The store owner giggled. “God, Goldie. The things you say.” Then she looked at her quizzically. “H-how did you know who I was talking about? More importantly, what led you to your conclusion?”
“That’s not important right now. Just please know my opinion about him won’t affect my article in any way.”
“Thanks… ‘cause if he ever found out I’d spoken badly about him, he could make my life a living hell. He could post a No Parking sign in front of my store, have my business or home assessed for new taxes, find a problem with my business license, or fine the store for some sort of code violation.”
“He’ddoall that?”
“In a heartbeat. Somewhere along the way, and I don’t know where or how, Charles Banyan became drunk on his own power. People smile and go along with him because they’re intimidated. But he’snotthe whole town.”
“Understood,” Goldie acknowledged.
“The thing is,” Clara said, “I may not personally like the guy, but there’s no denying our tourism business has increased since he’s been mayor. He gets things done. You being here, for example. Still, any good he does is counteracted when he imposes controlling rules and makes people feel small.”
“Agreed,” Goldie nodded.
Clara had a notebook in her back room filled with gingerbread house designs and photographs of some of her past creations. She lent it to Goldie to study and refer to. But as important as her assistance was with gingerbread houses, her opinion of the mayor was even more helpful. It cemented in Goldie’s mind that he was no good. Besides Clara and Martha Eggleston, she couldn’t help but wonder how many other people in town felt the same way.
Twenty-Two
EARLY AT THE CENTER
The following morning, Goldie had an early breakfast, then caught the bus to Denver. It was a Friday, and the Denver Bus Terminal was particularly crowded with weekend traffic. She grabbed a cab to the Denver Library and, for the third time since she’d awakened in 1942, conducted more research. She read several recent issues of theDenver Postto gain a better understanding of the war and the world around her. She also re-explored previous articles she’d written inAdventure Escape Magazine.When no one was looking, she even tore the pages of one of her articles from an issue, folded them up, and stuck them into her purse. Next, she explored a craft book with a chapter on gingerbread houses.
She stayed at the library until 2:00 p.m., then walked around the city for over an hour. Even though she was in Colorado’s largest city, the air definitely smelled cleaner in the 1940s. Reminders of the war were everywhere. Forty-eight-star American flags hung from buildings, she saw posters in store windows reminding people to send Christmas care packages to servicemen, and she walked past several city homes where there was a small gold star flag hanging in a window to indicate a family member’s ultimate sacrifice. She thought about how some people in her own time longed for the past. But the problems and challenges of 1942 were just as big and deadly as they were in the present.
Nostalgia ain’t what it used to be,she decided.
Then she thought about her mother in Brooklyn, her sister in New Jersey, even her father in Pittsburgh. Did they know what happened? Were they praying for her and missing her?
She returned to the bus terminal at 3:10 and purchased her ticket back to Sparkledove. Then she sat down at one of the long wooden benches with seats on both sides and waited for her bus to be called over the PA. While she waited, Gerome came up to her carrying a bucket in one hand and a mop in the other. He was wearing his gray maintenance uniform and smiled when he saw her.
“Miss Goldie, nice to see you again. How’s your hand?”
“Ay, Gerome,” she smiled back, holding up her left palm. “Good as new.”
He looked around, slightly nervous. “Mr. Hammersfield’s somewhere about. You best take care he don’t see you. He said if he ever saw you again, he was going to call a policeman and have you arrested.”
“He’s got it wrong,” she replied. “He best take careIdon’t seehim.I’m likely to take that bucket of water you got there and give him a second baptism.”
The maintenance man smiled and chuckled. “I believe you.”
“Why do you work for a guy like that?” she asked. “He insults you, belittles you.”
“I can’t get no factory job,” he explained. “They all cryin’ for manpower, but they won’t hire negroes. At least here, I got a big space to work in and I get to see and sometimes meet interestin’ folks like you.”
“If you had your druthers, what would you like to do?” she asked.
The man with the tinge of gray in his hair thought for a moment.
“I got a brother who sells shoes. It’s a store in a part of town you wouldn’t go into, but he gets to wear a tie, talk to customers, and find out what their needs are. Some want work shoes. Others want snow boots. Others want somethin’ dressy for Sunday go-to-meetin’. He measures their feet, feels the fit, I swear, that man knows everything about shoes: whether or not a shoe’s collar will rub up against the ankle, how long laces will last, he can even identify brands by impressions the soles make. You might not think much about a shoe salesman as an occupation. But he helps people. It’s professional.”
Just then, her bus was announced over the PA and was loading through Departing Door Number Two.
“What you do here helps people,” she reminded, rising. “You sure helped me.”
“So, you’re adapting okay to your time-shift reality?”
She smiled, appreciating that he remembered what she said the first time they met.
