by Shawn Inmon
“Oh, you lucky SOB! Come on, tell me about it.”
Christopher did his best to describe what he had seen, egged on by the man in the lawn chair. Christopher glanced at Veronica and saw that she was shifting from one foot to the other. “Well, sorry, but that’s all the news that’s fit to print. We’ve got a reservation to get to.”
The man raised his Olympia beer in salute, muttering something to himself.
Once they were back in the car, they did their best to retrace their route back to 99, then turned toward Seattle proper.
Veronica sat back and enjoyed driving through this version of Seattle. She had been to what was then called The Emerald City a number of times in her previous life, but it had been later, after the Space Needle was built, and skyscrapers dominated the downtown skyline. Today, the tallest building was still the Smith Tower, which would eventually come to look quaint next to the other behemoths. Even without the Needle or the skyscrapers, Seattle was a jewel, nestled into the curve of Elliott Bay. Christopher dropped down along the waterfront, then found a parking garage on 4thAvenue and University, right next to the Olympic Hotel, where they were staying.
They retrieved their bags from the Thunderbird’s trunk and strolled through the lobby of the Olympic. The lobby wasn’t immense, but it was the elegant face the grand old hotel showed the world, filled with fine wood, thick carpet, and a marble reception desk.
“Chris! Can we afford someplace like this?”
“No, probably not, but you only get one honeymoon, right?”
Well, that depends, I suppose.
“It was twenty-seven dollars for the night, but Mom and Dad paid for the rest of the trip, so I thought it was okay.”
They checked in at the reception desk—cash or check only—and were escorted to their room by a bellhop in a full uniform.
When they got to their room, they both decided the splurge was worth it. A queen bed with a comforter so thick it looked like a cloud sat against one wall. A writing desk and phone, a fainting couch, and a television console completed the furnishings. The bellhop placed their bags in the closet, then dramatically opened the heavy drapes, showing a view of the Seattle skyline, 1958 version. If they leaned to the right, they could even catch a glimpse of Elliott Bay.
The bellhop neatly pocketed the two quarters Christopher slipped him, and said, “Just call the front desk if you need anything at all,” then was gone. The room seemed quiet. Veronica sat on the bed, which was so tall, her feet dangled. Christopher stood at the window, looking at the view.
“I wonder if it’s too late to walk down and see the Pike Place Market? I’ve always heard about it, but never seen it.”
Veronica looked at the small gold watch Christopher had given her for a graduation gift. “It’s almost five, and a Sunday. I’ll bet it’s closed, or will be before we can get there.”
“You’re likely right.”
Another four years, and we could ride the monorail over to the Space Needle, but not yet.
Christopher returned to staring out the window. There was a small television tucked into the corner, rabbit ears pointed skyward. Neither of them wanted to turn it on, though. This was their honeymoon.
After two full minutes of silence ticked slowly by, Veronica said, “Hungry?”
“Yes!”
I can’t tell if he’s actually hungry, or just glad to have something to do other than stare out the window.
“Good idea. Let’s see what Seattle has to offer,” Christopher said, grabbing his sports coat off the end of the bed.
Veronica suggested that since they had splurged on the room, they should eat a little more modestly. Christopher smiled his agreement, and they walked a few blocks until they found a small restaurant. It was likely filled with downtown workers during the week. It sat deserted and quiet on a Sunday evening.
When they returned to their quiet room, Christopher gave up and turned the television on. They kicked off their shoes, sat on the edge of the bed and watched The Steve Lawrence and Eydie Gormè Show for an hour before bed. The Marguerite sailed at 8:00 a.m., so they turned in early.
Veronica expected another round of her marital obligation, but the combination of the trip, the boat race, and the big meal, had done Christopher in. He was fast asleep by the time she came out of the bathroom.
She found the paperback she had packed, turned on the small lamp on her bedside table, and read until she fell asleep.
