by Shawn Inmon
“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. 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.”
“Great!”
Two minutes later, they were outside, walking toward the bowling alley. At one point, Veronica went straight when Ruthie turned left. Ruthie stopped and looked over her shoulder. “Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten where the bowling alley is?”
Veronica laughed and ran back to Ruthie. She slipped her arm through Ruthie’s and laid her head on her shoulder. “I really am sorry, Ruthie,” she whispered.
The next few hours passed easily. It wasn’t that Ruthie and Ronnie were immediately best friends again. But, as time wore on, some of the well-worn grooves of their friendship were found once again. They avoided speaking of the previous years, which Ruthie found distasteful and which Veronica didn’t remember. Eventually they found some common ground to stand on. Mostly Elvis, who Ruthie loved, and who Veronica had listened to right up to the end of her life.
After they had drained two Cherry Cokes each, Veronica looked up and noticed the clock on the wall.
“Oh, heck. Look at the time! Mom told me I had to be home by 3:00. Am I going to be late?”
“If you walk home with me first, yes. But not if you walk straight home from here.”
Veronica looked at Ruthie, calculating. Two bad choices. I don’t want to strand Ruthie here, but I don’t want Mom getting on me when I get home, either.
Ruthie saw her indecision and said, “Don’t worry about it. It’s no problem.”
Veronica nodded. “Okay.” She hugged Ruthie. “Thanks.” She hustled toward the door, then turned and looked back at her.
Ruthie stood, looking at her, a little dazed at the sudden turn her Sunday had taken.
Chapter Seven
Veronica managed to slip unnoticed through the front door. Got to change before Mom catches me wearing pants outdoors. The smell of her mother’s pork roast cooking was enticing. Mom always was a good cook. Now’s the time to take advantage of my young metabolism and eat whatever I want. She ran up the stairs. Once she got far enough up that she knew her mom couldn’t see her, she yelled, “I’m home, Mom! I’ll be right down!”
“No need to yell,” Doris said. “I’m right here.” Her mother was standing at the linen closet at the top of the stairs, putting away freshly-folded sheets.
“Eeep!” Veronica said, attempting to jump right out of her skin. Mental note. If there’s a place Mom can catch me doing something I’m not supposed to be doing, she’s going to be standing in that place.
Doris looked at Veronica appraisingly. Flushed cheeks, windblown hair, and of course, her jeans. “Is it appropriate to be sneaking out of the house dressed like that? And, on the Sabbath?”
Mom, wait until you see how girls are going to dress in another few years. Micro-mini skirts. Bikinis. Free love. You’re not going to like it one bit. Eventually, I’m going to have to start standing up to you, or you’re just going to keep running over me.
“Mom, I’m eighteen years old. I’m graduating high school in a couple of months. There’s nothing wrong with wearing a pair of jeans to go for a walk.”
Doris quietly contemplated that. “I won’t have any back talk from you. While you are living in my house, you will conduct yourself like a lady, and that does not include cavorting around town in jeans.” She raised her eyebrows, tilted her head forward a bit. “Are we clear on this?”
Maybe I’ll pick something more important to take a stand on. “Yes, ma’am. Sorry.”
Another child-rearing crisis averted, Doris headed downstairs. “Change and then come downstairs to dinner.”
Veronica did just that.
Dinner at the McAllister house was a quiet affair. Doris and Barbara sat next to each other and talked about a project Barbara was doing for girl scouts. Their voices didn’t quite carry to the other end of the table, where Veronica and Wallace sat. Wallace never said a word during the entire meal. He chewed his food and acted like the king of the castle that Doris allowed him to pretend to be.
Veronica looked at her mother and Barbara, heads nearly touching.
What if I’d made more of an effort? Could I have been part of that little coffee klatch?
Doris said something and Barbara giggled.
I don’t think so. Oil and water. She glanced at her father. And what about you, Dad? Was this a good life for you? Or, did you just put your shoulder to the wheel and push it ahead, one day at a time, until it ended with a heart attack in 1985? She jerked her head up at a sudden thought. Wait. When you died, Dad, did this same thing happen to you? Are you somehow a young man back in Salem, reliving your life? Or is there something special about me? If you did go back, would you marry Mom again to make sure that Johnny, Barb and I are born? Or would you look for a more suitable match? Too many questions on a full stomach.
Veronica dabbed at the corners of her mouth with her napkin, and said, “May I be excused, please? I’ll do the dishes as soon as everyone’s done.”
That grabbed Doris’s attention. “Of course. Make sure you’re all ready for school tomorrow, first. Why don’t you curl your hair tonight? You always look so pretty like that.”
