Atherine's Ingdom

Mike began to see why Antonia was so repressed after meeting Angelo and Maria Villapiano upon their return from the religious retreat a few days later. They were the stereotypical stuffy older couple that believed in a strict, theocratic style of parenting. Spare the rod, spoil the child was indeed part of their lexicon, and while he never actually saw them strike their daughter, Antonia was punished anyway with oppressive thumbs. She was rarely let off the leash except for school or work, and God forbid the poor kid ever want to hang out with kids her own age or date a boy. Despite a domineering, almost toxic atmosphere, she made the best of her situation and seldom if ever complained.

Antonia endeared herself to the time travelers further with her sales pitch of letting the "married" couple stay (that was a non-negotiable falsehood he was only too happy to live with) at 905 Elmwood in his new/old bedroom, citing their hard work at the pizza place as proof of character. It took a fair amount of sweet talk (as well as a cheap gold-plated band from a pawn shop in Richmond, the next town over), but eventually, Angelo agreed that his new boarders were a good Christian couple that could stay. He paid them in cash and only asked a nominal amount back for room and board. It wasn't a bad set-up at all, except for Antonia's situation. Mike tried to be mindful of the time period and how some parents could get, but that didn't stop him from advocating on their daughter's behalf.

Why does religion always have to lead down such a dark, dreary path, he often wondered during those first few weeks living in 1962. It was not only retarding the growth and development of Antonia, but also had wreaked devastation in Laura's life. He still shook his head at times recounting her horror story. What kind of sick, twisted people would those nuns have to be to manipulate a little girl into believing she wasn't worth the dog shit scraped off a boot? Then, going straight from that into a life of sexual servitude with a motorcycle gang...there had to be a special place in hell reserved for those who had done her wrong.

Did Mike, then, see himself as the great equalizer? Maybe so, since he sought to do anything he could to ensure her comfort. He was afraid after that first night he might not ever see his favorite drifter again, but, like clockwork, Laura appeared in Villapiano's pub the next evening, and the next, and the next. She almost made it too easy to do unto her as nobody had done prior. Their conversations went from the general to the specific, from the impersonal to deeply personal. They talked about everything from how JFK was doing as President (she was a card-carrying liberal, so was highly approving), favorite type of music (hers was jazz--Miles Davis in particular), or where they saw themselves in the future (Laura wanted to pursue a business management degree after finishing her high school education). They cried together, but more often than not laughed with one another. Mike could simply be himself with his new friend.

It was inevitable that whatever was developing between them would evolve beyond the perimeter of Villapiano's and parameter of rational thought. Mike soon started making excuses with Jessica to get out of the house to see Laura, whether it be for a milkshake at the Tastee-Freez or late night walk under the stars. His girlfriend was remarkably oblivious to anything that may or may not have been going on, having little desire to stray much from the trail between home and work. Mike's guilt mounted by the day, though, even as a seed planted his first night in 1962 continued to grow and blossom into something beautiful.

Things came to a head a few weeks after Memorial Day. Shifts at Villapiano's were starting to become routine and both Mike and Jessica were accruing a little coin in their pockets. It wasn't much, but enough for his girlfriend to suddenly desire a set of wheels. Surprised, he was nonetheless agreeable, so accompanied her to Winterset Sales and Repair on the west side of State Road 64 just past the old VFW hall.

Mike had been back in 1962 long enough now that he didn't ogle every time a vehicle rolled past, but still, he couldn't help his jaw from smacking the pavement as they stepped onto the lot. This virtual car museum had rides going for practically pennies on the dollar for what they'd fetch in 2020.

"I think I've died and gone to heaven," he said, almost drooling.

"What is it about boys and their toys?" Jessica sighed and rolled her eyes. "I'd just be happy to find sensible transportation that'll get us from point A to point B and back."

"We should think Corvette," Mike said, automatically gravitating towards a dark blue one with a placard on the tooth-like grille that proclaimed it was a 1959.

"We should think cheaper." His girlfriend tapped the $3000 price below that. "I'll admit, that kind of price for a three-year old car would be a steal from where we come, but we aren't there anymore."

