by Shawn Inmon
She flipped hopefully past the outline, but the pages were all blank.
Oh, past Veronica, you organized young woman. Why didn’t you go the extra mile and write this in advance for me, so I don’t have to? Can’t have everything, I guess.
Miss Deakins was leading a discussion on Mark Twain’s The Stranger, when the loudspeaker in the corner clicked on.
“Attention, teachers. This is a drill. Please execute duck and cover now.”
Students around the room groaned, but Miss Deakins waved her hands to quiet them down. “This is important, class. In case of an actual nuclear attack, it has been estimated that executing duck and cover could reduce fatalities up to 60%. Girls, you don’t need to try to get under your desks. Just kneel beside them and cover your heads. First row, by the windows, move further in.”
Oh, my God. Duck and cover. It seems unlikely the Soviet bloc would have been interested in bombing Middle Falls. Seattle, home to Boeing, maybe, but that would give us weeks to get ready to die before the radiation reached us, right?
Some of the girl’s skirts were so tight around their calves that they had trouble kneeling down modestly. The boys happily plunked down under the desks and several kept a shark’s eye out for any illicit leg that might be accidentally flashed.
Sorry, boys, no free burlesque show here.
Veronica kneeled down and dramatically put her hands over her head and made her mouth a perfect “O” of exaggerated fear. Several of the boys noticed and laughed. Miss Deakins sought out the source of levity and zeroed in on Veronica, overacting to the hilt.
“Miss McAllister, I expect a more serious response from you.”
Veronica lowered her hands and her normal expression returned. Maybe this feels so ridiculous because I know nothing is ever going to come of it. No bombs will drop. No child will ever be saved by kneeling under her desk. A sudden realization dawned. Or will it? No bombs dropped when I lived this life last, but does that mean none will this time, either? Or can things change? Ever since I’ve been here, I’ve been doing things a little differently than I did the first time. Small changes can make big ripples. What if one of those ripples splashes up against something else, and something else, and the Cuban Missile Crisis goes a different way? I guess I better get over the idea that I’m all-seeing when it comes to the future. Maybe Mom won’t become an alcoholic and die in her shower. Maybe Kennedy won’t be assassinated in Dallas. Maybe Christopher won’t leave me this time.
The speaker in the corner of the room crackled again. “Thank you for your diligence and attention. This drill is complete.”
The kids stood, the girls dusted themselves off and straightened their skirts before sitting back down.
But if all that is true, what if I go through with marrying Christopher again, and then Sarah and Nellie aren’t born? What if I don’t get pregnant at the exact same time? Will I recognize them the moment they are born, or will I think they might be a little stranger? Veronica drummed her pencil thoughtfully on her desk. There’s only one way to find out, and that’s to live through it, I guess.
THE REST OF THE WEEK flew by for Veronica. She worked another shift at Artie’s, and waited nervously for Christopher to call on Thursday.
Veronica went to the library after school and spent some time relearning how to use the microfiche and Dewey Decimal System. Eventually, she was able to locate a number of newspaper and magazine articles highlighting the dangers of the growing popularity of television. Those risks were especially great to the fragile minds of America’s youth.
Doris had dragged the heavy Underwood typewriter out and set it up on the kitchen table as promised, and Veronica was flipping through her notes when the phone rang. There was only one phone in the McAllister house, and it was in the kitchen. When it rang, it was so loud Veronica jumped and let out a wordless exclamation.
Doris said, “Never mind, you keep working on your paper. I’ll get the phone.” She put down her Good Housekeeping magazine and crossed to the kitchen.
“Hello, McAllister residence.” She paused, then said, “Yes?” Her inflection rose slightly at the end of the word. Then, again. “Yes.” A statement this time.
Doris was quiet for quite some time, but did glance over her shoulder at Veronica with one eyebrow slightly raised. Finally, she said, “Well that’s all very interesting. I’ll have to talk to my husband, of course.”
Oh, come on, Mom. You never asked Dad for his opinion until after you’d given it to him. I don’t even know what I’m rooting for. Do I want Mom to shut him down, or Christopher to charm her completely?
