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Authors: Tracie Peterson
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room, then let it settle for exactly ten minutes before sweeping the floors. I would imagine we should leave the linens in place while dusting—that way the dust will collect on the bedding and it can then be laundered.”
Eleanor considered the suggestion for a moment. “Very well.” She went to open the windows while Taffy smiled to herself. Eleanor didn’t always like her advice, but when she saw the logic of it, she generally acquiesced.
“You remember that woman, don’t you? The Irish maid. What was her name?”
“Mrs. Lindquist,” Eleanor said flatly.
“Oh, that’s right, she married a Swede. He worked in the garage. Big man, with thick blond hair and a drooping mustache. I wouldn’t have wanted to kiss that mug.”
Eleanor looked at her in shock. Taffy merely laughed. Sometimes it was fun to shock the sour look off her niece’s face. “Well, would you?”
“I never really considered it, nor do I desire to do so now.”
“Well, you do remember them, don’t you?”
“Of course. I was fifteen when I first accompanied you to their house.”
Taffy nodded. “You were indeed.”
Seven
The mention of being fifteen caused Eleanor a moment of serious panic. Sometimes she could stave off the past—almost forgetting the life she’d known before coming to live with Aunt Taffy and Uncle Cal. But other times she couldn’t.
Often the past came drifting in like a slow-moving cold front, chilling everything in its wake. But once in a while it roared down on her like a powerful tornado, devastating—destroying—leaving her in complete despair.
Eleanor had repeatedly told herself that the past couldn’t hurt her if she didn’t let it. Unfortunately, she hadn’t figured out a way to keep it from creeping in on occasion. Like now. Eleanor felt her thoughts drift back in time as she began to dust the framed pictures. She felt herself slip away, powerless to ignore the memories.
****
“Mom, are the police going to come back and take some people away again?” Eleanor questioned her mother. The night before, she’d seen two of her parents’ friends dragged away in handcuffs for drug possession.
“Eleanor, you’re such a little worrywart,” her mother proclaimed as she helped her daughter hang clothes on the line outside their house.
At twelve, Eleanor had no idea if this was true or not, but her mother certainly had never proven herself to be a liar. “Mom, why aren’t you worried? You have drugs too.”
Melody Templeton, scarcely sixteen years her daughter’s senior, had embraced the ’60s lifestyle with great flourish . . . and never walked away, even as the decade came to a close. “We aren’t meant to worry. That’s something the establishment wants from the people. If the government can keep the people in fear, then they’ll be less likely to break free and revolutionize life for themselves—for everyone.”
“But if drugs are illegal,” Eleanor tried to reason, leaning over the basket of wet laundry, “shouldn’t we get rid of them?”
Her mother sighed in exasperation. “But who says they’re illegal—and why do they say that? It’s the establishment again. They want to keep the masses as unhappy as possible. They don’t want us to free our minds and be creative.”
Eleanor picked up one of her mother’s long skirts and shook it out. Hanging it over the line, she pushed two clothespins down to hold it in place. Her mother and father were always talking about the woes and harms caused them by the establishment. Eleanor had never understood who they were speaking of until the night before, and the whole event had frightened her greatly.
“But will they come again?” Eleanor couldn’t help but ask.
“I suppose it’s possible. They hate us, so they’ll try to destroy us.”
Eleanor frowned. In her secluded world of free love and harmonious feelings, hate was something she didn’t understand. “Why do they hate us?”
Melody picked up the last skirt in the
Eleanor considered the suggestion for a moment. “Very well.” She went to open the windows while Taffy smiled to herself. Eleanor didn’t always like her advice, but when she saw the logic of it, she generally acquiesced.
“You remember that woman, don’t you? The Irish maid. What was her name?”
“Mrs. Lindquist,” Eleanor said flatly.
“Oh, that’s right, she married a Swede. He worked in the garage. Big man, with thick blond hair and a drooping mustache. I wouldn’t have wanted to kiss that mug.”
Eleanor looked at her in shock. Taffy merely laughed. Sometimes it was fun to shock the sour look off her niece’s face. “Well, would you?”
“I never really considered it, nor do I desire to do so now.”
“Well, you do remember them, don’t you?”
“Of course. I was fifteen when I first accompanied you to their house.”
Taffy nodded. “You were indeed.”
Seven
The mention of being fifteen caused Eleanor a moment of serious panic. Sometimes she could stave off the past—almost forgetting the life she’d known before coming to live with Aunt Taffy and Uncle Cal. But other times she couldn’t.
Often the past came drifting in like a slow-moving cold front, chilling everything in its wake. But once in a while it roared down on her like a powerful tornado, devastating—destroying—leaving her in complete despair.
Eleanor had repeatedly told herself that the past couldn’t hurt her if she didn’t let it. Unfortunately, she hadn’t figured out a way to keep it from creeping in on occasion. Like now. Eleanor felt her thoughts drift back in time as she began to dust the framed pictures. She felt herself slip away, powerless to ignore the memories.
****
“Mom, are the police going to come back and take some people away again?” Eleanor questioned her mother. The night before, she’d seen two of her parents’ friends dragged away in handcuffs for drug possession.
“Eleanor, you’re such a little worrywart,” her mother proclaimed as she helped her daughter hang clothes on the line outside their house.
At twelve, Eleanor had no idea if this was true or not, but her mother certainly had never proven herself to be a liar. “Mom, why aren’t you worried? You have drugs too.”
Melody Templeton, scarcely sixteen years her daughter’s senior, had embraced the ’60s lifestyle with great flourish . . . and never walked away, even as the decade came to a close. “We aren’t meant to worry. That’s something the establishment wants from the people. If the government can keep the people in fear, then they’ll be less likely to break free and revolutionize life for themselves—for everyone.”
“But if drugs are illegal,” Eleanor tried to reason, leaning over the basket of wet laundry, “shouldn’t we get rid of them?”
Her mother sighed in exasperation. “But who says they’re illegal—and why do they say that? It’s the establishment again. They want to keep the masses as unhappy as possible. They don’t want us to free our minds and be creative.”
Eleanor picked up one of her mother’s long skirts and shook it out. Hanging it over the line, she pushed two clothespins down to hold it in place. Her mother and father were always talking about the woes and harms caused them by the establishment. Eleanor had never understood who they were speaking of until the night before, and the whole event had frightened her greatly.
“But will they come again?” Eleanor couldn’t help but ask.
“I suppose it’s possible. They hate us, so they’ll try to destroy us.”
Eleanor frowned. In her secluded world of free love and harmonious feelings, hate was something she didn’t understand. “Why do they hate us?”
Melody picked up the last skirt in the
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