School. High school. A sudden knot appeared in Veronica’s stomach. And curlers. Curlers that will poke me and keep me awake. She nodded. “Okay, Mom. I’ll go get ready now, then come back down and do the dishes.”
Doris nodded, satisfied at this toeing of her line. She would accept nothing less.
Upstairs, Veronica went through her closet and picked out a skirt and sweater to wear to school the next day. She put them together on the same hanger and hung it on the door knob to her closet.
School. The last time I was in this school was sixty years ago. I’m going to be lost. How do I get through it? Fake amnesia like a soap opera star? Don’t think that will work. Ask Ruthie
? How do I explain that, exactly? Her eye fell on a small stack of books and notebooks on her bedside table. She pulled a book off the top of the stack. Men and Nations: A World History.
Hey, how about Women and Nations? No? Welcome to the fifties. She sat the book on her bed and picked up a spiral notebook. On the first page, in her own young handwriting, was written, “First Semester 1957-1958.” I always was an organized student. I guess I got something from Mom. There was a list of all her classes, including the teacher and the room the class was held.
She turned to the second page. Across the top of the page was, “Second Semester 1957-1958.” Again, below that was all her classes, teachers, and which room each class was in. Organization to the rescue! Thank you, younger Veronica for making this easier for me.
She took a deep breath, held it, and released it. I guess I’m about as ready as I’m ever going to be. She went back downstairs to do the dishes, which her mother or Barbara had helpfully stacked next to the sink. Her mother had returned to her knitting, and her father was working on the crossword puzzle from the Sunday paper. Barbara was upstairs taking a bath.
All in all, a pretty good weekend. Artie’s is as wonderful as it ever was, I got to see Ruthie again. Home might not be the most loving place, but there are certainly worse places I could be. It’s all felt a little like a vacation to Fifties Land, though. The glory of the whole thing might wear off a little when those curlers poke me in the scalp all night.
Chapter Eight
Veronica sat down to a bowl of Cheerios and toast. Her hair was curled and she had on a skirt so tight at her calves she had to adjust her steps as she walked down the stairs. This time has some things going for it, but there are drawbacks, too. I miss my pantsuits. Or, better, my comfy sweats.
Doris looked her over and must have decided she passed muster, because she nodded once. “Don’t forget—you’re on at Artie’s from four to eight tonight. I have bridge this afternoon, so I won’t be there to give you a ride. You’ll need to get on Mr. Harrison’s bus #12. I’ll call the bus garage and let him know he can drop you off at Artie’s.” She nodded again, another item from her infinite to-do list checked off.
Small-town America—where you not only know your child’s bus driver, you know all the bus drivers.
“Okay, Mom. No problem.”
“Dad will be there to pick you up at eight.” She turned away, then paused, and turned back around. “Oh, and don’t give him a hamburger tonight. He really does need to watch his weight.”
Veronica opened her mouth to deny any knowledge of forbidden hamburgers, but thought better of it. “Okay, Mom.”
“He thinks popping a Certs gets rid of a hamburger with onions on it, but I know better.”
It would be nice to have a mother who isn’t half Sherlock Holmes, but, there we are.
Barb came bounding down the stairs, stood in front of her mother and smiled. Or, rather, she bared her teeth at Doris, who examined her closely. She reached up and swept one stray curl into place, then gave her an approving nod.
Veronica picked her books and the small grocery bag with her Artie’s uniform up off the corner of the kitchen table. She hustled past her mother at double time, worried she might have a stray Cheerio stuck on one of her teeth.
Outside, she and Barbara walked half a block to where a small group of neighborhood kids were gathering. Boys and girls, ranging from first graders on up to high schoolers, were waiting. Two young boys had scratched out a circle and were shooting marbles for “keepsies” while they waited. Everyone else seemed content to stand still and pretend like they were still home, tucked into their beds.
Barbara didn’t seem to have anybody special to stand with at the bus stop, and there weren’t many other high schoolers, either, so they stood together. Veronica looked at her sister. “You look cute, today.”
“Thanks,” Barbara said, nodding in agreement.
Good to have self-confidence, and Barb always had that.
The bright-yellow bus came around a corner and stopped in front of them with a squeal of brakes and the strong smell of diesel. Barbara and Veronica were the last ones on, but there were plenty of seats. Barbara stopped midway back and sat down next to a young dark-haired girl. They immediately fell into deep conversation.
Veronica looked ahead, hopeful she might spot someone she remembered, but it didn’t happen. She moved all the way to the second to the last seat and sat down.
Going to be a long day, I think. But, it’s April, so I’ll be done with school in another couple of months. I can make it through that.