“Why don’t you come by for lunch on Sunday, and we’ll see how that goes, shall we?”
A moment later, “Fine, then. That’s fine. See you Sunday.” She hung up the phone and turned to look at Veronica. It was an appraisal. A reconsideration. New information had been introduced and needed to be considered.
“Did you say you would go out with a man named Christopher Belkins?”
“Umm, kind of? I told him he needed to call and ask you and Daddy first.” That’s kind of true, right?
“Do you think it’s appropriate for you to be seeing someone so much older? He said he had already graduated from college.”
“I didn’t know if it was appropriate. He seemed nice. He has a good job.”
“I’ll see what I think, once I meet him.
Chapter Twelve
The McAllister house had the feel of a holiday dinner that Sunday. It was the first time anyone had ever come asking to court one of their daughters. Johnny had dated through high school, but boys were not as protected as girls. By the time he brought a girl home for dinner, everyone had already met her a number of times. Having a complete stranger drop in, wanting to take Veronica out, was exotic and exciting.
Doris asked Barbara to set the table. As she did, Barbara sang, “So, you’re sure he’s real?” “He’s not imaginary?” “He’s really going to sit and eat with us? Not like Santa or the Easter Bunny?”
After the fourth or fifth verse, Veronica passed by Barbara and accidentally bumped her into the table so hard the good china rattled.
“Mom!” Barbara yelled.
Doris shot Veronica a look, but it wasn’t too severe. She was getting a little fed up with the whole line of inquiry as well.
Finally, precisely at noon, the doorbell rang and Barbara sprinted past her mother’s objections to answer the door. She swung the door open dramatically and said, “Whoa,” under her breath.
Christopher Belkins looked like he had stepped right out of a movie. His short hair was combed. He was wearing a herringbone sports coat over a white shirt and blue tie. In his hand was a large bouquet—daisies, carnations, and baby’s breath—a bouquet designed for a mother, not a date.
Christopher smiled, and said, “Is Veronica here? I think she’s expecting me.”
“You’re really here for Ronnie?” Barbara asked in amazement. Then, “Mom! You can come look at him now!”
Doris quickly came around the corner, a strained smile on her face, put a hand on Barbara’s shoulder and firmly pulled her behind her.
“Hello, Mr. Belkins, I’m Doris, Veronica’s mother.”
Some suitors might have gone in for the kill too quickly, underestimating Mrs. McAllister’s keen nose for bull manure. An anxious suitor might have said, “Really? I thought you were her sister.” That anxious suitor would have been scuttled amidships before stepping foot inside the house.
Christopher Belkins was a natural salesman, with the unerring instinct of what works and what does not in a given situation.
“Hello, Mrs. McAllister. Thank you for the invitation to dinner today. I live alone and can barely boil water, so a home-cooked meal is a treat.”
Barbara managed to get off one final shot. “Better not marry Ronnie, then! She can’t cook either!” before being scooted forcefully off to the living room.
“Come in, Mr. Belkins. Can I take your coat?”
�
�Yes, thank you,” Christopher said, shucking his jacket off and handing it to Doris, revealing a nicely ironed shirt underneath. “These are for you,” he said, handing the spring bouquet to Doris.
“Oh, how lovely. Come on in and have a seat in the parlor. I’ll just go and put these in some water. I’ll have dinner on the table in a few minutes.” She called over her shoulder, “Veronica, why don’t you show Mr. Belkins in to meet your father.”
Veronica appeared around the corner of the kitchen, pushing a stray lock of hair behind her ear.
“Hello, Christopher. Come in and meet my dad.” I guess that’s the meanest thing I can think to say to a young man coming to pick up a father’s daughter for the first time. I wish Daddy was a little more intimidating.
Christopher raised his eyebrows for a moment, blew a sharp breath out and flashed a quick grin. “You know how to scare a guy, don’t you?” he said, quietly.
