Mary Daheim - The Alpine Kindred

By Mary Daheim
Published by Ballantine Books:

THE ALPINE ADVOCATE
THE ALPINE BETRAYAL
THE ALPINE CHRISTMAS
THE ALPINE DECOY
THE ALPINE ESCAPE
THE ALPINE FURY
THE ALPINE GAMBLE
THE ALPINE HERO
THE ALPINE ICON
THE ALPINE JOURNEY
THE ALPINE KINDRED

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E INAR RASMUSSEN JR. was angry. The deep grooves in his face that reminded me of cedar bark were twisted, and the agate-blue eyes never blinked.

So Miss Steinmetz told me to be here by noon, Einar Jr. growled, planting both fists on my desk. It's twelve-fifteen. I've been waiting for her out front, but nobody's there.

Unseen by Einar Jr., a small child sat on my feet. CarlaMs. Steinmetzleft before eleven to do a story on a new restaurant, I explained, trying to keep my patience along with my composure. The child was bouncing up and down. She should be back any minute.

The agate eyes narrowed. A new restaurant? So you mean that harebrained scheme the Bourgette kids came up with?

I nodded. Dan and John. They want to build a Fifties-style diner where the old warehouse burned down by the railroad tracks.

Dumb, Einar Jr. declared. Alpine doesn't need a new restaurant. My son, Beau, would never come up with such a harebrained scheme. When it comes to business, those Bourgette kids haven't got the sense to pour sand down a rat hole.

I didn't know the Bourgette kidswho were actually thirty-somethingwell enough to assess their business acumen. But then I didn't know Einar Rasmussen Jr. much better, and I'd never met his son, Beau.

It's different here now with the college, I countered as little Brad Erlandson started to squeak like a rubber duck. Alpine's no longer just a stagnant mill town. You ought to know. You've had a big hand in helping build the new community college.

The flattery wasn't intentional, which was just as well, because Einar Jr. scoffed. Bull. A few underpaid faculty members and a bunch of hard-up students can't support new restaurants. Einar Jr. scowled, the hard blue gaze raking my little cubbyhole of an office. What's that noise? It sounds like a pig's loose in here.

I reached under the desk and tried to budge one-year-old Brad. It's Ginny Burmeister's boy, I explained, gritting my teeth as Brad offered resistance. Ginny Burmeister Erlandson, that is. Our office manager.

So I wouldn't think an office would be the place for little kids. Einar Jr. smacked one fist into the other. What are you running here? A newspaper or a babysitting service?

Einar Jr. had pushed too far. Look, I said, finally getting little Brad to remove himself from my feet, I don't need advice on how to run The Alpine Advocate. Would I try to tell you how to run your trucking business? If you don't want your picture taken in front of the Rasmussen Union Building at the college, just say so. When I need an outside consultant, I'll take out an ad in The Advocate's classifieds.

At last Einar Jr. blinked. Okay, okay, Mrs. Lordyou don't have to get ornery with me. So I'm leaving. If your inconsiderate reporter ever shows up, let me know.

I will. She will. Have a nice day. And, I added in an uncharacteristic display of waspishness, it's Ms. Lord. I've never been married.

I don't doubt it, Einar Jr. shot back. Who'd have you?

In my youth, there would have been a dictionary at hand to throw at Einar Jr.'s infuriating head. But in the computer age, there was only software. As with so many other aspects of life, high tech had sucked the drama out of human emotions.

It was probably a good thing. As the editor and publisher of The Alpine Advocate, I had no reputation as a prima donna. But Einar Rasmussen Jr. had pushed the wrong buttons; Carla might be a flake, but she was my flake. Einar Jr. ought to stick to supervising his fleet of eighteen-wheelers.

Getting little Brad out from under the desk proved hopeless. I had just unwrapped the tuna-salad sandwich I'd made at home when the phone rang. My former ad manager, Ed Bronsky, assaulted my ear with a jumble of words that I didn't quite catch. Sorry, Ed, I interrupted, would you mind going over that one more

Ed was exasperated. Emma, have you got a bad connection down there at The Advocate! I repeat, Shirley and I are getting an opergirl, and we want you to meet her.

That's what I thought you said, and I don't know what you're talking about. What's an opergirl? I winced as little Brad tickled my legs and started to giggle.

A heavy sigh rolled over the line from Ed and Shirley's so-called villa above the railroad tracks. A live-in, a helper, a Another sigh followed, shorter and conveying frustration. It's spelled A-U space P-A-I-R. I think it's French, but she's a Swede.

Oh. An aupair girl. I pronounced the term as well as two years of French class at Blanchet High School in Seattle would allow.

Right, right, Ed said impatiently, you got it. She gets here tomorrow, Tuesday, and Shirl and I are giving a little party up here at Casa de Bronska. Friday, May sixteenth, eight o'clock. You and Vida and Leo and Carla and everybody else at the paper are invited. Tell Ginny to bring her husband and their little boy. We'll have a big spread.

The biggest spread at Casa de Bronska was Ed himself, but naturally I kept that thought to myself. Maybe my mean-mindedness was caused by envy at Ed's soft life since inheriting money from an aunt in Iowa. Or perhaps it was little Brad, now shinnying up and down my legs and threatening to bump his head on the underside of my desk. With the boy toddling at my side, I went into the news office, and expressed my annoyance to our current ad manager, Leo Walsh, who had just returned from making his Monday-morning rounds.

Is Ed as big a dim bulb as I think he is or am I crabby these days? I asked of Leo.

Ed's a dim bulb, all right, Leo agreed, his weathered features amused. On the other hand, you may be crabby because you haven't gotten laid lately.