Journey, The (4 page)

When she returned to the shelter at eight, Michelle showered, changed into the clothes she had worn at the reunion, and walked to a large cork bulletin board covered with job listings and other announcements. Few of the jobs offered much appeal, but one caught her attention despite the low pay. Unionville High School needed an attendance secretary immediately.

Michelle knew it was a far cry from teaching, but it was a way to get back into an environment she loved. She copied the information on a slip of paper and stuffed it in the pocket containing her cash. She would apply for the job and she would do it today.

Then she realized that she lacked two necessities: references and identification. She figured Dorothy could help with the first. But there was no substitute for an official photo ID. And to get a photo ID from the Oregon Department of Motor Vehicles, you needed more than a good word, good looks, and good intentions. You needed a birth certificate.

Michelle laughed to herself at the absurdity of it all. Even if she were somehow able to obtain her actual birth certificate, she would only be able to prove that she was seventeen years old. She suspected that even the densest school administrator wouldn't fall for that.

Then she thought of something else, something that should have been obvious. There
was
a birth certificate she could use and probably get today. And she knew exactly where to find it.

CHAPTER 6: MICHELLE

The place had not changed in thirty-two years – or eleven months, as the new math would have it. Ivy still climbed the sides of the white-columned, redbrick building, a monument to Georgian architecture and a visual respite from the dilapidated box homes that surrounded the Eastern Oregon Historical Society on the city's south side.

Michelle wondered why she had not visited more often. The institution – part museum, archive, and library – stood just three blocks from her childhood home and was, in fact, a decidedly interesting place. But when you were a teen hell-bent on stirring up trouble and conquering the world, you did not rush toward stately buildings filled with musty books and old women who guarded them like cobras.

She zeroed in on one of the women, a Grandma Moses clone she vaguely remembered from her last visit, in September 1978, and approached a cluttered reception desk. The desk looked like it had not been dusted since 1905, when two of Unionville's founders, retired Union cavalry officers, opened what would become one of the largest historical collections in the state.

"Can I help you?" the woman asked.

"You can," Michelle said. "I'd like to see your file on Michelle Jennings."

"I'll see what I can find. I'll be right back."

When the woman left the desk and walked through a doorway, Michelle scanned the reading room. It was a bibliophile's dream. Each of its four walls boasted shelving that rose at least ten feet. Many of the thousands of volumes were accessible only by using ladders that slid on tracks. Michelle smiled as she thought about the coming impact of the Americans with Disabilities Act.

The walls surrounded six wooden tables, a microfilm reader, and what looked like a rack of hanging newspapers. No patrons occupied the room, save a college-age girl pouring over old photos and two older gentlemen reading papers at the closest table. Both seemed immersed in whatever the
Unionville Gazette
had to report today.

"Here you go," the clerk said, placing the Jennings file on the reception desk and snapping Michelle out of a daze. "You'll have to sign for it."

"Of course."

Michelle knew she would have to sign a form to see the documents and knew that she could not, under any circumstances, use her real name. She had come to the historical society not only to examine one of its holdings but also to "borrow" it. She scribbled "Dolly Madison" on the checkout form and retreated to a far table.

When she opened the thick folder, she found its contents exactly as she had remembered them and possibly exactly as she had left them. Though the file on Michelle Jennings was probably not the least requested holding in the library, it was undoubtedly not the hot item it once was.

Nearly a quarter century had passed since Michelle's namesake aunt had died. The pride of Unionville High School's Class of 1949, the brilliant, beautiful, and immensely talented woman had been an odds-on favorite to make the U.S. Olympic skiing team when she hit a tree on a training run in Utah in the late fall of 1955.

Michelle arguably knew more about her aunt than she knew about her own mother. Evelyn Jennings Preston made sure her sons and daughters and others knew all about her younger sister. She had set up a shrine of sorts in her husband's den and donated generously every year to a foundation that helped crippled children, Michelle Jennings' favorite cause.

But some of the most important and personal reminders of the prodigy's life had been given to the historical society. Determined to keep their daughter's memory alive, Edward and Emily Jennings had donated dozens of news clippings, report cards, photographs, and documents to the archive, including the skier's original birth and baptismal certificates. Photocopies were hard to come by in 1979 and virtually unknown in the fifties and sixties.

As she thumbed through papers that had once served as source material for a riveting high school essay, Michelle pondered the ethical aspects of what she was doing. It was wrong to assume someone else's identity. She knew that. It was wrong to steal. But her current circumstances didn't leave many options. And the fit was almost too good to be true. Michelle Jennings, born on July 20, 1931, would have been forty-eight years old on August 31, 1979. Michelle Richardson
was
forty-eight years old.

Michelle sighed and scanned her surroundings a second time. The old men had left the room and the college girl appeared ready to follow suit. That much was good. But the clerk stared at her with a stern expression that Michelle found unnerving. That was not good.

Just when Michelle began to doubt she could pull off the heist, another woman, who appeared no more than thirty, approached the desk and requested information on the city's first mayor. When the clerk departed for the file room, Michelle folded her aunt's birth certificate, slid it inside her blouse, and threw the rest of the papers into the folder.

Michelle watched the old woman give the new patron the usual spiel, hand her the goods on the mayor, and return to her padded chair. Michelle walked slowly to the front desk, where Dolly Madison's signature and a truckload of guilt awaited. She handed the Jennings file to the cobra in the horned-rim glasses but found it difficult to look her in the eye.

"Did you find what you were looking for?" the clerk asked.

"I did," the new Michelle Jennings said, glancing at her feet. "I did."

And as soon as I can, I'll give it back.

