by Shawn Inmon
If that was what Danny was considering, he showed no sign of it. He smiled at Veronica and nodded at her. “Thanks again, Ronnie.”
Veronica did her best to answer, but her mouth was full of French fries and ketchup. She did her best to smile around the mouthful and gave him a little wave.
Danny climbed back into his car, which Veronica remembered now had been his parents’, turned the ignition and backed out of the parking spot. As he did, Lisa scooted next to him and laid her head on his shoulder.
Veronica tossed the rest of her meal in the trash can and went back to work.
Chapter Five
As the sun set and the exterior lights around Artie’s came on, everything came to life. A skinny young man with curly hair climbed the shaky ladder that led up to the top of the KMFR tower. He began fidgeting with equipment and making preparations for the remote broadcast. In the golden light of the setting sun, kids were cruising the strip in front of the restaurant. Artie’s was at one end of the strip, with the bowling alley—Middle Falls Lanes—serving as the anchor on the other end.
Every Friday and Saturday night from spring through fall, kids drove endlessly up and down the strip. Even though the cars and pickups that cruised the loop were gas hogs, no one was going broke, because gas was twenty-five cents a gallon. Every car that had a working radio was tuned to KMFR, so the entire strip throbbed to the same rock ‘n roll beat. The weekend cruise was as close as Middle Falls, Oregon, came to a cultural ritual.
The strip, which was plain old Main Street any other time, was the place to see and be seen. Cars full of girls flirted with pickups filled with boys stacked like cord wood in the back. Couples who were already paired up tended to sit comfortably in Artie’s parking lot and observe the mating rituals of those still on the lookout. It was a scene played out all over America every weekend.
At the top of the KMFR remote tower, the loudspeaker crackled into life, broadcasting The End of the World by Skeeter Davis. When the record faded out, the skinny young man slipped a large set of headphones over his ears. He picked up his microphone and said, “Good evening, this is Scott Patrick, your musical host for another Saturday night on KMFR. I’ll be here all night, playing the best music for cruising, necking, or crying, if you’re all alone. If you’re not on the strip right now, you’re nowhere. I’ll be right here, high above it all for the next four hours, spinnin’ the hits and helping lonely hearts be just a little less lonely. If you’ve got a request, come on by the rockin’ 1090 tower, drop it in the bucket, and I’ll do my best to make your musical dreams come true. We’ll kick things off tonight with Come Go with Me, by the Del-Vikings.” The doo-wop a cappella intro of the song, played by the board operator back in the studio, began to play. It echoed from dozens of car speakers in the parking lot.
The last two hours of Veronica’s shift flew by in a nostalgic haze, fueled by music, neon, and the fumes of a hundred internal combustion engines.
A few minutes before eight o’clock, Wallace McAllister pulled into the far corner of the parking lot. She recognized his sky blue Chevy Belair immediately. She thought he would sit and wait for her shift to end, but instead, he hopped out of the car and strode toward the front door. He looked oddly out of place, walking across the parking lot—an oasis of staid adulthood in the sea of teens.
Oh, Daddy, you’re so young and handsome.
Wallace pushed through the door, smiled, and said, “Well?”
“Well?” Veronica said, lost as usual.
“Where’s my ride-home-tax?” He took a dollar bill out and slipped it to Veronica.
When he saw that Veronica still did not understand, he said, “My burger and fries? You know your mother is always on me about my weight.” He patted his middle, which had the slightest spare tire imaginable. “This is my only chance to get something that’ll stick to my ribs.”
Veronica smiled, nodded, and said, “Oh! Oh, of course! Sit down, I’ll be right back with it.” She ran to the back and asked DJ for a burger basket in a hurry, then turned to Perry Zimmerman and handed him the dollar. “For my dad’s food.”
Perry nodded. “Just put it in the register like always, Ronnie. You know I trust you.”
Veronica did, retrieved the change and turned around to find DJ holding out the order. “One Daddy burger, made to order.”
Veronica noticed that DJ held her eyes a moment longer than she would have expected. Wait. Is this boy I don’t even remember kind of flirting with me? Was I too caught up in myself to notice him?