"It's a good thing Mr. Villapiano was kind enough to advance us a few hundred dollars on our wages." He patted the new wallet inside a pocket in his new trousers. Mike's clothes were slightly more casual this off day, but it still meant no shorts. Here in 1962, men only wore them to the beach. "Deep down, I think he sympathizes with a young newlywed couple that has nothing to their name."

"We'll have plenty of time for the real thing. I'm not worried about it, even if this turns my finger green." Jessica wiggled the digit next to the pinky on her left hand. Its dull finish barely flashed in the early June sun. "Time jump or no time jump, I still plan on becoming Mrs. Montgomery one day."

Mike wasn't sure anymore that it was his plan. Investing so much time and energy rescuing Laura's damsel in distress had caused a seismic shift in priorities. He didn't know how much longer he could keep up this juggling act. "Maybe, if you play your cards right," he said, smiling.

"Are you sure that bartender friend of yours knows what he's doing with these fake driver's licenses?" She pulled a flimsy looking square from her shirt pocket. JESSICA MONTGOMERY was typed along the top in all caps, followed by her vital information. It listed 905 Elmwood as her address and September 11, 1944 as her birthday. "I mean, there's not even a picture. Technically, I could be anybody."

"Maurice is an ex-pat who came over to America from Italy after World War II. He's got friends in low places that brought him into this country under false identity, and in turn taught him all the tricks of the trade," Mike said, pulling out a similar card that listed his birth date as July 13, 1944. "When I found this all out in casual conversation, he didn't ask questions when I asked him to help us. Far as photos go, Wisconsin won't require them for a few years."

"Security is a lot more lax in this time. Did you know, for instance, that the Villapianos rarely if ever lock their door at night?"

"People trust one another a lot more here than back in the twenty-first century. They have no reason to be afraid of their neighbors or even most strangers."

"What a sad commentary for 2020," Jessica said, leaning on the back fender of a mint-green pickup with wood paneling and big fat whitewall tires. "I guess that answers the question of whether we can trust Maurice or not."

"Loose lips sink ships." Mike repeated a line from the night he had met Laura. "Besides, he knows what it's like for someone to have his back. Honestly, I think he's still an illegal immigrant, but that makes no difference to me. The content of a man's character is far more important to me than where he was born."

"Can I help you two?" a sudden voice asked. They turned to find a husky man in greasy blue overalls with silver hair shaved into a flattop. He squinted against the bright summer sun and puffed the business end of a cigar stub.

"The lady here is looking for some reliable transportation," Mike said, then watched the lot employee blink in surprise. Female drivers were hardly a novelty, but ones who went out and bought their own ride instead of using the husband's still didn't happen every day.

"What are you partial to, ma'am? How about this nice Nash? It's got plenty of room behind the rear seats, as you can see, for market day." He turned and tried selling Jessica on a 1950s version of what people in their time would call a grocery getter. It was probably sleek for 1962, but trying to win her over on paper sack merit was a sexist ploy bound to fail.

"I think I like this truck better instead," she said, patting its flank.

The mechanic took the chewed up cigar from his lips and bent over to study its window sign. "Are you sure, ma'am? It's a standard." He was trying to be polite, but the tone suggested he thought Jessica was losing her marbles.

Mike saw what was happening and moved to clear up any misunderstanding. "I taught her about manual transmissions, whether it be three on the tree or four on the floor, sir. They're not a problem for the wife here, I can assure you," he said. His girlfriend shot him a subtly confused look, but the returned hand signal told her to just roll with things.

That was good enough for the mechanic. Now that Mike had vouched for Jessica's intelligence, he was far more cooperative. "Well, young lady, can I interest you in a test drive, then?" he asked, amiably.

The 1953 Dodge B-series half-ton was kind of boxy, but the floorboards were solid with plenty of leg room. Jessica took a few moments to acclimate herself with the controls before letting it rumble to life and pulling out onto State Road 64. She was herky-jerky with the stubby clutch pedal and floor-mounted gearshift, as well as the extra elbow grease required for the manual steering wheel, but otherwise, it was love at first drive. Soon, they were back at Winterset Sales and Repair ready to buy.

"Let me do the talking," Mike said as they stepped out of the truck. The mechanic was already walking up to them with the same cheerful salesman smile plastered on his kisser.