CHAPTER 7: MICHELLE

Michelle watched with interest as a portly man with a crooked nose walked into the office and sat down at his desk. She hadn't seen Wayne Dennison in this room since the day he had admonished her and another student for wearing midriff tops at a school assembly.

"So you would like to be our attendance secretary, Miss . . ."

"Jennings," Michelle said. "Yes, I would. I think I could do a good job."

"You have no work experience and only one reference," the principal said. "What makes you think you'd be a good fit for our fine institution?"

"I'm organized, efficient, and a very quick study."

"Mrs. Zimmerman, the woman who showed you in, said you recently lost your husband. I'm very sorry to hear that."

"Thank you," Michelle said.

Dennison reached into a pocket of his beige polyester jacket and retrieved a pair of black reading glasses. He put them on and took a closer look at the application in front of him.

"I take it your living situation is somewhat tenuous. You listed the Unionville Women's Home as your permanent address."

"It's only temporary. I just arrived from Seattle and didn't want to spend money on a motel while I looked for work. I wanted to make a fresh start when my husband died and I figured Unionville was as good a place as any to make that start. I spent a lot of time here as a child. My grandparents lived in the area."

"I see."

Michelle sat up in her chair and tried to smooth several wrinkles in her blouse and skirt. She had been in a hurry when she had left the shelter for the historical society and the Department of Motor Vehicles and had not devoted much time to her appearance.

"Can you type?" he asked.

"I can."

"Can you file?"

"With ease."

"Do you get along with kids?"

"I do."

Michelle wanted to tell Dennison that she was an English teacher who had made a lasting impact on high school students in Seattle for a quarter century. She wanted to tell him that she was a doting aunt to nieces and nephews and had volunteered for years at summer youth camps and Special Olympics events. But she knew such references would require names and numbers of people who would not remember someone who had not yet made a mark on their world.

"Good. That's good," he said.

Mr. Dennison massaged his knuckles and looked at Michelle with wide eyes, as if trying to reconcile a pretty thin story with the much thicker rock that shot up from the job seeker's left hand. Michelle regretted wearing the ring the minute the principal strode into his office. But it was too late to fix that now. She would sink or swim as is.

The administrator glanced at the form he had placed on his Formica-topped desk and gave it another scan. The form, completed in ink, was mostly blank.

"I must say that this application is not much to go on. Under normal circumstances, we would consider only candidates with relevant work experience," he said. "But these are not normal circumstances. The woman we hired to replace our longtime attendance secretary left town this week to take a similar job in Kennewick. We need someone to start immediately and you, Miss Jennings, are our one and only applicant."

"Oh," Michelle said, wondering whether Dennison's ringing endorsement was his way of saying she had the job.

"I will have to make a call to the police, of course, to make sure that no Michelle Jennings is running from the law. This is a school, after all."

"I understand."

"And I'd like to have a chat with Dorothy Purcell before making any commitments. She has sent me many volunteers over the years and most have worked out well. Unless any issues come up, I don't see why you can't report here on Tuesday. Will I be able to reach you at the shelter later today?"

"You should. If I'm not there, just leave a message."

"Very well," the principal said. "I should have a decision by five. I'll be in touch."

"Thank you. I'm looking forward to it."

Michelle considered walking around the school for old time's sake but took a pass. She knew the lay of the land and did not see any familiar faces. Only a few faculty and staff plied the hallways on the last day before the Labor Day weekend. So she exited the building through a side door and walked to a park across the street.

Reclining on a surprisingly comfortable wooden bench, Michelle soaked up the midday sun, replayed the interview in her head, and pondered potential problems. The background check raised some concern. So did inconsistencies on the application. Michelle had used her real Social Security number and her aunt's birth date. And there was an outside chance that an all-points bulletin had been issued for Dolly Madison.

But Michelle knew that none of the issues were likely to be lethal. Law enforcement did not possess limitless resources or post-9/11-like authority in 1979 and she doubted that a criminal records search for a well-dressed, well-mannered job applicant would generate much enthusiasm. She likewise doubted that Wayne Dennison would further scrutinize an application that she had filled out in five minutes. Michelle knew from her years in public education that most principals did not like lengthy hiring processes or tying loose ends and even a minor staff vacancy heading into the first week of school was a major loose end. Dennison would make his calls and offer the job within the hour.

Michelle considered other matters as well, like where to stay for the night. She knew she'd be welcome at the shelter for days, if not weeks. But she hated the idea of using resources that might be better spent on a battered woman and her children. She needed to find her own place and pay her own bills, even if that meant parting with an old friend. Knowing that she would not see a paycheck before the end of September, she headed for a place that could provide immediate relief. She thanked her stars that she had carried dollar bills into the past, rather than fives and tens. Ones had changed little over the years. Larger denominations resembled Monopoly money.

She took her time walking to Main Street. She did not want to sell her wedding ring. It was a stunning piece of jewelry and the last visible reminder of a former life, a life that suddenly had great appeal. But it was valuable and convertible. And for a cash-strapped time traveler with little more than the shirt on her back, valuable and convertible sounded pretty damn good.

CHAPTER 8: MICHELLE

A.J. Perkins gave Michelle a thousand dollars for a ring that was worth five. The balding jeweler, who had operated a shop on Third and Main for more than thirty years, needed only a few minutes to assess the piece and apparently determine that its owner needed cash more than he needed to expand his inventory.

Michelle cringed as she relinquished the item but did not dwell on her loss. In the grand scheme of things, the wedding band was small potatoes. She had to support herself and build a new life and do so without the considerable assets her husband had left her.

As she walked toward the south end of town, she stopped in a stationery shop and purchased a diary. She had not kept a journal since college and wanted to start writing again. She wanted to record the details of her incredible – and still very disturbing – experience and hopefully share them someday with someone inclined to believe them.