Katherine's Kingdom Ch. 02

Norman Rockwell's version of Americana came to life before Mike's very eyes, live and in living color. He knew no society was perfect. Every time period had its warts, but this didn't seem like one of those. Here, there, everywhere in fact, were examples of normal people going about their normal lives. Fathers with summer straw hats rolled up the sleeves on their button-up shirts and washed the family vehicle (usually a Ford with gullwings or a Chevy with tailfins, but always with chrome) with teenage sons in driveways. Mothers in modest house dresses hung clothes on whirlygigs while young children in dungarees and checked shirts ran around barefoot screaming their heads off. Jessica made an offhand comment to Mike about their racket, but he just smiled, shrugging it off as the soundtrack to a simpler time. It was the noise of freedom, of innocence, of kids allowed to be kids. Shorter elm trees that would grow to be taller elm trees in his time neatly lined the walks. Milkmen, paper boys, doctors that made house calls...all were present and in the flesh. The ex-quarterback just couldn't stop absorbing the new environment around them.

Villapiano's Pizza Palace sat on the south end of downtown past Winterset's only stop sign (a traffic light in 2020) and next to two-lane State Road 64 (a four-lane divided highway bypass in the future). A genuine drive-up Tastee-Freez next door (that Mike had never known existed) with plenty of windows in front and picnic tables galore already looked like it was doing some slamming business. Teenagers (boys with tight blue jeans and plain tees, girls in vibrant dresses similar in style to Jessica's) scurried about betwixt and between an assortment of customized hot rods, convertibles, motorcycles, and conservative "daddy" cars. The aroma of burgers and fries hung in the breeze while Elvis Presley's Good Luck Charm blared out of every car radio. Carhops did their best to take orders and serve food without getting mauled to death.

"That place is always a madhouse in the summer," Antonia said, nodding towards their neighbor. "Villapiano's does lose some customers during the warm weather months, but overall, our business is steadier."

"Winterset, at least as far back as I can remember, has been a resort town. Vacationers come in between Memorial and Labor Days to stay at the two or three campgrounds in the area. They usually floated down the Apple River on inflatable inner tubes and got drunk on cheap beer to pass the time," Mike said, suddenly feeling very overdressed with all the kids his age having a blast nearby.

"It sounds like some things never change." Antonia jerked a thumb back over her shoulder at Winterset's downtown. Drug stores, juke joints, and butcher shops with names Mike didn't recognize dominated its three-block stretch. "We even get real motorcycle gangs rumbling through on their way into Minnesota. They basically take over the taverns on Friday and Saturday nights."

Motorcycle gangs? That was a new one to Mike. Coupled with the action going on over at the Tastee-Freez, so far it looked like people in 1962 had way more fun than they did in politically correct 2020. He voiced the opinion, then elaborated. "People from our time tend to overthink things rather than just jumping right in to enjoy life. I wonder at what point humans became so cerebral."

Their destination, desolate and silent, stood in stark ghost town contrast to the ice cream parlor next door. Villapiano's was evidently a finer dining establishment, though, suggested by the colorful shrubbery and red brick décor around the building entrance. Old Italy reigned after Antonia had unlocked the twin glass doors and turned on the lights. Small round tables with red and white checked coverings were spaced out on worn squares of tile of the same color. Booths swathed in red vinyl and tall wooden dividers ringed the perimeter, and beyond that was an additional room with a mahogany bar, dim bulbs, and the very pungent odors of yeast and cigarette smoke. It reminded Mike of where mobsters might hang out, and he voiced this aloud.

Antonia looked around, as if to see that the coast was clear, then lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "If these old bricks could talk, that'd be the rumor." She knocked against a vine and trellis covered wall.

"So, where would you like us to start?" He rolled his shirt sleeves up, eager to keep busy doing something. Being idle left too much time to think, and he wanted to hit the ground running if 1962 was to become their new permanent reality.

Antonia nodded her dark brown ponytail towards a kitchen on the opposite side of the restaurant. "Right this way, then, s'il vous plaît." She smiled and tossed them both aprons embossed with Villapiano's jazzy gold font.

"Great, let the games begin," Jessica said lowly. Sighing disgruntledly, her blue eyes rolled skyward.