“Thanks, DJ.”
“No problemo,” DJ said, turning toward the door into the back. “My last burger for the day, thank God. I’ll never get all this grease out of my pores.”
Veronica dropped the change on the tray and hurried the food out to her dad, who had taken a seat at the only empty table. “Here you go, Daddy.”
“Thanks, kitten.” He didn’t hesitate, but grabbed the burger and took a man-sized bite, then sighed. “Go on, finish up. I’ll be ready to go when you are.”
Really? Can you eat a hamburger and fries in the time it takes me to go get my purse and jacket? I doubt it.
Two minutes later, after collecting her things and saying goodnight, she popped back into the dining room. She was surprised to find her father wiping his mouth with a napkin and tossing it into an empty basket.
“Daddy! You shouldn’t eat so fast.”
Wallace looked abashed, and said, “I know, but if we dawdle, I’ll get the third degree from your mother when I get home.” He reached in his jacket pocket and pulled out a roll of Spearmint Certs. He slipped one out, popped it in his mouth and offered one to Veronica. “What she doesn’t know...”
“...won’t get you in trouble,” Veronica finished for him.
Wallace chuckled. “Right you are.”
Wouldn’t you have been happier if you could have found a way to just be yourself and damn the consequences, though? I guess not, since you let her run your life until the day you died. That thought, coupled with her father standing beside her, large as life, gave her a lump in her throat. She slipped her arm through his as they headed out the door, and laid her head against his shoulder. “I love you, Daddy.”
“You know I love you too, Ronnie,” he said, fishing his keys out of his pocket and handing them to her. “Here, you can drive home.”
A few minutes later, Wallace and Veronica walked in the front door. They both remembered to slip their shoes off at the door, though Veronica noticed her dad didn’t untie his shoes first, either. Maybe I got more than just my DNA from you, Dad. We’re both pretty relaxed, which makes us too easy to run over. No good.
Doris sat in a small easy chair in the den, bathed in a pool of light from a floor lamp beside her. She still wore the dress she’d had on that morning—no relaxing sweats for moms in the fifties—and was working on a knitting project. Barb was stretched out on her back on the floor at Doris’s feet, holding up a copy of Teen magazine with Elvis in an army uniform on the cover. The headline read, “Will the army change Elvis?” There was a television against one wall, but it wasn’t turned on.
Wallace went into the kitchen and poured a glass of water. Probably a good idea to wash down all that fat and sodium, Dad.
Doris looked up from her knitting. “How was work?”
“Oh, fine. Just another day in the salt mines,” Veronica joked.
Doris didn’t crack a smile. “You’ll get your paycheck next weekend. Just sign it and give it to me, and I’ll deposit it in your college fund on Monday.”
No wonder I don’t have a car! I’ll never get one if I have to keep putting every penny I own into the bank. Her hand brushed against her purse, still heavy with the mound of change she had gotten as tips that day. Well, not every penny, I guess. It’s going to take a mountain of nickels and dimes to get an old beater, even. Still, I hate to put all my money into a savings account for a college I’m not ever going to attend. Unless. Unless I decide to run like hell when I see
Christopher Belkins again, which seems like the smart thing to do.
Images of Nellie and Sarah danced across her mind, though, a reminder of the price she would pay for choosing her own freedom.
“I’m tired, Mom. I’m going upstairs.”
“Don’t forget to set your alarm. We have church in the morning.”
Veronica’s shoulders sagged. She hadn’t been to church in decades. Dying and waking up as a young girl again didn’t reinforce her belief in the idea of heaven and hell.
“No attitude, young lady. Be ready to go at 8:30.”
I know when I’m beat. Veronica nodded, trudged up the stairs and sat down on her bed. I wasn’t lying. I really am tired, young body or not. Beside her twin bed was a small table with a lamp and a bright red wind-up alarm clock. She wound it, wondered how long she needed to get church-ready, and set the alarm for 7:15.
Chapter Six
Sunday passed by quickly. Church was every bit as boring as she remembered it. In 1958, the McAllisters attended a non-denominational community church on the edge of their own neighborhood. The service may not have been exciting, but it was punctual, and the whole family was home relaxing long before lunch.
