by Shawn Inmon
“This was nice, Christopher.”
“Uh-oh. Christopher again. I liked it when you called me Chris earlier.” He opened her car door, then hurried around to his own side. Once inside, he said, “What do you say? Want a piece of pie?”
“I always want a piece of pie, but I think we better head for home. This has been a nice day, but Mom will have her eye on the clock. She probably called the theater to see what time the movie let out.”
“You’re likely right. This has been better than a nice day for me. I guess I didn’t want it to end.”
“But if we go home early, my parents are more likely to let us have more nice days like this. Besides, I still have a term paper to work on.”
He started the Thunderbird’s engine and the smooth purr filled the interior of the car. The radio came on, playing Gogi Grant’s The Wayward Wind. “What’s your term paper about?”
“Something completely boring. Please don’t make me tell you about it.”
Christopher smiled, nodded, and pulled the car away from the curb. Five minutes later, they were home.
“Can I walk you up?”
“Mom would probably shoot you if you didn’t. But, just to warn you, Barb will be spying on us from upstairs, and she’ll tell Mom everything.”
Christopher held his hands up in front of him, the picture of innocence.
Once again, he came to Veronica’s side and opened the door for her. As they walked up the sidewalk to her front door, she slipped her arm through his.
Why does this feel so right?
“When can I see you again?”
“It’s another busy week. Three shifts at Artie’s this week, and you’ve promised never to eat there again, so I know I won’t see you there.”
“Oh, please tell me you’re not going to hold me to that. I love Artie’s burgers.”
“I know. Everyone does.” She hesitated, then said, “Okay, fine. You can come by once in a while.” When she saw his eyes light up, she repeated, for clarity: “Once in a while. But, we’ve got to be discreet. Promise?”
“Discretion is my middle name.”
“I thought it was Allen,” Veronica said, playfully.
A strange expression crossed Christopher’s face. “How in the world would you guess that? I’ve never told you my middle name.”
Damn it. Come on, Veronica, don’t get all swept up in this teenage romance stuff and lose your head, now.
“Didn’t you? I thought I remembered you mentioning it. How else would I know?”
Christopher considered this, then shrugged, and said, “I don’t know!” He smiled, slightly baffled. “You are a strange and interesting girl, Veronica.”
Glad to be back on safer ground, Veronica leaned forward, whispered, “You can call me Ronnie now.” She kissed him lightly on the cheek, then ran inside.
Chapter Fourteen
The wedding was held in the McAllister backyard on August 9th. They had talked about a church wedding, but Christopher didn’t attend a local house of worship, and it became more than they had wanted to deal with. Instead, the prospect of a wedding inspired Wallace McAllister to finally add on to the deck in the back yard and build the pergola he had dreamed about for years.
Veronica could have told them it would happen that way, but she had learned to not count on events transpiring exactly like they had in her first life. She was already noticing that certain things were different, especially as she moved farther away from the path of the life she had already lived. For this major event in her life, though, it had played out almost exactly the same.
It was a small wedding, with fewer than two dozen people attending. A few of Christopher’s relatives had driven down from Portland, and two of Veronica’s old maid aunts had come up from Medford.
There were whispered asides in the crowd. A few wags asked if they “had” to get married. Another joked about where the shotgun was. The truth was, they just wanted to get married. Christopher was already doing well at the accounting firm, and believed it would help him to be a settled-down married man. It wasn’t really such a calculated decision—he had truly fallen in love with Veronica.
One change from her first wedding was that Veronica asked Ruthie to be her maid of honor. She had vowed to stay in touch with Ruthie in this life. Christopher’s friend from college, Andy, had served as best man. The bride wore white, and Doris made Ruthie’s maid of honor dress so she didn’t have to buy one.
It was a lovely, low-key ceremony. Doris McAllister was made for moments like this and rose to the occasion, pulling the whole thing off with military precision.
There was an equally small reception and barbecue in the back yard, then the newlyweds were off on their honeymoon. That night, they drove to Portland, where they spent their first night as husband and wife. Part of the reason Christopher had pushed for a quick wedding was that he was determined they wouldn’t sleep together before they were married. Even in the more Victorian fifties, such dedication to the cause was unusual, but it was encouraged by the stern visage of Doris McAllister. Christopher had no interest in finding out what she would have done to him in the case of an accidental pregnancy. Thus, the hurried wedding.
Their first night of lovemaking was somewhat awkward, with Veronica much more experienced, but unable to show it, and Christopher all pent up frustration and fumbling uncertainty. It had been more than forty years since Veronica had had sex. It was every bit as anticlimactic as she remembered it.
She lay under Christopher’s arm, her head on his chest. He kissed the top of her head.
“Well? Did you?” he asked.
She wasn’t cruel enough to ask, “Did I what?” so she snuggled closer up against him, laid a hand across his chest, and said, “Mmm-hmm.” Some lies are necessary. There are more important things in life than sex.