Chapter Seventeen
The ship Chris and Veronica boarded the next morning was technically The Princess Marguerite II. The original Princess Marguerite had been requisitioned into the war effort and sunk by a German U-boat in 1942. Locals called her The Maggie, and she made the triangle run between Seattle, Victoria, and Vancouver, British Columbia, every day. For people in the Pacific Northwest, it was an inexpensive way to travel internationally.
The Maggie was officially classed as a “miniature luxury liner” but she was a fairly spartan vessel. There were plenty of viewing areas, though, and lots of private cabins fitted with wooden benches if the weather got blustery. There was even a snack bar where you could get a hot dog for ten cents, or a cup of hot chocolate for a nickel.
The Maggie pulled in to the inner harbor of Victoria a few minutes after noon, announcing her arrival with long blasts on the steam whistle.
“Oh, Chris, look, it’s beautiful!” Veronica said as they stepped off the gangplank. “If I squint a little bit, it almost looks like we left Seattle and ended up in England!”
Chris smiled. “Do you see that?” he asked, pointing off to the left at a massive brick structure right on the edge of the harbor. “Looks like it was picked up from London and dropped down right here, doesn’t it?”
“Yes!”
“Well, I have a reservation for us to have high tea there,” he said, imitating holding a delicate tea cup, pinky extended, “at 3:00.”
“Really?”
“Oh, yes, so we had best get on to our room and get unpacked.”
Their hotel was a nice, solidly built establishment called The Carriage House. It wasn’t as fancy as the Olympic in Seattle, but the location was ideal. They threw their bags in their room—no bellhop to tip at The Carriage House—and walked around the magnificent inner harbor of Victoria. There were tourist attractions and many small shops where you could stop and pick up a pennant or a souvenir magnet of your trip. But, there were also old ivy-covered buildings that made them feel like they were far from home.
High tea at the Empress Hotel was an event, and Veronica immediately wished she had changed out of her breezy sundress and into something more formal. The maître d’ who seated them did not give her a second glance. He sat them at a table covered in a thick linen table cloth, with a small bouquet of fresh flowers in the center.
Seconds later, a woman in a black servant’s dress arrived at the table, all smiles and menus.
“Oh!” Veronica said. “I didn’t know I would have to choose. I thought we just came in and sat down, and you brought us tea.”
The server smiled. This was a story she had heard many times before. “No,” she said, “afternoon tea is a bit like an extra meal stuck between lunch and dinner. Long ago, people often didn’t eat their supper until 8:00 or later. So they would have a small meal late in the afternoon to get them through.”
Veronica looked at the menu uncertainly. A dozen types of tea were listed on the first page. I don’t know if I’ve ever had a tea that wasn’t Lipton or Constant Comment. I might be out of my element here. She glanced across at Christopher who was doing his best to not appear confused, and failing miserably.
The server leaned in and spoke quietly to Christopher. “Would you like me to just bring you a variety of things I think you’ll like?”
Relief lit Christopher’s face. He nodded. Once the waitress departed, he leaned in and said, “I took care of ordering for us.”
I’m eighteen again, Christopher, nothing wrong with my hearing or vision, y
ou know.
Minutes later, they had two pots of tea. Veronica had no idea what it was, but it was much better than Lipton. They also had a feast of scones, finger sandwiches, clotted cream, and other delights she honestly didn’t know how to identify. It was all delicious, though.
After tea, they walked to what would eventually be called The International District, but in 1958, it was called Chinatown. Chris bought Veronica a red silk kimono with intricate designs stitched in gold. “You can model it for me later tonight,” he whispered.
“With nothing under it,” she promised.
Veronica talked a big game, but it was a bluff. Through all of one lifetime and this part of another, she’d had only one lover. She was also concerned about pregnancy. She knew the exact night she had gotten pregnant with Sarah, because by that time in their marriage they hadn’t been intimate often. She had caught on their fourth anniversary, August 9th, 1962, and Sarah had been born on May Day, 1963.
