The Alpine Betrayal

by Mary Daheim

  “Damn,” breathed Milo.

  Honoria surveyed him over the rim of her plastic wine glass. “He won’t beat you.” Her tone brooked no argument.

  “It’s still a pain,” said Milo. But he gave Honoria a grateful smile.

  “It’s a democracy,” I noted, trying to keep my voice down so that Dr. Starr’s audience could hear him say something other than “Wider.”

  “Maybe Blackwell’s kidding,” said Milo as the dentist stepped down to polite applause.

  “Maybe,” I allowed. Honoria said nothing.

  Vida was standing up, thanking all those who had participated in the reading and everyone who had brought a book. Of our trio, only Honoria had read aloud, leading off the program with Anne Lindbergh’s Gift from the Sea. Milo had brought a book on fly-fishing, which he admitted he’d never opened. I toted a much-worn, two generations-old copy of Winnie-the-Pooh.

  “… to continue reading, not because you have to, but because you want to,” Vida was saying. “If you think back to the early days of Alpine, what did those first settlers do in the long winter evenings?”

  “Screw!” It was, of course, Janet Driggers.

  Vida gave her a flinty smile. “Besides that. We are, after all, a small town, so they must have done something else. They read. And they did it by Coleman lantern for the first twenty years or more. Alpine was always a remarkably literate town. I’d hate to see that reputation lost.” She paused, turning to her left. “To end this fine evening of books and beer, I’d like to present one of our most beloved and distinguished citizens. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Dr. Cecil Dewey.”

  Doc was wearing a suit and tie with a white dress shirt. He looked shrunken, yet undaunted. His hands no longer shook as he held them up to quiet the raucous ovation. I glanced at Milo, whose long face was wistful. Did Honoria know? Probably not. She was wearing her most serene expression as Doc read from Samuel Clemens’s speech delivered on the occassion of his seventieth birthday. Doc spoke in a clear, strong voice:

  “‘… This is my swan-song … Threescore years and ten! It is the Scriptural statute of limitations … You have served your term, well or less well, and you are mustered out … you are emancipated, compulsions are not for you … You pay the time-worn duty bills if you choose, or decline if your prefer—and without prejudice—for they are not legally collectable.

  “‘… Keep me in your remembrance, and … wishing you well in all affection, and that when you … shall arrive at Pier No. 70 you may step aboard your waiting ship with a reconciled spirit, and lay your course toward the sinking sun with a contented heart.’”

  Until then, I’d never seen Vida with tears in her eyes.

  Doc’s funeral was held on the Saturday after Thanksgiving at Trinity Episcopal Church. The rector, the gaunt-faced Regis Bartleby, whose ascetic appearance belied his horse-like appetite, gave a fine eulogy. Fuzzy Baugh’s words were fulsome, and Young Doc’s reminiscences were suitably personal. But the truth was, I thought Doc had given himself a better send-off at the Icicle Creek Tavern on that August evening three months earlier.

  There was snow on the ground, almost six inches of it, and the forecast called for more throughout the weekend. Indeed, it had started snowing in early November, typical for Alpine. We might not see bare earth until April.

  Though in fact, we were seeing it now, as we stood around Doc’s grave and waited for the casket to be lowered. I had one hand on Vida’s tweed coat sleeve, and Adam draped an arm around my shoulders. He had gotten in from Fairbanks Wednesday afternoon, his second trip home in three months.

  The rector intoned the final prayers as a few flakes of new snow drifted down over the cemetery. The church had been packed, and at least a hundred brave souls had ventured up the hill for the burial service. Milo, newly reelected in a walk over Jack Blackwell, had been one of the pallbearers, along with Dr. Starr, Fuzzy Baugh, and Durwood Parker, who, thankfully, had not been required to drive. At the head of the grave, Doc’s widow was leaning on her son, clutching a rumpled handkerchief in her gloved hand and looking very brave. When Regis Bartleby presented the American flag to Mrs. Dewey, Young Doc kissed his mother’s cheek.

  “Medical Corps, Army Air Force, World War II,” whispered Vida. “Stationed in England, 1943 to 1945.”

  “I know,” I whispered back. “I read your obit.”