Mike shot his girlfriend a warning look. It wasn't the first time since they'd been thrown backwards in time, and it wouldn't be the last.

Business at Villapiano's might've been slower in the summer months, according to Antonia, but Mike and Jessica would never have known it their first night on the payroll. Work in 2020 was one thing, with all kinds of gadgets and gizmos designed to make the average person's life easier. It resulted in greater leisure time, and in theory, gave more opportunity to enjoy one's self. Tasks in 1962 were far, far different. When someone here said they gave blood, sweat, and tears for the dollars they earned, they meant it. Perhaps that's why people of the past made the most of their rest and relaxation. There's so little of it, Mike thought at one point that evening.

The major thing he noticed was that almost everything was done by hand. It wasn't that early sixties citizens had an aversion to technology. How could they, when many of the items Mike and Jessica had come to take for granted didn't exist yet? Whether it was washing dishes or creating the pizza dough, everybody did it dutifully and without complaint. There was no safety net for the most part, no excuses, nor bleeding hearts that felt sorry if you claimed disadvantage or disability. People pulled themselves up by their own bootstraps, or else others pitched in to help get the job done—not because they sought return favor, but simply because it was the right thing to do. The sense of camaraderie, of teamwork...Mike took to it like a fish to water.

Jessica, on the other hand, used him as her sounding board for sarcasm. Every time she ran into him, it seemed, whether in the kitchen by the back sink scraping cheese off a metal pan or in front of the hostess' station running the cash till, his girlfriend had a complaint about how she was homesick or that her fingers were being worked to the bone. He tried to keep an open mind—less than twenty-four hours ago they were in the lap of luxury by comparison, after all--, but after awhile, her negativity began to wear Mike down.

"The air out there is positively foul!" Jessica said to him as they took a break in back of the building. Hot air and a cacophony of kitchen noises poured forth from the rear door, so they slid down the brick wall to a secluded corner. Dusk was rapidly thickening over the area. Sweet, fresh air gusted in from the south, where State Road 64 had only the occasional set of headlights snoring past. Here in 1962 and especially among small towns of the upper midwest, agrarian culture meant people rose and set when the sun did.

"What's the matter? Are you letting a little second hand smoke bother you?" Mike asked, wiping his hands on the one corner of his apron that had miraculously managed to avoid any tomato sauce or olive oil.

His casual attitude seemed to bother Jessica, as if he should be taking her side over their customers. "It's way more than just a little. Practically everybody was lighting up! Don't they realize that it all leads to lung cancer, to heart disease, to emphysema?"

"People here don't know or don't care. What are you getting so bent out of shape for? The tips have been pretty good, haven't they?"

She patted a small lump in one apron pocket, which jingled. "If you consider the nickels, dimes, and occasional dollar bills I'm raking in good, then I guess," Jessica said. Her red head nodded towards the visible portion of the Tastee-Freez's flank, where three or four fireflies were flicking their ashes into the black of night. When their silhouettes raised arms high in greeting, Mike returned the gesture. "Maybe I should go work over there. Making malts and ice cream cones has got to be way easier than baking pizzas from scratch. They'd probably have air conditioning, too."

"Probably, but you're forgetting one vital thing, Jess, and it's that we have no valid driver's licenses or identifications. You'd need that to apply almost anywhere but here."

"So what's our game plan then? We both had plans to attend the U of M this fall. Is that even still a thing anymore?"

"Yes, the college and its campus exist here, if that's what you mean," he said, rubbing his chin. "Actually, come to think about it, the Golden Gophers football team was a national championship contender around this time. The Vikings are just a fledgling franchise right now with a young Fran Tarkenton as quarterback and Norm Van Brocklin as coach. Wow, what it would be like to maybe play for Bud Grant!" Mike was starstruck with all the possibilities.

"Anything would be better than working for the chump change Villapiano's pays," Jessica said, as she tried to feed his excitement.

Just then, reality sucked the wind from his sails. "High school diplomas, letters of recommendation, tuition grants...all of it, just gone. Poof, like a puff of smoke. We can't just walk onto campus and start taking classes, because nobody here knows who we are except a freshman-about-to-be-sophomore girl, and even then I'm still not completely convinced she believes us. Even so, where else are we going to get legitimate money in our pockets aside from this place? Don't you see? We need Villapiano's!"

