The Emancipation of Veronica McAllister_A Middle Falls Time Travel Story

by Shawn Inmon

  Veronica pushed the door open. Pale moonlight lay across the neat bedroom. Their beds were kitty-corner from each other. A single dresser stood against one wall with four drawers—two for each of them. A student’s desk sat opposite the dresser with a small lamp and a few books stacked neatly in one corner.

  She shut the door quietly behind her and walked with silent feet to Barb’s bed. Barb was lost in sleep, her chest rising and falling rhythmically. A stray strand of her strawberry blonde hair fell carelessly across her face.

  She looks like Haylie Mills. That’s it, then. I’m really here. Seeing Mom and now Barb clinches it. I don’t know how, or why, but I’m back in Middle Falls, in 1958. She looked at Barb and resisted the urge to sweep the hair from her face. You really were a beautiful girl, weren’t you Barb? Or, are, I guess. I am so confused.

  Veronica moved to her bed, slipped off her skirt, sweater, and undid her bra. By some long-buried memory, she walked to the dresser and pulled open the bottom drawer. She pulled out a soft flannel nightshirt and dropped it over her head.

  Don’t think I can sleep, but I’ll just lay down here and think for a bit. There’s got to be a way to make some sense out of all this.

  She slipped between the cool sheets, snuggled into her pillow, and was asleep almost instantly.

  Chapter Three

  “Veronica. Veronica,” Doris said, her voice sharpening with each syllable.

  Veronica McAllister sat straight up in bed like a puppet master had jerked on her marionette’s strings. “Huh? What?” Her hair fell in front of her face and her mouth felt fuzzy and tasted sour.

  I was out. I never sleep that deeply. She looked up to see her mother standing at the end of her bed, holding her skirt and sweater and looking disapprovingly at her. Other mothers say, “I’m not mad at you, I’m just disappointed.” Somehow, Mom, you managed to convey both at all times. That’s a talent.

  “Just look at your clothes, dropped in a heap like this. This is a good way to ruin your nice things.”

  “I folded them on the edge of the bed before I went to sleep last night, but I must have—“

  “Is that what we are supposed to do with our clothes? No. If they need to be washed, they go in the hamper, if not, you hang them back up.”

  I’ve got to get over apologizing and making excuses for everything. That’s part of how everything went wrong. I spent my whole life apologizing. She risked a glance at her mother’s face, twisted in a sour knot. Easy to say. Harder to do when faced with Doris.

  Veronica grabbed the covers and threw them back. She jumped out of bed, snatched the clothes away from her mother, and said, “I’ve got them, thanks,” with a little more force than she had intended.

  Doris took one step back, arching an eyebrow. One small dose of teenage attitude wasn’t going to cow her. She was a veteran of these conflicts and remained the undefeated champion. She glanced at the small silver watch on her wrist. “You’ve slept until almost eleven.”

  “You’re kidding. I never sleep that late.”

  Doris lowered her chin, an attitude that said, Don’t try to kid an old kidder. “I have to pick up Barbara at noon, so I’m going to have to drop you off at Artie’s a little early. Hurry and get ready, and I’ll make you something to eat.” She turned on her heel and was gone, leaving the room much less efficient.

  Barbara’s bed was empty and already neatly made. She and Mom always were like two little peas in a pod. I never wanted to be in that pod, anyway. Now, what did I wear when I worked at Artie’s? She searched her brain but came up empty. Finally, she went to her closet and immediately recognized her uniform. It was a crisp button down blouse with red accents at the collar and cuffs of the short sleeves. Her name was embroidered above her heart. When she pulled it off the hanger, she saw a straight gray skirt hanging beneath it.

  Five minutes later, she was dressed, teeth brushed, and sitting at the breakfast nook in the kitchen. Doris had made her a bowl of oatmeal, which was essentially flavorless beyond a tiny sprinkling of cinnamon. I’ve still got two dollars from last night tucked away upstairs. Maybe I can buy a burger and shake at Artie’s this afternoon. Or, did they give us a free meal when I worked there. I’ve forgotten so much.

  The house was quiet, lifeless.

  “Mom?” No answer.

  “Mom?” Veronica asked, louder.