Well, I didn’t get pregnant for four years last life, I guess I have to hope we play out the same way again. In a few more years, the pill would be available, and I could control this a bit better. We had it tougher before that. It’s not like I can tell him I don’t want to have sex on our honeymoon, or ask him to use protection, either. That would cause a huge ruckus. So, I will cross my fingers, instead of my legs.
They spent their last day in Canada touring the Butchart Gardens. Neither of them was particularly excited to see the gardens, but Betty Belkins, Christopher’s mother, had included two admission tickets with the rest of the trip. They didn’t want to waste that, and both knew Betty would expect a full report when they got back, so they dutifully trundled off to see the gardens.
As in so many situations, diminished expectations led to an even greater appreciation. All of Victoria was beautiful, but the Butchart Gardens are an oasis of pristine natural beauty. August is not the best month to hit Butchart, but the master gardeners there know how to plan a garden. Something—dahlias, flowering maples, hydrangeas, and Zinnias in this case—is always in bloom.
They spent four hours wandering around the grounds and found a vendor selling boxed lunches with sandwiches and macaroni salad. They ate sitting on a hillside looking down at a magnificent fountain.
Christopher polished off the last bite of his sandwich, then laid his head down on Veronica’s lap. “Ready to go home?”
“No.” She paused and soaked in the beauty around them. “And yes. This has all been wonderful, and I will remember it always.” Somehow, this honeymoon turned out much better than our last one. When we tried to drive to Lake Couer d’Alene in Idaho, the T-bird broke down halfway there, and we ended up turning around. Maybe this bodes well for us. “But still, this has all been like a fantasy. It’s time for us to get on with real life now.”
Chapter Eighteen
Real life came, and it swallowed them whole. In her first life, Veronica had been oblivious to the changes in their marriage, sometimes purposefully so. This lifetime, she was watching for signs, and she saw them everywhere. In her first life, she had been a naïve eighteen-year-old girl. She hadn’t known what she had a right to expect. This time, she did, but it didn’t change the outcome. In fact, if anything, that knowledge sped the process up.
It didn’t start immediately on their return from their honeymoon, or even in the months immediately following. The honeymoon itself was over, but the honeymoon period lasted for at least a few more months. Christopher worked hard at the accounting firm, trying to get ahead. Veronica focused on turning Christopher’s house into a home where they could build a family.
The day after they had returned from Victoria, they had driven to the McAllister house to move Veronica to the marital home. This was one job the Thunderbird was not built for, so they borrowed her father’s car and were able to get everything she needed in a single load.
And isn’t that kind of sad? But, how much of your childhood do you need when you are a married woman?
Christopher’s house—now Christopher and Veronica’s house—was on the other side of Middle Falls. Close to his parents, but far from hers, so far as Middle Falls goes. It was a two bedroom, one bath rambler in a modest neighborhood. Veronica had been to the house before the wedding, of course, but she had never been there when it was also ostensibly her house, too.
The following Monday, Christopher went off to work and Veronica sat at what passed for a kitchen table in the small kitchen. Really, it was a card table, with folding legs, rubber top and all. This is a clear memory from my first life. I woke up on the Monday after our honeymoon, Chris was gone to work, and I sat here feeling like a stranger in my own home. I had no idea what to do, so I pulled the sidewalks in after me and hid. That didn’t work very well. Time for a new plan.
Veronica walked into the living room and dialed her mother.
When Doris answered, Veronica said, “Mom? This place doesn’t feel like anybody’s home, but especially not mine. I don’t know what to do.”
Briskly, Doris rose to the challenge. “Here’s exactly what you do. Make yourself some breakfast, if you’ve got anything there to cook with. Some coffee, if you don’t. By the time you finish with that, I’ll be there. We’ll figure it out together.”
Veronica sat back down in wonder. Was that all it took? Mom was a few miles away, wanting to help, and I just never gave her a chance?
Thirty minutes later, Doris pulled into the driveway and opened the trunk of her car. She was dressed in jeans and one of Wallace’s old shirts, with a bandana wrapped around her hair. Veronica’s mouth fell open. Doris pulled a mop, a bucket, and a cardboard box full of cleaning supplies out of the trunk and set them on the ground. She looked at Veronica, standing uncertainly on the porch and waved. She was in her element.