When they walked into the parlor, Wallace McAllister looked as intimidating as a kitten in a cardigan. He had been happily dozing in his chair with a Mechanics Illustrated open across his lap. Now, he looked like a guilty professor who fell asleep mid-lecture. He plucked his reading glasses off his nose, and stood with his hand out and a slightly apologetic smile on his face. “Sorry, you might have caught me dozing off.”
Christopher shook his hand and said, “A man’s home is his castle, and the king sleeps when he wants, right?” Again, unerring.
“Right you are. That’s what I’ve always said.”
Daddy, Mom would never let you think that, let alone say it.
“Gentlemen, ladies, dinner is served,” Doris said.
Everyone filed into the dining room.
“Christopher, why don’t you sit on this side, next to Veronica.”
“Yes, ma’am. Beautiful table.” He pulled out Veronica’s chair as naturally as could be.
Christopher Belkins, you are on your best behavior. This is the man I fell in love with the first time. You’re going to have to work much harder to convince me this time. I’ve seen how you can change.
The table was spread with a baked ham, mashed potatoes, asparagus, and a lime Jell-O salad with bits of carrots in it.
“I hate that,” Barbara said, pointing at the jiggly green Jell-O.
Doris didn’t even bother to respond, but gave her two full seconds of the death glare. Barbara quieted.
“So, Mr. Belkins, what do you do?”
“I just started with Crimmins and Holder Accounting, over on Spring Street.”
“Oh, yes, good outfit. Jake Holder and I golf occasionally,” Wallace said.
No braggadocio about how it will be Crimmins, Holder, and Belkins soon? You know how to play to your audience, don’t you Christopher. I’ve got to get over it, and accept that this is who you are. She glanced at him from the corner of her eye. He does look handsome today. I can overlook some of the other, less-pleasant aspects of his personality. It’s just a date.
The rest of the dinner passed in a blur of polite conversation and exclamations over how good everything was.
After everyone had their fill, Doris said, “Let’s go into the parlor and sit for a while. I’ve got a pot of coffee percolating. Do you drink coffee, Mr. Belkins?”
“I do, and Mrs. McAllister, it would be great if you would call me Christopher. Mr. Belkins is my father.”
“All right. Christopher, then. How do you take your coffee?”
Black, like his soul.
“Black is fine. Thank you.”
The men moved into the parlor while Doris poured coffee into delicate china cups which sat on equally delicate saucers. She pointed to them and said, “Take the coffee in, but give your father his, first.”
Veronica rolled her eyes. I feel like I fell headlong into an episode of Downton Abbey. Every phrase is weighted and protocol reigns supreme. “Fine,” she said, picking up both saucers.
Soon, the four adults were sitting in the parlor, staring at each other.
“Mr. and Mrs. McAllister, thank you for having me over. It’s very kind of you. Now, if I’m not being too forward, I’d like to ask your permission to take Veronica out to a movie this afternoon. South Pacific is playing at the Pickwick, and I’d like to take her.”
Veronica found herself holding her breath.
Doris looked at Wallace and gave him the slightest of nods.
Wallace cleared his throat. “Ordinarily, we wouldn’t be in favor of Veronica dating someone so much older, but you seem like a fine young man. Where is your family from?”
“Right here, in Middle Falls. We’ve lived here three generations now.”
“Fine, fine, that’s fine. With the understanding that Veronica is still in high school, and living at home, we’ll give you our permission to take her out. Her curfew will remain the same, though. She has to be home by 8:00 on school nights and 11:00 on the weekends.”
Christopher beamed. “Well, that’s swell. Thank you for trusting me with your daughter. I’ll take good care of her.”
Veronica stared at Christopher, chewing the side of her cheek, uncertain if that was true.
Chapter Thirteen
As Christopher and Veronica drove through the quiet Sunday streets of Middle Falls, a misty rain fell. This meteorological phenomenon is a western Oregon specialty—not really mist, but not heavy enough to actually rain. Small drops managed to almost hang in the air and wait for you to walk into them.
The Thunderbird had a nice sound system, or as nice as an AM radio in a car had in the late fifties. Christopher had it tuned to 1090 AM, KMFR. A commercial was playing for the local Ford dealer.