  “What?” Doris said, opening the door from the garage.

  “Where’s Barb?”

  “It’s Saturday,” she said, as though that answered all questions. She glanced at Veronica, saw there was no recognition on her face, and said, “Drill team rehearsal. Just like every Saturday. I swear, I don’t know what I’ll do with all my extra time when I don’t have to chauffeur you two all over hither and yon.”

  Well, Mom, if you really want to know, you will spend that time searching for the bottom of a vodka bottle for a few years. Failing to find that, you will find God, sober up, and be the most insufferable type of Christian imaginable. That will get you through until a stroke will kill you in 1989. Barb will find you wrinkled and pruned at the bottom of your shower. But, that’s all a few years ahead of you. There’s still time to change the events of those Christmases future, as Dickens would say.

  Veronica was swirling the oatmeal around more than eating it, when Doris whisked it away. She emptied it into the trash and washed it quickly, setting it to dry on the dish rack. She glanced at the clock. 11:30. “Come on, then, we’re going to be late.”

  I feel like I might never catch up.

  Two minutes later, they were in her mother’s Mercury Monterey, rolling through downtown Middle Falls in complete silence. If the radio worked in Doris’s cars, she would never know. She thought music while driving was an unnecessary distraction. Downtown looked much more familiar than the neighborhood she had been in with Mr. Weaver the night before. Things were different—where the Safeway was supposed to be was still a vacant lot. She didn’t see any buildings taller than two stories, either, but the bones of the downtown area were similar. The marquee of the Pickwick Theater read that No Time for Sergeants was playing at 6:45 and 9:15. The Woolworth store, which had closed in the 1980s, was open and bustling on a Saturday morning.

  Doris pulled into a corner of Artie’s parking lot. It was the postcard-perfect image of a 1950s drive-in restaurant—a single story with a tall neon sign rising above the center of the building. The sign flashed “Artie’s” in bright-yellow neon and “Burgers and Shakes” in red beneath that. There was a single walk up window where you could order if you were in a hurry. The inside seating area was small, but off to the right was a long covered parking area with double-sided ordering stations. In the front and on the other side was a large parking lot that could hold fifty cars. The whole place looked new and modern. Futuristic, even, in the way the Jetsons would envision the future in a few more years.

  To the left of the parking lot was a tower with a square platform on top. A hand painted sign read “KMFR, AM 1090, Broadcasting LIVE every Friday and Saturday, 6:00 to 10:00 p.m., Easter through Halloween.”

  Oh, my gosh, I’d forgotten about the disc jockey up in the tower. We thought we were pretty damn hip. Veronica looked at a young couple walk by holding hands, dressed like they had just stepped out of a Sears and Roebuck catalog. We were pretty damn hip. Or, are. I don’t know any more. We’re going to need a new language if we’re going to time travel.

  Doris laid her hand on Veronica’s shoulder, shaking her out of her reverie. “Dad will be here to pick you up at eight. Don’t keep him waiting.”

  “Right. Okay. Thank you for the ride.” Veronica got out of the car and walked across the parking lot to the door that led into the inside seating. A young boy behind the counter looked up at her, surprise etched across his face. “Who are you, the queen of Sheba? You know Zimm gets bent out of shape if we come in the front.”

  Zimm. Zimm. Zimmerman. Perry Zimmerman. The manager, that’s right. He started at Artie’s when he was six
teen and never left. Ended up buying the place when Artie died. If this is 1958, then he’s still only about twenty-five now, though.

  “Oh, oops. Sorry.” Veronica smiled and shrugged. Of course that’s right. There’s a back entrance for us.

  The boy flipped the countertop and beckoned her in. “Come on through, just don’t tell Zimm. He’s already got me working all the crap shifts, anyway. Thus, my presence here on the opening shift on a Saturday.”

  “Thanks,” Veronica said, trying and failing to bring up his name in her mind. She scooted through the counter and thought to look at the name embroidered over his pocket. “Thanks, Dimitri.”

  The boy, who had his dark hair combed back in a reasonable imitation of an Elvis pompadour, looked at her like she had grown two heads. “Dimitri? Ronnie, are you feeling okay? Only my parents call me Dimitri.”