Veronica ran to her and hugged her, catching Doris totally by surprise, but she hugged her back warmly. “Look in the back seat. I brought some extra pillows, tablecloths, and a few other little extras I’ve been keeping in the garage just for you.”
Veronica nodded, but knew she didn’t dare speak, or she might start to cry.
Christopher was not a slob. But, he wasn’t obsessive about his cleaning, either. Doris McAllister was exactly that. They started in the kitchen, scrubbing every surface with Ajax, Pinesol, and Murphy Oil Soap. While they cleaned, Doris told Veronica stories about how her grandmother had taught her to clean when she was a little girl.
They moved from the kitchen, to the bathroom, to the living room. They dusted, vacuumed, and cleaned as they went. Doris told her stories of her own girlhood that Veronica had never heard. By mid-afternoon, the house sparkled, and Doris and Veronica had successfully made the transition from mom-and-teenager to mom-and-adult.
Doris and Veronica took off their aprons and patted their brows.
“Now,” Doris said. “Let’s run down to the store and pick up a few things to throw together a good dinner. No man wants to come home, tired and hungry, and find a cold kitchen. We’ll get a few things today, and tomorrow, I can come over and help you plan out a menu, and we can go shopping for real.” She hesitated. “Um, if you want my help, of course. If not—“
“I want your help, Mom.” I know how to do these things, of course. But I never had this with you before. Girl talk, and stories, and advice. I thought you only wanted to give that stuff to Barb. Was it you, Mom, or was it me pushing you away all along?
HER FIRST FIGHT WITH Christopher was a few days later. It started at dinner two days later, when Veronica said, “I’m going to call Zimm tomorrow and tell him he can put me back on the schedule.”
Christopher looked up, surprised. He stared at her thoughtfully for a few seconds, then returned to his dinner. “No, you’re not.”
“Pardon me?”
Christopher cleared his throat, as though perhaps Veronica had simply misunderstood him. “I said, ‘No, you’re not.’ I don’t want you working.”
Oh my God, 1950s alpha male on full display in his natural ha
bitat.
“I wasn’t asking permission.”
Now Christopher looked at her sharply. “Veronica, I make plenty of money for us. Well, maybe not plenty yet, but I’ve only been with the firm a few months. It won’t be long. For now, I’m making enough for us to get by.” He waved his hand expansively around the tiny kitchen. “After all, I paid cash for this place, so we don’t even have a mortgage.”
“It’s not about us needing the money. I need to get out of the house sometimes. I can’t just sit here, polishing silverware and planning menus out every day.”
“Go see your friends. I’m sure Ruthie will be glad to see you.”
“Ruthie is working too.” She set her jaw. “I’m calling Zimm tomorrow.”
Christopher picked up his knife and fork and went to work cutting his cube steak much more vigorously than was necessary.
In the end, Veronica won that first skirmish, and went back to work during the day on weekdays. She agreed to tell Zimm she couldn’t work weekends any more. She also promised she would do her best to be home when Christopher got there. He hated coming home to an empty house.
It was their first fight, but not their last.
Chapter Nineteen
The first two years of the 1960s weren’t all that different from the late 1950s. The turn of the decade brought an energetic young president to the White House, but fashions and hairstyles remained much as they had been during the Eisenhower era. Elvis had fired the first shot across the bow of adult supremacy. The real invasion was still eighteen months away, when the mop-topped Liverpudlians touched down in New York.
In Middle Falls, Oregon, Veronica sat on the edge of the bed in the same house she had shared with Christopher for four years. If asked, she would have admitted it wasn’t really a home any more. She and Christopher were more like roommates who occasionally shared a meal than they were husband and wife. She had hoped that showing a little backbone and being a more active partner in the marriage would help. Instead, it had only sped the dissolution of their relationship. They had been married twenty years in Veronica’s first life. She wasn’t sure if they would make it to their fifth anniversary this time