Barbara, who hadn’t spoken a word to Veronica since she had been back, took off on her bicycle to her friend Audrey’s house for the day. Of course, to Barbara, Veronica had been there all along.
Wallace McAllister turned on the television and turned it to CBS. He settled into his chair, pulled out his pipe, and sighed contentedly as the black and white broadcast of the final round of the Masters appeared. “I think Arnie Palmer’s gonna win this darn thing,” he said, to no one in particular.
“No one cares, dear,” Doris said from the kitchen. She pulled a pork roast out of the refrigerator and turned the oven on to preheat. She looked at Veronica. “What do you have planned for the day? I’ve got a long list of things to do if you’re at loose ends.”
Hey, I’m only young twice. Well, at least twice. Think of something fast.
“I thought I’d hang out with Ruthie. It would be nice to see her.” Hmm. That sounds like an old lady instead of a teenager.
“Ruthie?” Doris’s eyebrows shot up. “You haven’t seen her in years. I thought you two had a falling out.”
“Did we?” I would think I would remember some of this stuff. Funny, the way memory works. It’s like it plays our greatest hits over and over, but so much of our day to day stuff just filters away. “Well, it’s time for us to make up, then. Ruthie’s been my friend since kindergarten.”
Doris waved a dismissive hand at Veronica. “Fine, fine.” She glanced at the clock over the sink. “Be home by 3:00, though. I’ll have dinner on right after that. Change out of your good clothes first.”
“Thanks, Mom,” Veronica yelled over her shoulder as she scampered up the stairs and into her room. She ran to her closet and flipped through the clothes hanging there. Skirt, skirt, dress, sweater, sweater. She pulled one hanger out with a small piece of fabric hanging on it. What in the world? She had to stifle a giggle. Oh, my God. It’s a dickie. A dickie! Who in the world thought this was a good idea?
At the back of the closet, she found a single pair of jeans. She held them up against her. Can’t believe I can fit in something this tiny again, but I’ll bet I can. She dropped her skirt to the floor and shimmied into the blue jeans. They were cuffed at the ankle and looked nothing like the ripped and bedazzled jeans of the twenty-first century. These will do nicely. As long as Mom doesn’t see me, that is. I’ll bet she wouldn’t be crazy about her oldest daughter running around Middle Falls on the Sabbath in blue jeans. She found a warm sweater that looked comfy and put it on. She looked appraisingly in the mirror that hung on the back of the door.
Not bad at all.
Veronica slid silently down the stairs, slipped her shoes on, and went out the front door as quietly as she could. Once on the sidewalk, she looked left and right. I don’t have any idea where Ruthie’s house even is. I wasn’t about to be cooped up in the house polishing the silver or scrubbing the floor on my hands and knees, though.
She turned right and walked quickly until she got a block away from her house, then slowed to a stroll. She turned her face skyward. Not quite as warm as it was yesterday, but it’s not raining, I’m young, apparently, and the whole world is my oyster. Now, I’ve just got to figure out what I want. College, and a career? Marry Christopher again, have the girls and split right after? Really throw myself into the marriage and see if we can make it work this time? I’m sure I contributed to our divorce in my own way. Will he love me at all, though, if he sees I’m strong? Was he looking for a partner, or a doormat to wipe his feet on?
These were questions with no easy answers. She let them roll around her mind, looking at each option from a different angle. She did not find a perfect solution. She paid no attention to where her feet were carrying her. She went straight or turned left or right apparently at random.
After a half hour’s walk, though, she came out of her daze and looked at a familiar house right in front of her. Ruthie’s. I guess I did know where she lived, at least on some level. Maybe I just need to get out of my own way sometimes and let my subconscious help me find my way.
The house where Ruthie Miller lived wasn’t much. Her father had passed away when they were in the fifth grade. Her mom hadn’t worked outside the house before he died, but she had to find a job as soon as she took off her black mourning dress. Mr. Miller hadn’t left them anything in the way of life insurance or savings, so they always struggled to keep their noses above water. Poverty, mixed with losing her father, had left Ruthie bereft.