  Veronica stared at him, trying to force her reluctant brain to bring him better into focus. Cute enough, maybe trying a little too hard to be cool. Pretty blue eyes, though.

  “Oh, right, of course,” Veronica said, embarrassed. I better get used to feeling this way. I’ll probably step in it a dozen times today.

  “Hey, DJ,” another boy called from the grill. “You gonna put these burgers together, or are you waiting on them to turn completely to charcoal?”

  “Relax, I’m coming,” DJ said. Turning back to Veronica, he said, “Grab a tray, I’ll have an order ready for you in two shakes.”

  DJ. DJ. Why don’t I remember you? There’s so many things to try and remember, though. Veronica looked around in a slight panic, then saw a door ajar that led into a back room. She pushed through and saw a tiny alcove where coats were hung. She hung hers on a peg, straightened her skirt and blouse, and threw her shoulders back.

  I can do this. I can do this. She let out a long, calming breath. What choice do I have?

  Chapter Four

  The first few hours of her shift were chaotic. She was a stranger in what had once been a familiar land. Her days as a carhop were six decades behind her, but as the day wore on, the routine returned to her as though it had been yesterday.

  The Artie’s menu was simple—hamburgers, cheeseburgers, shakes, and Coca Cola products. No fish or chicken sandwiches, no frozen yogurt, and no low-calorie options. All we served was fat and calorie-stuffed meals, but look at the kids. There’s got to be kids who could stand to lose a couple of pounds somewhere, but they’re not around Artie’s on a Saturday afternoon. Maybe it’s because we didn’t get to eat out too often, or maybe our parents just kept us moving.

  Veronica’s job was to grab the baskets of burgers and fries hot off the grill and deliver them to the cars. The trays were designed to hook onto the windows. She also had to keep an eye on all the cars so she could pick up the trays when people were done eating. Between that and taking orders at the little eating area inside, the day flew by in a blur of buns and shakes.

  She’d been at work for almost half her shift before she saw someone she recognized. She had a tray loaded down with two cheeseburger baskets and chocolate shakes to deliver to a wood-paneled Ford Country Squire parked in spot eighteen. When she got to the driver’s side window, she almost dropped the food onto the parking lot.

  “Danny!” she said, inadvertently quoting Olivia Newton John’s line in Grease, a movie that wouldn’t be made for another thirty years.

  Danny Coleman had asked her to Prom her senior year, but she had already started going out with Christopher Belkins, whom she would eventually marry. She had regretfully told Danny she couldn’t go with him, because she wasn’t the kind of girl who went out with two boys at the same time. As life had unfolded, she had spent many years wondering how things might have been different if she had gone with him, instead of Christopher. Danny had gone on to own Coleman’s Department Store right there in Middle Falls. He had always been kind to Veronica over the decades that followed. He wore his dark hair in a crew cut, which gave him a definite square-jawed, all-American look.

  “Hi, Ronnie. How’s tricks?” Danny said, casually.

  Veronica glanced beyond Danny and saw Lisa Berry sitting beside him. Wait a minute. If this is April 1958, Danny Coleman, you’re supposed to be asking me to Prom. What are you doing here with Lisa? She shook her head to clear the silliness of being unhappy over something that hadn’t happened yet. “Oh, you know. Just work. Here’s your order,” she said, hooking the tray onto his window. “That’ll be ninety cents.” She leaned down slightly, “Hey, Lisa.”

  Lisa smiled and waggled her fingers at Veronica, but didn’t say anything.

  Danny laid a dollar on the tray. “Keep it, Ronnie. Thanks.” He tipped her a wink and flashed a smile.

  Hey, big spender! Veronica slipped the dollar inside her apron pocket, took a dime out of her change maker and dropped it neatly into her other pocket. “Later, gator.” That’s what we said, right? Or am I just remembering old movies now?

  Back inside, Perry Zimmerman said, “Take your break, Ronnie. Evening rush’ll be starting soon.”

  “Thanks, Perry.” Can’t remember if we called him Zimm to his face or what. Veronica reached into her tip pocket and pulled out a quarter and two nickels. She laid it on the counter and slid it toward Perry. “I’m starved. Can I get a burger and fries?”