"What we need is a long range plan, because I'm not bussing tables and sinking my arms elbow-deep into oil and lard forever." Jessica crossed arms over her greasy apron. The smell of perspiration and balsamic vinegar emanating from his girlfriend was quite pungent that instant.

Sudden inspiration struck. Coincidentally, Katherine Kennedy and her perfect platinum waves pushed to his mind's forefront. "If we're thinking ahead down the road, California's always an option. Think about it: the ocean, sand and surf, fun and sun all year round. The world could be our oyster out there," Mike said, deliberately avoiding his true motivation and the hot-button topic that would ensue.

It worked. He knew Jessica's soft spots; one was an affinity for beaches. Seeing either the Pacific or Atlantic had been on her bucket list ever since they started dating. "Now you're cooking...with gas!" she said, using period correct slang. His girlfriend grinned for the first time that night and even stole a quick kiss, so Mike knew his idea was golden with her.

Just then, Antonia's white face appeared at the back door. "Mike, can you collect all the dirty drinkware in the back bar? Jessica, I'll need your help filling the cumin and condiments for tomorrow's dinner rush," she said.

"Oh joy, back to the grind," his girlfriend said as they trudged back inside.

Mike exited the kitchen via the swinging door to the dining room, where a decidedly older clientele was thinning out and calling it a night. He noticed there wasn't one among them in casual wear: gentlemen always wore suits and ties ( and pinch-front fedora hats as they walked out the door) and ladies with their modest evening gowns, pearls, and hair piled high on their heads. A blue fug of cigarette smoke persistently clung to the atmosphere. He coughed once for effect before heading through it all.

A dozen or so customers still lingered in the tavern, enjoying nightcaps or conversation with Maurice the bartender. He was a man in his sixties with an iron gray handlebar mustache and thick build in the chest that somehow reminded Mike of an old school boxer. Here, though, instead of the stink of cancer sticks, the rich smell of cherry blend Prince Albert pipe tobacco filled the air. A genuine Wurlitzer jukebox played from one corner, but not a teenager's top of the pops. These were downhome country western ditties his grandfather must've listened to, back when Hank Williams and Ferlin Husky were all the rage.

Mike grabbed a serving tray off the polished mahogany and went about collecting glasses and goblets from tables around the room. A young woman, in stark contrast to the older men nearby, sat nursing a screwdriver away from the action. Her face was forlorn, her green eyes far away and filled with a pain that instantly lent him the impression she needed a sympathetic ear. Mike didn't want to seem too obvious, so he casually worked in her direction while filling his platter.

Three empty highball glasses were huddled together off to one side, providing him the perfect excuse to mosey on over to her table. "Excuse me, ma'am, can I collect these and get them out of your way?" Mike asked as he approached.

She shrugged as if it didn't matter. "Do whatever it is you have to do, I guess."

He did so, then sat his load down. "I'm sorry to intrude, but you sure look troubled about something. Is there anything I might be able to help out with? I know I'm not the handsome all-knowing bartender like Maurice over there, but have been told I'm a good listener. Care to spill?"

Light brown spiral waves spilled over her knuckles as her head weighed in her hands. She appeared to be scrutinizing Mike through the long hair hanging in her face. "You're a little young to be working in a tavern, aren't you? Besides, what would you know about my kind of problems? You look like a nice normal suburban midwesterner, and a semi-prosperous one at that. The places I've been, the stuff I've seen, the things I've experienced...you likely wouldn't understand even if I did tell you."

"You don't look any older than me, maybe even a year or two younger. Try me," he said, undeterred. Mike took a chair, flipped it around, and sat backwards so that elbows were on the backrest.

"I...I don't even know your name," she said, timidly.

"Michael Montgomery, pride of the class of..." The ex-quarterback stopped, catching himself just before he revealed being from the far-flung future of 2020. "1962," Mike said after quick thought. Right now, the truth was on a need to know basis only.

"I was right. Michael Montgomery, you're just a pup. That said, you're also right. You've got me beat by a year. I'm Laura Watson, by the way." She stuck one of her hands out, which he shook. Her skin wasn't smooth and dainty as expected, but rough like rawhide leather.

