long-ago summers. “We sure do. You can't begin to guess.”
“I believe I could,” Vida replied, her smile a trifle smug.
I had done my best to make Veronica Wenzler-Greene sound reasonable, even humble. It was a tricky piece of writing, achieved mainly by describing the more sentimental ornaments in her office and her dedication to the school. By paraphrasing indirect quotes, I toned down Ronnie's more derogatory opinions about public education. Whether or not I had taken some of the sting out ofUrsula's offensive remarks, I couldn't be sure. Maybe this week's controversy would revolve around the catch-and-release editorial.
Milo liked it, though he felt I should have taken a tougher stand. “Go beyond supporting the angler's right to bring the fish home, and tell those morons in Olympia to plant the rivers,” he said as we lay in bed after making love Thursday evening. “Get those bureaucrats in D.C. to sit up and take notice, stop mincing around with the Japanese and the Canadians and whoever the hell else steals our fish out in salt water. Jump on those jerks who give the Indians the right to gillnet. Hell, if there's a way to screw the average fisherman, the government'11 find it. I think I'll take up golf.”
The vision of Milo strolling the greens was incongruous. He was an unlikely golfer, even more so than Ed Bronsky, who had taken up the game as part of his idle-rich persona. But our discussion was brief. Milo had been able to stop in for less than an hour. While the weekend might not have officially begun, criminal activity had already increased: ex-boyfriends stalking ex-girlfriends; campers getting harassed by young troublemakers; stolen checks being passed; DWIs resisting arrest; cars broken into; attempted burglaries; and an APB from King County for three men in their mid-thirties suspected of drug dealing who had been spotted heading east on Highway 2. Milo was up to his ears, at least when he wasn't under my sheets.
“Sorry I have to … uh … you know … and run,” he said sheepishly while he got dressed. “Maybe I'll see you over the weekend.”
“Ben's going to be here, remember? And maybe Adam.” I still hadn't received official notification from my errant son. “Ben's due in tomorrow around three.”
“Oh, yeah.” Clumsily Milo buttoned his regulation shirt. “I lose track when things get busy.”
“Right.” The sidelong glance I gave him made noimpression. Milo lost track of just about everything when he was in the sack. Except fishing.
After he left, I got out some of my recipes to plan menus for the weekend. I wanted to try some new things, preferably entrees that didn't require turning on the stove. I was mulling over a Greek chicken salad when the phone rang.
“We're wiped out. It's all gone, even the sanctuary.” My brother's usually crackling voice was heavy.
“Ben? What are you talking about?”
“The fire. We had a fire this evening. Lightning, I think. It happened while Adam and I were calling on a Hopi family over at Bacabi. One of those big summer storms came through here and—” Ben's voice broke.
In early March I had visited the small frame church and stayed at the tiny rectory. Both buildings were modest, even by Alpine standards, but Ben had built them up, maintained them, taken pride in efforts that he could share with his fellow parishioners. Pride was essential to the Navajo and the Hopi. Though they might practice the same faith, they suffered from the burden of traditional enmity. I could imagine how devastated Ben's flock must be. I could also agonize with my brother, whose most recent life's work had just gone up in smoke.
“Should I come down?” I offered. “What can I do?”
“Not a damned thing,” Ben responded, now sounding more angry than disturbed. “Pray,” he added as if in his own anguish he'd forgotten to seek help from a Higher Authority. “Yeah, that's about it. Damn, I probably can't even get a refund on my airline ticket
“I believe I could,” Vida replied, her smile a trifle smug.
I had done my best to make Veronica Wenzler-Greene sound reasonable, even humble. It was a tricky piece of writing, achieved mainly by describing the more sentimental ornaments in her office and her dedication to the school. By paraphrasing indirect quotes, I toned down Ronnie's more derogatory opinions about public education. Whether or not I had taken some of the sting out ofUrsula's offensive remarks, I couldn't be sure. Maybe this week's controversy would revolve around the catch-and-release editorial.
Milo liked it, though he felt I should have taken a tougher stand. “Go beyond supporting the angler's right to bring the fish home, and tell those morons in Olympia to plant the rivers,” he said as we lay in bed after making love Thursday evening. “Get those bureaucrats in D.C. to sit up and take notice, stop mincing around with the Japanese and the Canadians and whoever the hell else steals our fish out in salt water. Jump on those jerks who give the Indians the right to gillnet. Hell, if there's a way to screw the average fisherman, the government'11 find it. I think I'll take up golf.”
The vision of Milo strolling the greens was incongruous. He was an unlikely golfer, even more so than Ed Bronsky, who had taken up the game as part of his idle-rich persona. But our discussion was brief. Milo had been able to stop in for less than an hour. While the weekend might not have officially begun, criminal activity had already increased: ex-boyfriends stalking ex-girlfriends; campers getting harassed by young troublemakers; stolen checks being passed; DWIs resisting arrest; cars broken into; attempted burglaries; and an APB from King County for three men in their mid-thirties suspected of drug dealing who had been spotted heading east on Highway 2. Milo was up to his ears, at least when he wasn't under my sheets.
“Sorry I have to … uh … you know … and run,” he said sheepishly while he got dressed. “Maybe I'll see you over the weekend.”
“Ben's going to be here, remember? And maybe Adam.” I still hadn't received official notification from my errant son. “Ben's due in tomorrow around three.”
“Oh, yeah.” Clumsily Milo buttoned his regulation shirt. “I lose track when things get busy.”
“Right.” The sidelong glance I gave him made noimpression. Milo lost track of just about everything when he was in the sack. Except fishing.
After he left, I got out some of my recipes to plan menus for the weekend. I wanted to try some new things, preferably entrees that didn't require turning on the stove. I was mulling over a Greek chicken salad when the phone rang.
“We're wiped out. It's all gone, even the sanctuary.” My brother's usually crackling voice was heavy.
“Ben? What are you talking about?”
“The fire. We had a fire this evening. Lightning, I think. It happened while Adam and I were calling on a Hopi family over at Bacabi. One of those big summer storms came through here and—” Ben's voice broke.
In early March I had visited the small frame church and stayed at the tiny rectory. Both buildings were modest, even by Alpine standards, but Ben had built them up, maintained them, taken pride in efforts that he could share with his fellow parishioners. Pride was essential to the Navajo and the Hopi. Though they might practice the same faith, they suffered from the burden of traditional enmity. I could imagine how devastated Ben's flock must be. I could also agonize with my brother, whose most recent life's work had just gone up in smoke.
“Should I come down?” I offered. “What can I do?”
“Not a damned thing,” Ben responded, now sounding more angry than disturbed. “Pray,” he added as if in his own anguish he'd forgotten to seek help from a Higher Authority. “Yeah, that's about it. Damn, I probably can't even get a refund on my airline ticket
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