  Perry cocked his head at her like a dog that had heard a sharp whistle. “You know you get a meal, Ronnie. You’ve been acting passing strange today. Are you okay?”

  Veronica did her best to laugh it off. “Oh, I know. That’s your tip, right?”

  “Yeah, right,” he said, pushing the coins back at her. “Just let DJ know what you want, but hurry and chow down. I think we’re going to be busy tonight.”

  Veronica went back to the large grill, where DJ and another boy she didn’t know were standing . The grill had a full array of hamburger patties and buns. They stood like brothers in arms, spatulas in hand, staring at the sizzling food.

  “Zimm said I could take my lunch. Can you make me a burger and fries, DJ?”

  “Oh sure, now that you’re hungry, now I’m DJ. When you come in through the front door like you’re Cleopatra floating down the Nile, I’m Dimitri. “ He shook his head in mock-disgust, and said, “Dimitri!” as if he couldn’t believe the insult. Then he smiled and flipped the bottom of a bun up and deftly plucked it out of the air. He flipped a patty and caught it on the bun. He grabbed a dispenser which contained Artie’s secret sauce and poured it on the burger. The secret sauce was just ketchup, mayonnaise, and a little vinegar, but it was delicious. He added two thin slices of pickles, no onions, and he flipped the top of the bun to land neat as you please.

  He dropped the burger in the basket, scooped some fries in beside it and said, “Just like you like it, m’lady.”

  She had been serving Artie Burgers all day, but holding it in her hands, and realizing she hadn’t had a good meal since 2018, made her stomach roll. She poured herself a small cup of Coke. There were no diet options, but she could have added a squirt of cherry, vanilla, or lemon flavoring if she had wanted.

  The parking lot was busy, but the dining room was empty. No one wanted to be inside on a sunny day in early April. She sat at a table in the corner where she could look outside. She stared in the direction of the Country Squire wagon without realizing she was.

  The hamburger was heavenly. That DJ is going to make somebody a damn fine husband someday, if he can cook anything other than a burger. She took a second bite before she had completely swallowed the first. I don’t remember anything tasting this good in fifty years. Is it because I’m young, or was food just better during this time? Maybe not so many preservatives?

  Some of her enjoyment drained away when she saw Lisa lean over and dab at the corner of Danny Coleman’s mouth with a napkin, smiling and laughing. They sure look cozy out there. Veronica chewed slowly, swallowed, and put her burger back in the yellow plastic basket. Well, I had my chance, and I made the wrong choice. Or, will I get another chance this time ar
ound? Is he going to dump Lisa in the next few days and ask me to Prom again? If he does, what will I say? And how odd is it that an eighty year old woman is acting like a flibbertigibbet about being asked to Prom.

  She sipped at her Coke. Or, should I wait for Chris to come along again and ask me out and sweep me off my feet? Her mind wandered back through the inventory of her marriage. Infatuation, first love, the wedding, the birth of her daughters. Happy memories. Then, she remembered Chris brutally kicking her out of their house so he could marry someone fifteen years younger. But, if I don’t marry Chris, Sarah and Nellie will never be born.

  That felt like a punch in the gut. She had come out on the short end of everything in her divorce with Chris, but the worst of it had been losing her connection with her daughters. Over the years, Chris and his new wife had become the new normal for Sarah and Nellie, and Veronica had been more of an afterthought. Something to work in to their schedules as more of an obligation than a joy.

  And I don’t blame them. I was a miserable, wrung-out woman with no joy of any kind in my life. Why would they want to spend time with me? Now, I am on the horns of this dilemma. Marry a man who was unspeakably cruel, so I can have my daughters again, or wise up and ignore him, but face up to the fact my daughters will never be born. Tears formed in her eyes at the thought.

  As she watched, Danny emerged from the car and walked inside with his tray.

  Oops. Bad Ronnie. Bad carhop.

  If Danny was put off, he didn’t show it. He sat the tray on the counter, where Mary, another carhop, scooped it up with a “Thanks, hon.”

  Danny turned to go back outside, but stopped when he saw Veronica sitting alone in the corner.

  Veronica froze. He’s not going to ask me right now, is he? He wouldn’t do that with Lisa out in the car waiting for him, would he? He’s not that kind of guy.