Paradigm Rift: Book One of the Back to Normal Series (21 page)

The broken bell at the diner did its level best to jingle when Denver entered, but the pitiful result didn’t even rouse a solitary glance from the floor. Of course, Denver felt every eye upon him from every possible angle. An irrational sensitivity plagued him, followed by a case of crippling self-consciousness. As his dad would’ve said, he “felt as guilty as a whore in church.” Denver never noticed that no one noticed him.

A lot busier than the last time. Smells great. Let’s see, where is Leah—oh, there. Act casual, Collins.

He meandered over to the bar and plopped down a few seats over on Leah’s left side. He spotted her subtle nodding out of the corner of his right eye.

So far so good. Piece of cake.

Denver lifted the famous trifold paper menu, disappointed that this one didn’t have any cleverly simulated coffee stains. He laughed at himself. It had been well over a week since he first sat here, but in many ways it seemed like mere moments ago.

The kitchen doors burst wide open and waitress Katie Long backed out with a large tray covered in steaming dishes. Denver was distracted by the mouthwatering menu options and didn’t notice her at all. But once she spun about, regardless of his misguided sensitivity, there was only one pair of eyes following his every move.

He felt confident of his eventual order a minute or so later, and folded the menu, risking a quick glance over at Leah. She had nearly dumped her entire purse out on the counter, hunting for something. Their eyes met for less than an instant, and he turned away.

The door jingled pathetically and two older farmers decked out in denim overalls and caps strolled in and sat down immediately on Denver's left. The closest one removed his dusty hat (revealing a mop of dustier hair) and acknowledged Denver with a hearty grin. “Afternoon.”

Denver overthought his own reply for a few moments. “Good afternoon.”

Gotta be smoother, quicker Collins.

Katie had found the way back from her big delivery and passed in front of the two newest arrivals, flipping and filling their coffee cups. “I better get some big tips this afternoon, boys, or I might just accidentally
tell your wives where you had dinner today!”

The gentlemen chuckled and one of them spoke up. “The womenfolk are out at Twin Grove, visiting my sister.”

Katie put on a pitiful face. “And they left y’all to fend for your little ole selves?” She smiled wide with her deep red lips. “Shoulda married me. I would've taken better care of you than that.”

“Speakin' of matrimony,” the one furthest from Denver noted, “when’re you gonna settle down and get hitched, Katie?”

Denver busied himself with the menu again, acting like he wasn’t listening in on the authentic 1956 conversation. She glanced at him. “Just waiting for the right man to jump into my life,” she said. “And hopefully a man from the city. I may be a farmer’s daughter, but I sure don’t wanna be a farmer’s wife.
No offense, boys
.”

She winked and they all three laughed. Katie took a few steps over and looked up at Denver. “Well, welcome back, bus boy.”

Leah glanced over, but Denver struggled to play it down. “Bus boy? What? Oh, yeah, the bus.”

She poured some coffee. “Is your life still...
complicated
?”

He knew that Leah was parsing every syllable with all the cunning of a prosecuting attorney. It wasn’t a very pleasant thought. “Uh, always. That’s me, complicated,” he said. “You have a good memory, uh,
Katie
.”

She put a hand on her hip. “You forget that I am a waitress, and a waitress never forgets the biggest tipper in probably the entire history of tipping!”

Leah rotated towards him on the bar stool.

Strike one
, Denver thought.

Leah’s body language screamed what her mouth didn’t. If this had been a driver’s exam, Denver knew he had just blown a red light. His mind scrambled for an appropriate response. “What can I say, just in a generous mood I guess.”

Beverly slipped up behind Katie after refilling Leah’s coffee. She whispered discreetly, “Careful, trouble, trouble.”

Katie shifted her weight and gave Bev both a not-so-subtle bump and a dirty look as well. She snatched her order pad. “So, uh, are you here to stay this time or just passing through?”

He floundered right out of the gate as if he had lost the ability to simply communicate.
You are staying Collins. Say it.
He cleared his throat. “Well, uh...I uh, I am, staying, for a while. A while. I think.”

Strike two.

“How does the other guy look?” she asked.

He froze.
Other guy? What is she talking about?

He shrugged. “I’m sorry, the
other
guy?”

She pointed at his facial injuries. “The other guy. Did you get in a fight? Was it over a girl?”

Respond Collins. Now.
“Oh, no, no, nothing like that. I, uh, see what happened was, I, it—”

Strike three.

Leah reached for her purse and squarely smacked her coffee cup. It flipped across the counter and exploded in white shards on the well-worn tile floor. “Oh!” she cried out, jumping up, “Oh, I am so sorry!” The hot coffee ran like a dark river and dripped everywhere.

Katie sprang into cleaning action like a pro, damming up the runaway spill with a large dishtowel she whipped up out of nowhere.

“Don’t you worry, ma’am, happens all the time,” Katie calmly assured. “I’ll clean this up and getcha a fresh cup.”

“On it,” Beverly chimed in as she sailed around the corner.

“Thanks, I am really sorry,” Leah blushed. “I guess I wasn’t paying attention.”

Katie snagged a dry towel and hurried out to wipe down Leah’s bar stool. “No problem. No problem.” She slapped the seat with her hand. “Dry, good as new, and a fresh cup.”

Leah looked over as Katie departed with a filthy rag and Bev arrived with a clean mop. Denver mouthed the words
THANK YOU
. She acknowledged him with graceful subtlety and sat back down.

Denver peeled his half-soggy menu up off the sticky counter.

Well, that explains the coffee stains.