  Under her black felt bowler, Vida frowned at me. “It’s not finished.”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Donna Fremstad Wickstrom approach the grave. She hesitated, teetering on her high heeled calfskin boots, then dropped a single white rose onto the casket. I turned back to Vida.

  “Yes, it is,” I said.

  Vida gazed at Mrs. Dewey and Young Doc. Marje Blatt had joined them. She hugged Mrs. Dewey and glanced in her aunt’s direction. Marje smiled.

  “You’re right,” said Vida. “It’s finished.”

  Adam wanted to get a tan. “Two days at Malibu,” he said for the fifth time. “That’s all. Hey, Mom, I’ve got mucho money. I can come home for Christmas, then Easter, maybe even a midwinter break. But, man, I’ve got to catch some rays.”

  “You’re not a native; you’re a changeling,” I accused. We had just dropped Vida off after the reception at the Dewey house. Adam was driving, having developed a love as great as mine for the green Jaguar. “If you fly to L.A. tomorrow, even for two days, you’ll miss Monday and Tuesday classes. Wait until Christmas break. You’ll have over three weeks of freedom.”

  To my surprise, Adam seemed to be considering my suggestion. Surreptitiously, I watched his profile. As he matured and the angles sharpened, the likeness to his father grew even more apparent. Except for his eyes and twenty years of bills, there was nothing to show my claim on this son of mine.

  “Okay,” he finally agreed, leaning back into the leather bucket seat as he maneuvered the slippery corner onto Fir Street. The snow was coming down harder now. With a sinking feeling, it occurred to me that by tomorrow afternoon, the pass might be closed.

  “It’s not snowing in Seattle,” I said suddenly. “Do you want to drive in tonight, catch a Sonics game if they’re in town, and stay over?”

  Adam eased into my driveway. “Sonics—or Warriors?”

  I started to make a face of noncomprehension before his meaning dawned on me. “The sun doesn’t shine in the Bay Area this time of year, not even where the Golden State Warriors play. At least not much. Were you talking L.A. or S.F.?”

  “L.A.,” he answered, his brown-eyed gaze level with mine. “But now I’m thinking S.F. I could fly down there and be back in Fairbanks Monday morning.”

  I kept my voice steady. “Is that what you want to do?”

  Adam looked away, to the windshield, which was already almost covered with thick flakes of snow. “I’m not sure. I’d call first.”

  “Good thinking.” I should be giving him advice, I told myself. Or encouragement. Or something. Instead, I waited.

  “Would he pitch a four-star fit?” Adam continued to stare at the white windshield.

  “Probably not. As long as it wasn’t awkward for Mrs. Cavanaugh.”

  Now he turned again to face me. “Do you want to come?”

  “No.” I gave a single shake of my head. “Not this time.”

  “It’s the first time,” Adam pointed out.

  Let’s hope it’s not the only time, I thought, and was astonished at my reaction. “That’s okay.”

  Adam opened the car door. “I’ll call now, then check the flights,” he said into a flurry blowing out of the north.

  “I’ll get the number,” I responded, careful to watch my footing on the surface of newly fallen snow. There were times when my ankle still hurt.

  Inside the house, I busied myself while Adam took up the phone. On my knees, I shoved crumpled newspaper under the grate, piled up kindling, and dumped a couple of logs on top. Striking a match, I tensed as I heard Adam’s voice, tentative but clear.

  “Hi, this is Adam
Lord. Your son.”

  I caught my breath. How like Adam to be so direct! What must Tom be thinking? I tried to picture him at the other end, gripping the receiver and chewing on his lower lip.

  Adam was laughing. “Right, I’m in Alpine … Yeah, well, I’ve got all this money…. Huh? Right, she’s fine, she’s here playing with matches…. No, not till Monday, so I thought maybe I’d fly down to—okay, sure, right…. No, I haven’t checked with the airlines yet.” Still grinning, Adam glanced over at me and gave a thumbs-up sign. “I’ll call you when I land. What? Call ahead from Sea-Tac? Okay. Thanks … sir.”

  I struck a match and set off the fire. But it was Adam who had lighted up the world.

  A Ballantine Book

  Published by The Random House Publishing Group

  Copyright © 1993 by Mary Daheim

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Ballantine Books, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York, and simultaneously in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto.

  BALLANTINE and colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.

  eISBN: 978-0-307-76010-4

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