice.

“It's a family emergency.” Vida sounded like an automaton.

“What kind?”

“The worst kind.”

I sucked in my breath. “You mean …?”

“Can you take a train to Seattle and find a ride to Alpine?” The brittle tone in Vida's voice was unfamiliar.

“I could rent a car,” I said doubtfully. “I could rent it here, for that matter, and drive.… Vida, what's the matter? Can I help?”

There was such a long silence that I thought we'd been disconnected. “No.” Her voice was now hushed. “No,” she said more firmly. Then, added on a rollercoaster of emotions: “I don't think so.”

“Vida, I'm coming to Cannon Beach. Tonight. Where is this place you're staying?”

“No, no, no.” The last
no
was almost inaudible; I could picture Vida propping the phone against her shoulder, whipping off her glasses, and frantically rubbing at her eyes. “I couldn't ruin your weekend with Mavis.”

“We've already talked our heads off,” I asserted. “If you've got problems, I want to help. Just give me directions. I'll have dinner with Mavis and Ray, pick up my stuff at their place, and rent a car. They must have a dropoff in Cannon Beach—it's a tourist town.”