Chapter 2 #2
Stepping outside onto the sidewalk, Goldie suddenly stopped, amazed by everything around her.
The front doors of the Sparkledove Arms emptied onto a main street, a little less than a quarter mile long, and a town that looked like something straight out of the Old West. The sidewalk where she stood was paved, but that was just in front of the hotel.
The rest of the town had plank sidewalks.
Some of the buildings were brick with dates on their fronts that read 1866 or 1870.
Others were wood and featured squared front facades that hid a cable roof.
All were packed together on a main thoroughfare with five cross streets.
The collection of businesses ranged from a gift store to a general store, grocery store, bookstore, real estate office, gem store, and others.
As if the old-timey look of the town wasn’t enough, just beyond the east and west ends of this main street were mountains.
Mountains that dramatically shot up several thousand feet at a thirty-degree angle or steeper.
As her eyes scanned them, she saw patches of snow at the higher elevations.
“How the hell did I get here?” she yelled. “I’m in a John Denver nightmare!”
There were cars and trucks parked here and there, and a couple even rolled past her on the main street, but they were all vintage antiques.
“This-this must be one of them livin’ history towns like that place in Virginia,” she decided. “What its name? Williamstown. No. Williamsburg. Colonial Williamsburg!”
Even though she was cognizant of the thirty-six-degree temperature, she ignored the cold, crossed a side street, then stepped up onto a wooden plank sidewalk, stunned by everything around her.
She didn’t understand how she had woken up in Colorado.
Or why she wasn’t injured after being struck by a car.
Or why everything around her was from a different time.
She didn’t understand—until she came to a trash container outside of a store and noticed the date of a discarded Denver Post newspaper that was sitting in it. It read: Tuesday, November 24, 1942.
“Whaaat?” she exclaimed. “What?”
Goldie plucked up the newspaper and read the date again.
Then goose bumps appeared on her arms, and she started to tremble.
Maybe it was from the cold, or maybe it was the realization that something unbelievable and unexplainable had happened to her.
It was a Twilight Zone moment. She glanced up from the newspaper and looked around—really looked around—at the town again.
In the gem store window, she saw a poster that read: “Buy War Bonds.” In the grocery store window, she saw a hand-painted sign that announced: “Butter on Friday.” She took a few steps down the wooden sidewalk until she came to an artisan pottery store window and saw a picture of FDR on display in the window.
“Jesus Christ!” she said under her breath. “The clothes really are designed by Eleanor Roosevelt!”
Letting the newspaper slip from her hand, she wandered down the sidewalk to a shop called Clara’s Gifts that had a nice Christmas display in its front window. Now quite aware of the cold, she decided to step inside.
The wooden floor of Clara’s was old and squeaked when she entered, but the store was cozy and comfortable.
There were glass Christmas tree ornaments, freshly made pine wreaths, shelves of Santa dolls, a display of angels, a cabinet featuring hand-painted Russian nesting dolls, and an assortment of other gifts.
There was also an old Philco radio on a shelf playing Bing Crosby’s “White Christmas.” In a back corner of the store, a woman in her mid to late sixties stood on a ladder with her back to Goldie.
She was quite fit for her age, with a dancer’s figure and mostly white hair that was nearly as long as Goldie’s and tied into a ponytail.
She had just begun to hang some holiday roping from the top of a shelving unit, but stopped and started to come down the ladder, hearing someone enter the store.
“We don’t open until 10 a.m.,” she said. “But if you need something right now, I guess I can make an exception.” She turned and saw her visitor. “Say, honey, what are you doing running around in short sleeves without a coat? You wanna catch your death?”
“I think I already have,” Goldie replied vaguely. “J-j-just bear with me a second,” she asked. “I’m… I’m in Colorado. Right?”
“Right,” the lady smiled. Like everyone else Goldie had seen, she was dressed in period clothing.
“And—do you mind me askin’ today’s date?”
“Wednesday, the 25th,” the woman replied. She had nice green eyes like Goldie‘s and a kind face.
“Wednesday, the 25th?” Goldie repeated, hoping the woman would finish.
“Wednesday, November 25th, the day before Thanksgiving,” the woman replied, now looking at her concerned.
“Wednesday, November 25th, in the year of our lord?”
“1942,” the woman answered. “Are you alright, honey?”
Goldie’s eyes widened. “You’re not kiddin’ me, right? I-I mean, this isn’t one of them theme towns where everybody dresses up in historical clothing and plays their part like in a movie?”
The woman looked her over, now truly worried.
“Sweetie, I think you’d better have a cup of coffee and sit down.
You seem to be a little confused.” She went over to a chair that had a collection of rag dolls on it, set them on the floor, then brought the chair over to her.
She was wearing slightly baggy slacks, a plain blouse, and a gold cardigan sweater.
“Here. You sit down. My name’s Clara. I’ve got a pot of coffee going on the heating plate in the back. I’ll fix you a nice cup. You want a little cream with that? Sorry, but I don’t have any sugar. A lot of people don’t right now.”
The visitor decided to take the advice and sit in the chair provided.
“I’m Goldie,” she said, plopping down. “I know this is gonna sound funny, but I don’t know how I got here, Clara,” she confessed. Her eyes started to become moist. “I-I don’t know how I got to this place… to this time. Yesterday, I thought I was dyin’… and today—I woke up here.”
“Sshh,” the shop owner said, like a mother soothing a child.