I think she wasn’t much fun for a few years after that, and instead of being the friend she needed, I let her drift away. Veronica squared her shoulders and marched up to the small porch. She knocked three times and stood waiting to see if anyone was home.
The door opened and a small, matronly woman said, “Yes?” A pause, then, peering over the top of her glasses, “Ronnie? I haven’t seen you in forever. Is everything okay?”
Veronica smiled. You always were a kind lady. “Yes, everything’s fine. I just woke up missing Ruthie this morning and wanted to see what she was doing.”
“How nice. I’m sure she’ll be thrilled to see you. Come on in, I’ll get her.”
Veronica stepped inside. There was no entry way in this house, just a small living room and a kitchen with a tiny two-person eating area on the right. There was no television in sight, but a black and white picture of Mr. and Mrs. Miller in their younger days sat on top of a silent radio. A pot boiled on the stove in the kitchen.
After a few minutes, Veronica realized it was taking quite some time for Mrs. Miller to retrieve Ruthie. Maybe she’s not all that thrilled to see me after all.
Finally, Mrs. Miller reemerged with an apologetic smile. “Sorry. She was napping, and I needed to wake her up. She’ll be right out.”
You’re not a good liar, Mrs. Miller. She didn’t want to come out and you had to threaten her to get her to agree. What kind of a heel was I to Ruthie? And why? She was never anything but sweet.
“Can I get you some tea, dear?”
“Oh, no. I can’t stay. I was out for a walk and realized my feet carried me here, so I thought I’d better stop in and say hello.”
“Hello, Veronica.”
Okay. Not Ronnie. Veronica.
“Hey, Ruthie. How are you? It feels like I haven’t talked to you in forever.”
“That would be because you haven’t. What do you want, Veronica?”
Oof. So, it’s like that.
Veronica glanced at Mrs. Miller. It was impossible to be out of earshot in the small space. Still, she was doing her best to be preoccupied with something in the kitchen and pointedly ignoring them.
“Can we go in your bedroom for a minute. I just want to catch up with you.”
Ruthie hesitated. Then hesitated some more. Finally, without looking up, Mrs. Miller said, quietly, �
�Go on.”
Ruthie shrugged and turned back toward the room she had come from. When they walked into the room it was obvious this wasn’t Ruthie’s room. It was Ruthie and her mom’s room. The house only had one bedroom. Nonetheless, it still looked like a teenager’s room. There were pictures of Ricky Nelson and Elvis thumbtacked to the wall, and her bedspread was fluffy and pink. Stuck into the other corner was the second bed.
Ruthie sat on her own bed, crossed her arms, and said, “What do you want?”
Veronica sat on the other bed and her knees were almost touching Ruthie’s. Slightly claustrophobic in here. I’ll never complain about sharing with Barb again. What if I had to share with Mom? Perish the thought.
Veronica looked at Ruthie. When they were young, she had been a pigtailed little tomboy, but now she was a little too skinny and looked lost in the shapeless, oversize sweater she wore. Her hair hung lankly around her face, which was framed by brown, cats-eye glasses.
“I don’t want or need anything. I promise. I haven’t been a good friend, especially when you needed one. I’m sorry. You were never anything but my best friend, and I know I’ve let that slip away.”
“Slip away? Sure. Whatever you need to tell yourself. You turned your back on me. You acted like you didn’t know me in the hallway. I don’t know what I ever did to you.” Ruthie’s eyes filled with tears.
“I wish I could give you a good reason, but I can’t.” I mean, I really can’t. I honestly don’t remember. Why would I have done that? “I don’t expect you to just say ‘halleluiah’ and suddenly, we’re best friends again. I know life’s not like that. I do miss you, though. Hey, I’ve got my tips from working at Artie’s last night,” she said, patting her small purse. “Wanna walk down to the bowling alley and get a Coke? My treat. I figure I owe you about a thousand Cokes for acting the way I have.”
Ruthie didn’t respond immediately. She squinted one eye closed and tilted her head slightly, trying to figure what had caused this sudden change. She shrugged and said, “I’ll have to ask my Mom.”