Christopher glanced at his wristwatch. “We’ve got forty-five minutes until the movie starts. I was ready for some fresh air, though. Do you want to drive through town for a little while?”
“Fresh air, huh? I think you were just ready to get out of the house, and I don’t blame you. It’s hard being on your best behavior for so long.”
“Hey, hey! What did I do to deserve this?”
Fourteen years of transgressions, that’s what. I’m not being fair, though. It’s not like you’re Eddie Haskell. Veronica smiled to herself. Would you even understand that reference yet? Is Leave it to Beaver even on yet? No idea.
“Just teasing. Sure, we can drive around a while. I don’t mind.”
“Okay, good.” He drove on for a few blocks, then glanced at Veronica. “I think maybe you just like teasing me.”
“Not just you,” she teased.
“You really know how to hurt a guy.”
Christopher drove out past the edge of town, to where the falls that gave the town its name tumbled over the rocks.
Christopher pulled over into the small viewing area. He turned the windshield wipers off and the view out the front window immediately faded into raindrops. “I like you, Veronica.”
“You don’t even know me yet.”
“That’s true, mostly, but the little sliver I do know,” he held his thumb and forefinger a quarter inch apart, “I like.”
That made Veronica laugh. She held her hands a foot apart. “Let’s see if you still like me when you know me this much.”
Christopher nodded. “That kid sister of yours is a pistol, isn’t she?”
“Oh, Barb’s used to being the center of attention. She and Mom are tight. She didn’t know what to do when the world didn’t revolve around her for a few minutes. She’s a good kid.”
“Sometimes, you sound a lot older than you are, you know.”
“Do I? Maybe I’m just mature for my age.” And, maybe, being an old person in a teenager’s body, I can be more of a match for you this time around.
They drove back to town, found a spot half a block down from the Pickwick, and Christopher said, “Hang on.” He jumped out of the car, opened the trunk and came around to Veronica’s side and opened her door. He opened an umbrella with a flourish and held it above the door.
“You really can be sweet, Chris.”
> “Hold on now,” he said, helping her out. “If I’m going to be Chris to you, you’ve got to be Ronnie for me.”
“No, you hold on there, cowboy. Not so fast.”
Christopher looked slightly downcast, and it struck her as such a sincere emotion that she snuggled up against him under the umbrella. They strolled together to the theater box office. The ticket seller was an older man with silver hair, neatly parted on the left side. He was dressed in a maroon uniform, complete with a cap perched on his head at a jaunty angle.
“Two, please,” Christopher said, holding out two dollars.
The ticket seller reached through the opening in the glass and plucked a single bill from him. “Matinee pricing, sir, two tickets for a dollar. Specials on popcorn in the lobby, too. Enjoy the show.”
Inside the theater, they both decided they couldn’t imagine eating anything after the way Doris had stuffed them, so they found seats in the front row of the balcony.
Christopher looked around the empty theater, leaned over to Veronica and said, “I see why matinee tickets are cheap. I guess they’re not big sellers.”
“Still, it’s kind of nice. Like we rented out the whole place, just for ourselves.”
Eventually, a few more couple wandered in, the lights dimmed, and a newsreel came on that showed Princess Margaret on a tour of Canada.
I have no idea why we would be expected to care about that. Maybe it’s because the Korean War is over, the Vietnam War hasn’t started yet, and with no shooting to show, this is what they had to resort to.
Next up was a Woody Woodpecker cartoon. Finally, the 20th Century Fox logo came on, and South Pacific started. Veronica had seen the movie, but it had been so long ago, it was almost like new to her. Very soon, she was sucked in to the exotic locale, the songs, and the romance. By the time Mitzi Gaynor sang I’m Gonna Wash That Man Right out of My Hair, she was entranced. She leaned her head against Christopher’s shoulder and felt oddly happy.
When the movie let out, they walked out in the early evening twilight. The rain clouds had cleared, and a few rays of golden light lit the western horizon.