"Pleased to make your acquaintance, Laura. Can I get you another drink or have that one topped off? Looks like you're running kind of low." This girl was obviously under the legal drinking age, even for the early sixties, but if Maurice let it slide, who was Mike to judge?

"I'm broke, but he's letting me get by on my good looks," she said, the corner of her lip curling higher.

Mike returned the expression before consulting with the barkeep for another round. Maurice nodded and complied, but his short pours on the vodka told the ex-quarterback that this particular screwdriver was probably weaker than the others. Laura didn't seem to notice when he brought it back and she took a sip.

He returned to his chair and got back to the business at hand. "So, why Villapiano's pub and why on a Monday night? Don't you have any better place to be than a seedy joint with creepy old men?" Sure enough, more than a few of the codgers hugging mahogany stole admiring glances at Laura when they thought they could get away with it.

"Those guys?" she said, laughing. "They don't bother me. All men are perverts, anyway. If they're going to look, they're going to do it whether I tell them to stop or not. A girl just has to get used to that fact."

"All men aren't sex-crazed fiends, if you'll pardon me saying so," Mike said, "There are a few of us out there who still know how to treat a lady."

"Really? Do tell, because there aren't any where I come from." Laura's deep sigh said she had already halfway given up on life.

"Just where do you come from, Miss Watson?" Interested, he leaned in for more.

"Las Vegas, but don't hold it against me."

Mike's eyebrows came together. "Why would I hold it against you? Vegas is supposed to be a glitzy, glamorous town. I would love to visit there one day."

"I figured you'd say that. Most do. They usually can't see behind the veneer of the image that town projects," Laura said. "They don't call it Sin City for nothing, though. I know that firsthand."

"I don't know what it was and I don't want to pry, but it looks like you've put it all behind you. I mean, why else would you be in a one-horse town like Winterset?"

"Anonymity," she said, plain and simple. "That, and a fresh place to start all over again. Why not here? This town is the ass-end of nowhere. Who would look for me here?"

Mike blinked a time or two at her brisk language. He wasn't opposed to women swearing, but it was less common in 1962 than 2020. Regardless, he rolled with it. "It's none of my business, Laura, but are you in trouble with the law? If you are, your secret would be safe with me. Lose lips sink ships."

Her demeanor changed all of a sudden. One minute he thought they were having a breakthrough, and the next she was clamming up tighter than before. The mysterious girl's face was a dark mask of suspicion. "My God, how did you find me? I was just an innocent kid trying to build a better life for myself!" Tears welled in her eyes and rolled down a pair of prominent cheekbones.

"What? What are you talking about? What's this about finding you? How could I, when I wasn't even looking for you?" Mike's hand automatically rubbed her arm between shoulder and elbow. He hadn't intended to; it just happened before the ex-quarterback realized what he was doing.

The semi-intimate touch seemed to melt away the last of Laura's icy resolve. Suddenly, she was glue to Mike's side, clinging like there was no tomorrow. "I'm...I'm so...sorry. I...just thought that you..." Crying louder, she was unable to continue.

Once the focus of their lust, those at the bar stared back like she was a distraction to their peace and quiet. "Laura, is there a place we can go to talk about this further? It looks like you could use some privacy away from prying eyes," Mike said.

She dried her face with some napkins from the dispenser on the table and tried to collect herself. "I'm staying at a motor court up the street. We could go there," she eventually managed to say. A cock to her eyebrow bordered on the flirtatious.

"I think you're misreading my intentions, Laura," Mike said. "I'm not trying to take advantage of you. I'm just trying to be your friend."

Apparently, the concept was a foreign one to her. "Friend? I don't think I've ever had one of those before," she said. She looked at him, full of vulnerability. "So what's wrong with me? Don't you think I'm pretty enough?"

"There's absolutely nothing wrong with you, and yes, you're very pretty." Actually, pretty wasn't the word for Laura. Now that she was past her initial doom and gloom, Mike was beginning to see this desert rose for the stunner she truly was. With emerald green irises of an Irish lass and high cheekbones of a Scandinavian princess, it was no wonder she had turned heads of those at the bar. A red and white bandana tie crop top even lent him view of the soft swell from her cleavage and a toned, tanned belly.