No one spoke to her the entire trip to school, and Veronica was content to be ignored. She got off the bus and looked around for Ruthie, but she was nowhere in sight. First problem. How do I get in my locker? I don’t remember where my locker was, let alone what the combination was. I guess there’s only one thing to do—ask.
Middle Falls High School wasn’t huge, but it did act as the central school for several other smaller communities in the area. That meant there were a little more than five hundred students enrolled. It was a stone structure that was obviously well built, because it was still being used as the local high school in 2018. To Veronica’s eye, everything looked fresher—the lawn greener, the stone structure cleaner—as she walked up to it.
She entered the hustle and bustle of the high school and moved with the crowd along the main hallway. It all seemed familiar, but dimly so. Eventually, she saw an opening in the middle of the school. There was an office with an open window facing out to the crowded hallway. There were two boys lined up there, and Veronica got in line behind them.
Both boys had notes excusing previous absences that they turned in. They were quickly dealt with. Veronica found herself face to face with a large woman with hair like steel wool. She wore a blue dress with small golden stars on it, and had a pair of half-glasses perched on the end of her nose.
“Good morning, Veronica. What do you need?”
“Oh! Um, good morning.” Veronica didn’t even attempt to remember this woman’s name. I don’t know why I thought I’d be completely anonymous here. Of course people are going to recognize me. Just because I don’t remember them doesn’t mean they’re not going to have seen some other version of me here yesterday.
The woman was impatiently tapping her pencil on the counter.
“I’m having a little trouble getting my locker open, and I’m afraid I’m going to be late to first period. Is there anyone who can come see if it’s jammed?”
The woman nodded, turned and opened a file drawer. She pulled out a file, then looked through it for the right piece of paper. She stepped to an intercom system and pushed a button. “George? Are you there?”
“Yah,” a tinny voice answered back.
“Can you meet Veronica McAllister at locker 426? She’s having a hard time getting it open.”
“Damned things are always getting stuck,” the tinny voice said.
“Language, George, if you please.”
“Sorry, Mrs. Harris, sorry. What’s the combination?”
“22-8-31”
“Tell her I’ll meet her there in five minutes.”
Mrs. Harris turned back to Veronica. “Go on, then. George will be right there.”
Veronica turned away, repeating 426, 22-8-31 over and over until she could get to a place where she could write the numbers down.
Well, that was easier than I thought. I feel a little bad about making George come all the way over for nothing. Nothing to be done about that, though. Now, to find locker 426.
Veronica rejoined the crowd of students moving through the hallway. She moved to the side, where she could see the locker numbers until she found the 400s. Eventually, she came to locker 426. She looked at the locker. Nope. Not familiar at all. Just like a thousand other lockers I walked by.
“Morning,” a gruff voice said, making her jump. “If you’ll scoot a bit, I’ll see what I can do.” He held his left hand up and squinted at it,
trying to make out the numbers he had written on there, but they seemed to have gotten smeared. “Damn it,” he swore under his breath.
“It’s uh, 22-8-31,” Veronica offered.
“Oh, right. It’s your locker. I should have figured.” He turned and spun the knob, which moved easily, stopped at the 22, went past the 8 once, then stopped, moved it to the right to 31. The locker popped open, easy as you please. George let out a grunt of surprise.
“It’s always like that, isn’t it?” Veronica said. “Take your car into the mechanic, and it won’t make that funny noise it’s been making?”
George didn’t say anything, but as he turned and walked away, Veronica thought she heard him mumble something about “damned kids today.”
The inside of her locker was neat and organized. The top shelf held a few pencils, a pink eraser, and a metal compass with the stub of a pencil in it. Oh, no. She picked up the compass like it was a foreign object. Please, please tell me this was for a class last semester. If I have to use this today, I’m going to flunk out for sure.
The bottom half of the locker held a small bag that had a change of clothes for PE—a modest jumper—a few text books, and a small hairbrush. Boring, boring. I have to face it, I was a boring, good girl.
Veronica slipped the textbooks she had brought from home to the bottom of the locker. She grabbed Men and Nations: A World History because that was her first class.
Room 246, so, upstairs somewhere.
The first bell sounded, giving her five minutes to find her room. The crowd in the hall was thinning, and she found her room with more than a minute to spare. She slipped into a seat in the back, hoping there were no assigned seats. Just before the second bell rang, a young man with a crew cut and an ill-fitting suit hurried in. He sat a briefcase down on the teacher’s desk at the front.
Oh, my God, he doesn’t look old enough to have graduated from high school, let alone be teaching at one. She recognized him with a shock. That’s Mr. Burns! I remember when the school honored him with a retirement dinner. When? Sometime in the mid-eighties. And here he is, a young teacher, just starting his career.