With her boyfriend negotiating, Jessica was able to complete the purchase for $275 (fifty less than marked), plus got a free tank of gas and fifteen-day temporary plates worked into the deal. Soon after, they were roaring back down State Road 64 towards Minnesota, windows rolled down and farm-fresh air rustling about their hair. Local AM radio station WDGY was belting out what teenagers considered top of the pops like Soldier Boy by the Shirelles, Peppermint Twist by Joey Dee and the Starliters, and The Lion Sleeps Tonight by the Tokens. Mike hadn't enjoyed his girlfriend's company more since being displaced in time.

Suddenly, they drove past a tall promontory jutting into the sky off their starboard side. It has a fantastic mural of outer space painted on its broad surface, with planets, stars, and suns dotting the celestial landscape. GALAXY DRIVE-IN read a nearby marquee ringed with flashing bulbs. Mike knew instantly how they were going to take advantage of a rare off night. Luckily, it didn't take much to sell Jessica on the idea.

"I've heard about this place," she said as they slowed to a stop behind a line of vehicles about two dozen deep waiting for the gate to open. Given that the day was sliding towards another spectacular sunset, it wouldn't be long. "Wasn't the remains of it still sitting out there off the bypass in 2020?"

He nodded, remembering how all the businesses along the old state road had gone belly-up with the transition. They were now husks of their former glory, slowly rotting away amongst the pine trees, bramble, and brush as nature slowly reclaimed the land. With any luck, the butterfly's wings had flapped enough during Mike and Jessica's arrival to alter their fate. "My friends and I used to have such a blast exploring it as kids. I remember how the desolation used to lend the impression that the Galaxy was haunted. It was almost like time forgot, or didn't want to remember."

"I hope time doesn't forget about us," she said. "I mean, I can't pretend to understand the quantum mechanics of how we ended up here, or why, but I've started to come to terms with it. I'm just glad I don't have to go through this alone." Jessica's fingers interlocked with his as she leaned over and rested her red head on Mike's shoulder.

His feelings of isolation had started to fade after making connections here in 1962, such as Laura and Maurice, but his girlfriend's wallflower tendencies still put her off on somewhat of an island. Mike didn't make light of it, however. Instead, his attention diverted to the theatre's John Wayne twin bill for the evening: The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance and Hatari! The hand painted sign below that guaranteed blazing action from the Duke himself!

"I'm back in the saddle again, Pilgrim." Despite his best effort, Mike butchered the no-nonsense drawl of the actor, but Jessica either didn't mind or wasn't listening.

Eventually, after a line of cars behind them stretched out of eye reach and coolness of dusk had descended upon the land, the gates opened and a man with thick black glasses inside a windowed ticket booth began serving customers one by one. Jessica swung around in a wide loop and was lucky enough to grab a spot in one of the first few rows. Mike glanced about and absorbed the lively atmosphere. Things were exactly as newspaper archives in 2020 reflected: a well-used swingset and merry-go-round for children in the foreground, gravel drive with parking lot marked by speaker poles every few feet, and centrally placed concession stand. Some things couldn't be experienced in a grainy black and white photograph, though, and were a sight for sore eyes, sound for sore ears, and even a smell for sore noses. The tinge of hot-buttered popcorn and leaded exhaust filled the air. Squeals of youngsters and laughter of teenagers echoed as they weaved around vehicles throughout the lot. Somewhere nearby, a car radio was blasting Wanderer by Dion at maximum volume. Adults sat in lawn chairs and gathered around portable cookers to drink cheap beer and grill hot dogs. All in all, everybody was out to have a blast.

Mike had seen The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance before on TBS in the future, but it was an entirely different experience here in the year John Wayne had actually filmed the classic western. Everything lit up larger than life, and in the end when the Duke's character confesses to Jimmy Stewart's that he was the guilty party of the movie's title, the entire drive-in, it seemed, exploded into appreciative whistles and applause.

"That was an excellent performance!" Mike said, clapping his hands raw like the rest. "Wayne is the unquestioned king of Hollywood. I think the only actor who even comes close to his stratosphere is Alexander Valentine."

"Isn't he a cowboy on that television western San Antonio?" Jessica asked. "I watched a few reruns of the show with Mr. Villapiano recently."