“I’m sure we can figure it out.” She patted her guest on the shoulder, then turned and walked toward the back of the store while Bing Crosby continued to sing on the radio.
“Believe it or not,” she said as she went, “the exact same thing has happened to me.”
Goldie looked up at her. “Really?”
“Really. I was down the street at Clancy’s having a drink with some friends a few years ago, and the next thing I know, it’s two days later, and I’m over in Golden.
And it’s not from just alcohol, either. Blackouts can be brought on by extreme stress.
You lose someone overseas, honey? Army? Navy?
Marci Hurst, here in town, lost her oldest, Jerry, and she walked around for weeks in a daze.
She totally lost all track of time. He was in the Navy and died at Midway, but she was never really sure if… ”
Goldie’s shoulders slumped as Clara continued to tell her story about Marci Hurst’s son from the back of the store. But Clara’s empathetic tales had nothing to do with the bizarre events that were happening to her. So, she slowly rose from her chair, at a loss, then exited the store.
Back on the wooden sidewalk, she hadn’t gone but a few more storefronts further down the street when a 1939 black-and-white Ford with a red bubble light on its roof and a decal on both front doors that said “Sheriff’s Department” rolled up to meet her.
A man in a brown suede jacket got out of the car.
He was maybe her age or a few years older, had short-cropped blond hair and blue eyes, and stood at five feet eleven.
He wore a tan police uniform with a matching shirt and slacks and had a star-shaped badge under his open jacket.
He also wore black cowboy boots. He wasn’t wearing a tie or a policeman’s cap, and he didn’t carry a gun.
As he got out of the car and came toward her, Goldie noticed he walked with a slight limp.
“Oh, Christ,” she sighed under her breath, not liking cops in the present, past, or any other time.
“Howdy,” he drawled in a low voice.
“Wow. Very Westworld,” she replied, underwhelmed.
“Excuse me?” he asked.
“Nothin’. What can I do for you, officer?”
“I thought maybe I could do something for you,” he replied with a little smile. “Drive you back to the hotel? It’s pretty cold to be wandering around in short sleeves.”
He spoke slowly like a cowpoke in a Tex Ritter movie.
She looked down the street toward the Sparkledove Arms, then back at him.
“How do you know I’m stayin’ at the hotel?” she asked.
“Maddie, the owner, gave my office a call,” he replied, sticking his hands into his jacket pockets.
“Said you got up this morning and seemed mixed up about where you were. If you’re ill, being out in this weather without a coat isn’t going to help.
” He stepped over to the driver’s side door of his police cruiser and opened it for her. “May I?” he asked, offering her a ride.
“Sure,” she shrugged, her arms slapping the sides of her legs.
“Good… wouldn’t do to have our most important visitor come down with the flu,” he said as she climbed in.
“What does that mean?” she asked. But he didn’t answer.
He shut the door, then turned to round the car.
As he did, Clara came out of her gift store with folded arms over her gold cardigan sweater, apparently looking for Goldie.
The officer raised his chin and called out, “I’ve got her, Clara.
” She nodded, smiled at Goldie in the car, then went back into her store.
As soon as the officer got behind the wheel and closed his door, Goldie started her interrogation.
“Whatdoya mean, I’m your most important visitor?”
“Well, everybody’s excited you’re here,” he explained, starting the engine. “This kind of thing doesn’t happen to us every day.”
“Yeah, well, it don’t happen to me every day, either,” she cracked.
He put the car in gear, and they started to head down the street. Goldie looked around for the seat belt and shoulder strap, but there wasn’t one. There weren’t any in the car at all.
“So, why am I special?” she asked.
“You know, writing a feature story for Adventure Escape Magazine. That’s big doings for Sparkledove.”
Goldie wrinkled her brow and looked at him.
“What’re you talkin’ about?”
“You’re Miss Maraschino, right? Like the cherry?”
“Yeah?”
“So, you’re the writer with Adventure Escape Magazine.” He glanced at her. “I mean, that is right, isn’t it?”
Goldie tossed her hands up slightly. “Why not?”
They were quiet for another few moments until they pulled up to the paved sidewalk in front of the hotel and came to a stop. The officer put the car in park and turned to her.
“Look, you seem to have other things on your mind. Maybe it’s none of my business, but if you want to talk about it, I’m a pretty good listener.
” He extended his hand. “Name’s Eli Johnson.
I’m the sheriff here, but don’t be too impressed.
I’m the entire police force, and I don’t think anyone else in town wanted the job. ”
Goldie took his hand and shook it half-heartedly, but she was really paying attention to something else. Down a side street off the main thoroughfare, she saw a bus from the Rocky Mountain Bus Company idling on the side of the road.
“What’s that?” she asked.
“Bus to Denver,” Sheriff Johnson replied. “Comes in twice a day and sits there for twenty minutes waiting to take on passengers. Once in the morning and once in the late afternoon.”
“Denver? How far is Denver?”
“About thirty-five miles.” He looked at her, puzzled. “D-didn’t you come in from Denver on yesterday afternoon’s bus? I mean, that’s what Maddie told me.”
Making a decision, Goldie opened the passenger side door. “Thanks for the lift,” she said, getting out.
She shut the car door and hurried into the hotel, leaving an intrigued and slightly confused Sheriff Johnson sitting in his car.
“Okay then…” he said acceptingly to no one. He put two fingers on the side of his forehead and saluted in Goldie’s direction. “See ya.”