The Children on the Hill(44)

She heard an owl hoot, hoot, hooting.

No. Not an owl. Eric! Eric’s warning call.

She sat up, heart jolting.

She shoved the book back into the drawer, hastily tried to arrange things the way she’d found them, slammed the drawer closed, and locked it. She replaced the key beneath the photo frame, stood up, slid the chair back under the desk.

The owl call sounded again: Hurry, hurry, hurry.

Vi opened the office door a crack, didn’t see anyone or hear anything in the hallway. The lights were still dim. She slipped out, put the key in the dead bolt on Gran’s door, but it stuck, wouldn’t turn. She wiggled it. Behind her, she heard the front door opening.

She dropped the key, picked it up with trembling fingers, tried the lock on Gran’s door again. It turned at last. She pocketed the key and turned the corner just as the lights in the entryway came on. She had about ten feet of hallway to cover before she got to the back door. If whoever had just come through the front door looked to the right, she’d be caught.

Should she go back into Gran’s office and hide?

No, the God of Escape told her. Run!

She raced for the door, eyes on the red glowing EXIT sign, running on the toes of her sneakers so she wouldn’t make a sound. She heard loud footsteps crossing the front hall.

Vi got to the exit door and yanked, praying it was still unlocked. Thank you, God of Escape. She stepped out into the night, closing the door quickly but quietly behind her. Then she pressed her back against the brick wall and crept along the edge of the building. When she got to the corner, she ran, head down, in a sprint to the barn where Eric and Iris were waiting.

“Did she see you?” Eric asked.

Vi shook her head, catching her breath. “Was it Gran?”

“Yeah,” Eric said.

“What’s she doing here so late?” Vi asked. She looked at the building, waiting for the light in Gran’s office to come on, but it stayed dark.

Eric shrugged. “No clue, but we should get home so we’re there when she gets back.”

Vi nodded, and the three of them headed across the lawn, pushing their bikes. They’d made it all the way back to the house, climbing the front steps, when Vi reached into the pockets of her shorts and realized she didn’t have the flashlight.

Even worse, she still had the key to Gran’s office.

Patty was going to kill her.





The Helping Hand of God: The True Story of the Hillside Inn By Julia Tetreault, Dark Passages Press, 1980




INTRODUCTION


This book began as a simple assignment for a journalism class. My plan was to write an article on the eugenics movement in Vermont. During my research, I learned about a man named Dr. Wilson Hicks, whose 1929 book A Case for Good Breeding: The Templeton Family Study and the Promise of Eugenics was an important text in the movement.

Having grown up on a farm in rural Vermont, Dr. Hicks had a background in animal husbandry and the efforts to improve the pedigree of dairy cows, horses, and chickens. After medical school, he turned to humans. During 1927 and 1928, he conducted a study of a family in the Northeast Kingdom of Vermont, whom he referred to as “the Templetons.” He believed that Vermont could become a modern utopia of above-average people of Caucasian descent.

After completing this study and publishing his book, Dr. Hicks lectured on his theories all over the country and became a leading voice in the field of eugenics. He took an active role putting his theories into practice. He was responsible for the involuntary sterilization of over one hundred people in Vermont hospitals, including at least twenty members of the Templeton family.

And he was assisted in his efforts by his young protégé (and rumored lover), Dr. Helen Hildreth.

Eugenics is indeed a dark part of our history, but it is far from the darkest part of the story I was soon to discover.





Lizzy

August 20, 2019




AFTER LEAVING THE kids at the pier, I hopped into my van and followed East Main out past the winery to a collection of five brightly painted mailboxes with a sign above them: WILDFLOWER COTTAGES.

I slowed down but couldn’t see the buildings themselves, just a long dirt driveway.

I pulled in.

It was nearly the end of the season. Most of the summer people would head home after Labor Day weekend. I wondered if the other cottages were occupied—if another family had moved into Bluebell for the remainder of the summer.

I passed a turnoff on the left with a little sign for Daisy Cottage. It wasn’t visible; I could only see the narrow, twisting driveway that led to it, thickly wooded on both sides. I passed the turnoffs for Peony, Hyacinth, Buttercup, and finally spotted the one for Bluebell.

Turning right, I followed the gravel drive about twenty feet down toward the water. The cottage was painted a vivid blue, tucked along the shore amid the pine trees. There were no cars parked out front. No towels or swimsuits on the clothesline. No sign of life.

I got out to look around.

A slight breeze rippled my loose T-shirt. I smelled the pines and the lake: musty, tinged with decaying vegetation and algae.

I heard the far-off drone of a motorboat out on the lake, a small animal skittering around in the woods nearby.

Climbing up onto the porch, I leaned over the white-painted wicker furniture to peer into the windows: a kitchen and living room, a bathroom and bedroom downstairs. A loft with what looked like two more bedrooms.