"That's precisely what keeps him from beating the Duke at his own game, the time he spends on the boob tube," he said. Then, a great what if scenario lit up his face as bright as the screen. "Imagine John Wayne and Alexander Valentine joining forces on a western to end all westerns. That's a dream team I'm sure more than a few people would want to see!"

Mike asked Jessica if she'd like to stroll the grounds and compare what the Galaxy looked like now in the prime of life as opposed to the sad heap it had become in the future, but she was content to wait in her newly purchased truck and watch intermission cartoons. He stuffed hands into his trouser pockets and just carefully observed the locals in their natural habitat as he began working the slat-style fence perimeter. Parents in four-door sedans and large station wagons were now getting younger children down for shuteye, but Mike knew from experience that some would only pretend so they could stay up and see the second feature. Boys and girls slightly older would now use the cover of darkness to debate the age-old question about whether or not a hand down her blouse constituted second base. The taillights of one-and-done party poopers were constantly being replaced by the white headlights of newcomers for the second show.

The beehive of activity slowed to a crawl as he neared the drive-in's final few rows. Here, a thick stand of tall oaks and pines provided further seclusion for those lucky few couples with more interest in making some seriously sweet sweat. A dark, bullet-nosed Studebaker and boat of an Edsel were rocking and knocking, so Mike purposely steered wide to give them privacy. The only other vehicle in the passion pit, an older-model avocado-green Volkswagon Beetle with flecks of rust on its surface, was of little interest. He turned back towards Jessica and her Dodge.

The tiny Bug's headlights flicked off his backside two or three times. "Michael Montgomery, is that you?" a familiar female voice said after him.

He looked to find Laura's face reflecting back in the moonlight from the driver's side window. Grinning ear to ear, Mike forgot where he'd been and just concentrated on where he was going. "Well, this is certainly a surprise!" He bent down and leaned elbows on her door.

She giggled and gazed at him with stars in her green eyes. "I'm full of surprises," Laura said.

"I bet you are," Mike said. Then, before he knew it, she leaned forward and planted a scorching kiss to his lips. The scent of some vanilla-based perfume sweetly invaded his nostrils. "Where'd you get the wheels? I thought you came to town on a bus."

"I did, but now I'm moving up in the world," she said proudly. "I'm still at the flophouse motor court up the road, but am working steady hours at that canning factory in Richmond. I got tired of taking public transportation to and from, so borrowed money from a local bank and got this VW at Winterset Sales and Repair a few days ago. I know it's not a Stingray, but it's mine and that's all that matters. Well, what do you think?"

Mike stepped back to examine the Beetle. He didn't know much about German engineering, being more into American cars, but it was far better than some of the other monstrosities on the mechanic's lot. "I guess if it gets you from point A to point B in one piece, that's all that matters," he said. The sudden reminder about where he'd been earlier that day, and with whom, was giving him the willies. His feet got the itch to head back to Jessica, but other parts of his body had Mike glued to the here and now.

"What's the matter, Mr. Montgomery? Do I make you nervous?" Laura asked as she noticed his fidgeting. "Maybe it's because you have someplace else to be?"

His brow furrowed. "What do you mean, a better place to be?"

An all-knowing smile spread her plump lips. "Give me a break. I saw you drive in with that red-haired girl earlier. You two work together at Villapiano's. She's your girlfriend, right?"

Mike groaned in dismay. The jig was up. He'd been caught red-handed. Then why did Laura look so smug about it? "How long have you known?" he asked.

"I've known long enough," she said. "Why didn't you tell me about her before now?"

"It's a long, long story."

"Well, it's going to be a long, long night. Why don't you hop in and tell me all about it?" She nodded towards the passenger door.

He debated the pros and cons while looking at the screen as it flashed like a beacon in the night. An animated figure was holding up a sign that said there was one minute left till showtime. Mike knew doggone well that if he got in beside Laura there might be hell to pay later with Jessica, yet still he found his feet moving forward through the gravel around the Beetle. Sweat ran in rivulets down his body at the tangible risk being taken. However, with how alluring this desert rose looked in her black hotpants and off-the-shoulder flower print blouse, rolling the dice didn't seem like such a bad idea right about now.