The next morning, they had breakfast in a small café off the lobby of the hotel they had stayed in. They had tickets to ride a ferry, the Princess Marguerite, from Seattle to Victoria, Canada, on Monday. The trip to Victoria had been a wedding gift from Christopher’s parents. Mr. and Mrs. McAllister had been a little more practical with their gift—a complete set of Wearever pots and pans to fill Christopher’s empty kitchen.
The fact that the Marguerite didn’t sail until Monday, gave them time to dawdle on Sunday, since Seattle was only a few hours north of Portland.
As they sat in the little café, lingering after their pancakes and sausage, Christopher read The Oregonian, and Veronica people-watched. Even four months into her new life in 1958, she was still endlessly fascinated by comparing and contrasting this time with what she remembered from 2018.
More conversation at the tables. Not a smartphone in sight, obviously. That’s a plus. People seem to be more polite, maybe more thoughtful here. Why would that be? Because most people in this café were raised by the rod? When kids smarted off, it was their rear ends that were smarting?
“Hey, honey, look at this,” Christopher said, folding the paper and turning it around. The paper showed a black and white image of a boat racing across the water, throwing a huge spray of water behind it. “Isn’t that something? They call them thunderboats, because they make so much noise, that’s what they sound like.”
Veronica started to dismiss this with a, “That’s nice, Chris,” but then looked at his face, alight with boyish excitement. Instead, she said, “Are you interested in those boats?”
“Hydroplanes,” he said, knowledgeably. He shrugged. “I mean, it’s not like a life-long dream of mine or anything, but I’ve always thought it would be pretty nifty to see them, yeah.”
“Are they somewhere around here?”
“Well, kind of. They’re racing up in Seattle today. On Lake Washington.”
“What time?”
“According to this,” he said, tapping the paper, “it goes on all day.”
“We’ve already got a reservation to stay up there tonight. Why don’t we go?”
“Really?”
<
br /> “Yes, really.” Another major change. I certainly never saw whatever these boats are called in the last life. I think that’s good, isn’t it? It will get awful boring if I’m just watching reruns for another sixty years.
Christopher smiled, and said, “I love you, Ronnie. You’re the best wife ever.”
Keep thinking that way, Christopher Allen. “I love you too. Let’s pay the bill and get out of here.”
Christopher dropped two dollar bills on the table and five minutes later they were on US 99, heading north.
Chapter Fifteen
It was a warm August day and they drove with the windows down, tuning in whatever AM radio stations they could after KGW in Portland faded away.
“Days like this, I wish I’d sprung for the convertible model,” Christopher said.
Veronica laid her hand on Christopher’s knee and shook her head. “Not many days like this in western Oregon. Most days, we’re glad to have a solid roof over our heads when we’re driving.”
They drove through small towns like Longview, Centralia, and Olympia, which was the state capital, but wasn’t much of a city, especially in 1958. Once they got to Seattle, they didn’t have any idea how to find the races. They pulled off at a gas station, and the attendant happily sold them a city map for a quarter and marked the route they needed to take.
Soon enough, they found a neighborhood where people were selling parking spots on their lawn. They held up cardboard signs that said, “See the Thunderboats!” or, “You’re here, time to park!” They pulled into one such jam-packed lawn.
“How much to park?” Christopher asked, getting out of the Thunderbird.
“Only one dollar, and I’ll babysit your car like it’s my own child,” the man said.
Christopher looked over the man’s shoulder and saw a ragamuffin child drawing in the dirt. He almost left, but just then, an echo of a powerful motor reached his ears. “Man,” he said, a faraway look in his eyes. “Is that one of the boats?”
The man grinned. “Yes sir, ain’t that something? If you’re right there on the banks, you can feel the ground shake under your feet. They’re running the preliminary heats right now. The final heat is at 4:00.”
Christopher grabbed his wallet, handed over a buck, and said, “We’ll be back before then.”
The man laughed. “It’s an unusual man that can see the big boats run and leave before they’re done, but either way, you’re good. This is my last spot, and you can stay here until tomorrow, if you want.”
Christopher leaned down, said, “You might want to grab your hat, honey. It’s a scorcher, and I’m not sure where the race actually is. I don’t want you to get sunburned.” He turned back to the man and asked, “Where do we go, exactly?”
He pointed down the street that ran alongside his house. “Just walk down here. Before too long, you’ll start to hear the crowds, and for sure you’ll hear the boats. Walk toward the thunder.”
Veronica grabbed her sun hat off the floor, and said, “Veronica Belkins, ready for duty.” She snapped off what she thought was a jaunty salute.
“I like the sound of that,” Christopher said, giving her a quick peck.
They walked a mile or so down the road, then heard one of the boats fire up.
“Whoa,” Christopher said, raising his eyebrows.
“Yes, ‘whoa,’ Veronica said, laughing, enjoying Christopher’s excitement.
They hurried a little further along the street, and found themselves in the middle of a small crowd of people, all walking the same direction. The road turned slightly left, and the view opened onto an immense, crystal blue lake. The sunlight reflected off small whitecaps frothed up by the speedboats.
“Holy cow, look at this place,” Christopher said, amazement tinging his voice. A log boom formed a barrier in front of them, and stretched as far out onto the lake as he could see. Hundreds and hundreds of pleasure boats were tied up to it. They ranged from decent-sized yachts, to a small rowboat that contained two bare-chested young men and a cooler full of beer.