SECURITY LEVEL: TOP SECRET

FOR: Roscoe H. Hillenkoetter, Director, Central Intelligence

FROM: Chief Howard D. Ross, Project SATURN

SUBJECT: Phase I – Dreamland update

Phase I of the Dreamland facility has been completed. Temporary living quarters, incarceration center, storage, and currently-adequate airfield have been established, along with basic utilities.

All Roswell Incident materials have been successfully relocated to Dreamland.

Phase II, which will encompass permanent housing, office, research, and incarceration centers, should be completed on or around 27 March, 1948.

Phase III, which primarily centers on upgrading the temporary airfield, hangar, and communication facilities, is slated for completion on or around 3 June, 1948.

END

DCI/PS

Monday, May 2, 1949

Something hit me as I was driving around Normal and South Normal (that’s what the Locals like to call Bloomington—it really gets the Bloomington folks bent out of shape!). It may be the answer to many of our problems. As I drove around I saw a lot of family businesses. I mean, if you think about it, up until fairly recently in human history, just about everyone worked in the family business, whether farming, or carpentry, or fishing or whatever.

As a matter of fact, many people’s last names were associated with the family business,
i.e.
the Smiths were a family of prominent blacksmiths, the Bakers were known for breads and pastries, the Carpenters…well, you get the picture. I realized that our group of Jumpers, we are just like a family. We need our own cottage industry. This would solve quite a few difficulties right now:

1. Jumpers need something to do (but not for money, we don’t really need money). People in the community without a job are suspicious.

2. Jumpers need to limit their exposure to the Locals. Having one place that most of us work at would cut down on unnecessary interaction.

3. We need a central place of training and schooling for new Jumpers. Meeting in people’s homes too regularly can look suspicious.

4. A business would allow us to order and receive equipment that we need (for research) without raising any eyebrows or any appearance of impropriety (Too many big shipments to a house can be a red flag).

5. We need a cover story for our time displacement research.

With all of this in mind, I proposed to the group that I think we need to build some type of business, like a small factory somewhere just outside of town. This would fulfill all of these requirements. I can imagine a manufacturing facility upstairs (ground level), and a research lab downstairs (underground). It was very well received. We just need to pick a type of product that we can make which will allow us to order the raw materials and machines we need for downstairs, but make it look like it is for the upstairs.

A few weeks ago NATO was officially formed. The Cold War cometh quickly. On a different note, it has now been two years since Jumper Number 4, Grant Forrester, disappeared. Not a word. In a way, no news is good news.

He knows where we are. I hope that is a comfort for him, even though it is a source of great concern and liability to me.

Wednesday, August 3, 1949

We broke ground today for the factory. Mayor Vorhees was there, as well as a few of the city aldermen. We are continuing to keep all of our actions as low-key as possible in this town of several thousand people. In terms of 1949 cities, it is above-average size here in the Midwest, but it is still small enough for most people to know just about everything that goes on. That is the problem.

Hopefully the factory will allow most of the Jumpers to work together, which has the side benefit of limiting their exposure to the outside world. Once the building is done (contractor estimated March 1950), we plan to build our new research lab underground. The Cold War hysteria surrounding nuclear annihilation (most people say atomic warfare) will cause bomb shelters to become popular among the well-off. It will be an easy sell to get the dirt excavated and the concrete poured. No one will think a thing about it.

To celebrate this momentous occasion, all of us Jumpers went to Steak ‘n Shake at the corner of Main and West Virginia. I’m pretty sure this is where the chain started. This may be the first time that all of the Jumper community was in one place at one time (in public).

I gladly paid…ticket came in under $5.

“The upstairs is pretty much the same,” Ellen called out over her shoulder, as she led newspaper editor Betty Larson around her freshly vandalized home. “Not as bad as the downstairs, but the same kind of mess.”

Betty knelt and snapped a few low-angle photographs. Drawers were jerked out and flipped over, personal items strewn all over the floor, a real residential disaster.

It was picture perfect.

She slid a thin pencil out of her mouth and jotted a few observations. “The Chief said that they broke in your
back
door?”

“That's right,” Ellen lamented as she hopped over a dumped drawer and nodded towards the kitchen. “Just about knocked it off its hinges.”

More photos. A few more notes. Betty looked up from the pad. “What do you think is the value of the stolen items?”

Ellen halted and rubbed her forehead. “Oh, I don't know...it's just now sinking in. Uh, maybe a hundred dollars?”

Betty began writing feverishly as Ellen continued, “It was some jewelry, silverware from my grandmother. A little cash. It's not the monetary value; it's the sentimental value.”

“Oh, I know…absolutely.” Betty did her best to balance the need for the story, and the need to be sensitive. One of her journalism professors observed that a reporter had the curious dilemma of both exploiting and consoling people at nearly the same time.

She put her notes away. “And thank the Lord you weren't home. No tellin' what that bastard might’ve done to you!”

Ellen put her hands on the side of her face, and a tear leaked through. She brushed it off her cheek and into her red hair. “I don't like to even think about it. You hear about stuff like this on the radio, up in Chicago, but—”

Betty couldn’t resist capturing a quick emotional photo. She always felt that such frozen moments in time represented the pinnacle of her profession, the blending of hard facts and broken humans.

“Unfortunately, it's the same story as the breakin at Martha Tomlin's place three days ago,” she said. “Back door kicked in, a few expensive items, some cash.” Betty took another long look around. “Well, I'm sure the Chief is doing everything he can.”

As Betty carefully navigated her way back to her car, Ellen smiled and mumbled, “Who, the Chief?” She paused.

“Oh, he's involved alright...very involved.”