“If I hadn’t seen that article in the paper, we never would have known this was going on! Look! There’s the buoys that mark off the race course.” Tens of thousands of people lined the banks of Lake Washington and alcohol flowed freely, but everyone seemed in a good mood.
Christopher and Veronica picked their way down toward the lake. Everywhere, people were sitting in lawn chairs, on blankets, or sitting on the grassy bank. At that moment, five of the great boats fired at once and headed out onto the course.
“Do you know what we’re looking at?”
“Other than the fact it’s a boat race, I don’t have a clue!”
Christopher laughed. “Well, you’re not alone. I don’t have a clue either, but isn’t it a sight?”
The brightly-colored boats made their way out onto the oval race course and began maneuvering around, jockeying for position. In the middle of the race course was a huge clock that had an immense second hand counting down the seconds.
“First hydro race?” a sunburned man in a trucker’s hat asked, seeing Christopher’s open-mouthed expression. He had to shout a little to be heard over the boats, even though they were on the other end of the course.
Christopher didn’t answer, but nodded.
He offered his hand. “Walt Lewis.”
Christopher shook his hand and said, “I’m Christopher. This is my wife, Veronica.”
Well, that was nice, introducing me as Veronica, instead of Ronnie. He knows I don’t like it when people I don’t know call me that.
Lewis pointed to the large clock in the middle of the course. “That’s the start clock. It’s right at the start/finish line. What they’re trying to do—“ he paused and held up his hand while the boats thundered around the corner in front of them and waited for them to pass. “What they’re trying to do, is hit that start line at top speed, and preferably with inside position. Then, the race will be on.”
“Thanks,” Christopher said, and bent to try and tell Veronica, but she mouthed, “I’ve got it.”
Veronica looked around at the incredible mass of people spread out in front of her. To me, this is much ado about nothing, but I guess it must mean something to all these people. Or, more likely, it’s a good excuse to come out on a sunny day and have a party. That works, too.
A moment later, the boats came toward them again, this time at a much faster speed.
“Here we go!” Lewis shouted happily.
All five boats hit the start line at the same time, rocking back and forth on their plane, shooting a huge plume of water out behind them. Christopher pointed, but couldn’t be heard above the thunder of the boats. He put his arm around Veronica and pulled her close. He stood on his tiptoes and craned his neck so he could see them as they rounded the corner at the far end of the course.
Christopher leaned over and shouted in Veronica’s ear, “They were right! Feel it in your chest!”
The boats approached the first corner in front of them, racing deck to deck, huge roostertails pluming out behind them. The boat in the lead, painted a vivid red and white, suddenly veered in front of the other boats, just missing them. It headed directly toward Christopher and Veronica at an incredible speed. It swung right again and rammed directly into a Coast Guard cutter with a mighty crash.
Screams echoed everywhere, from the log boom, from up and down the race course. Everyone around them jumped to their feet and peered out at the water, thousands holding their breath as one.
The other boats continued on, but a yellow flag was raised and they all slowed, then returned to the pit area.
“What happened?” Veronica asked. “That’s not supposed to happen, is it?”
Christopher looked at Walt Lewis, who shook his head, as perplexed as they were. “This is my fifth year watching this race, and I’ve never seen anything like that before!”
“Are they okay? Is everyone all right?” Veronica asked.
They watched, slack-jawed,
as the Coast Guard cutter turned bottom up and followed the red and white hydroplane beneath the waves of Lake Washington.
Lewis had his binoculars out, trained on the scene of the accident. “I see some Coasties floating in the water. They look all right. They’re not panicking.” He swept the binoculars around the area. “Wait. There’s Muncey! That was the Miss Thriftway, and I can see Muncey floating out there. He’s signaling he’s all right. Oh, man!” He looked at Christopher and Veronica. “I can’t believe it. You guys get here five minutes ago, and see something people will be talking about for years!”
Christopher and Veronica looked at each other. Their five minutes of boat racing experience didn’t give them any perspective on how to handle a catastrophe like this.
“Thanks for letting us know they’re all alive,” he said to Walt Lewis. “I think we’re going to head out, now.”
“Oh, they’ll have a restart for the heat in a few minutes. Sinking one little Coast Guard ship isn’t going to stop the Gold Cup!”
“Thanks. I mean it. But, we’re on our honeymoon, and I think that’s enough boat racing excitement for us.”
Chapter Sixteen
They were more somber walking back to their car than they had been heading the other direction. Seeing people escape death by inches does that to a person. They got back to the spot where they had parked the car, and found the same man was sitting in his lawn chair. He was as good as his word. He babysat their car with the same attention he gave his own child. He was dozing.
A small transistor radio sat on the arm of his chair, a cord leading up to an earpiece stuffed into his right ear. He jerked awake when they approached. He took out the earpiece, and said, “Oh, you guys left too early. You missed an incredible crash!”
Ah. Maybe that’s why some people go. In case something like this happens.
“No, no, we saw it. It happened right in front of us,” Christopher said.
