What She Left for Me

by Tracie Peterson

  And soon there would be two of them. Two bitter, angry, betrayed souls who were sure that love could never again come to them—never be faithful—never be worth the pain.

  Taffy looked upward. “Well, you’ve got your hands full this time, Lord. Let me know if I can help.” She put the gown aside. “I wish I were younger; maybe then they’d take me more seriously when I suggest the way to find real peace.”

  “Who are you talking to?” Eleanor asked as she reappeared with the water.

  Taffy smiled. “You know me. Sometimes I talk to God, sometimes I talk to myself.”

  Eleanor put the bucket on the floor and straightened. She gave Taffy a look that suggested she didn’t see the value of either option. “I’ll get the vacuum and then mop the floor. If you’ll strip the bed, I’ll wash the linens while the floor dries.”

  “We must dust first,” Taffy said, glancing around the room. “I learned that from the housekeeper who cared for one of the former governors in New York. We were talking one day about housekeeping, and she, being a paid servant, felt no hesitation in expressing her opinion. She was of Irish decent, so she gave her opinion with great enthusiasm. I simply love the Irish—don’t you?” she asked, then continued without waiting for an answer. “She told me it was important to open the windows, dust the 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 basket and flung it over the line in a haphazard manner. “Because we’re free and they aren’t.”

  “But why can’t they be free too? Then they wouldn’t hate us.”

  “They can never be free until they get rid of their rules and laws,” her mother explained before walking back toward the rundown shack they called home.

  Eleanor followed a pace behind, contemplating her mother’s words. Melody continued in a way that suggested the entire conversation was futile. “They won’t get rid of their laws because they don’t know how.”

  “How did we figure it out, then?”

  “We had smart people, people who weren’t afraid to expand their minds and look beyond the reality of what we’d become. We were all living in fear—living in chains. Everybody was worried about wars and when the bomb might be dropped on us.” Melody stopped and looked at her daughter. “Do you know that when I went to school we actually practiced trying to protect ourselves from the bomb? Duck and cover, they called it. We would drop down and cover our heads. As if that was going to keep us safe if a bomb fell on us. The whole notion of the bomb was just used to keep the people in line; I don’t think it has ever been a real threat. Keeping people scared is like, well, it’s an opiate for the government. Duck and cover has been the mentality of the establishment ever since. They don’t want to see the truth because the truth is too frightening. Better to stay with what they know—even if they’re miserable.”

  Her mother’s words simply didn’t make any sense to Eleanor. She wanted to ask her more questions, but there were chores to do.

  “Eleanor, go find your brothers. I think they’re fishing. Tell them it’s time to help in the garden.”

  Eleanor pushed back her stringy blond hair and ambled off toward the creek, visions of flashing police car lights in her mind. Those people had frightened her so much she’d been unable to sleep until well into the night. She hoped they never came back with their rules and regulations.

  The oldest of five, Eleanor took her responsibilities in stride. There weren’t many demands placed upon her. Their communal life was one that allowed for many freedoms. Her days were spent helping raise herbs and do household chores, and then she had a few hours of schooling. Eleanor loved to read and would read anything she could get her hands on. Unfortunately, the commune didn’t have many books; her parents didn’t allow for any with “decadent worldly views.” It was also the reason they had no television, although Eleanor had heard about the device from one of her friends.

  “Ellie! Ellie!” Sapphira called as she approached at a dead run. Sapphira Newton was a good friend, and Eleanor always had the best times with her.

  “I have to get my brothers from the creek,” she told Sapphira.


  “I’ll come with you. I want to tell you about Marty.” The dark-haired girl gasped the words as she halted just short of Eleanor’s lanky frame, struggling to regain her breath. “I ran all the way,” she said, as if to explain.

  “What’s going on with Marty?”

  “Well, you know it was her dad they took last night—along with his friend Joe?”

  Eleanor nodded. “I know.”

  “Well, Marty said her mother went to town to talk to the pigs who took him. They ended up calling Marty’s grandfather, and now Marty may be leaving.”

  “Why would she leave?”

  Sapphira shrugged. “I don’t know. Marty’s all upset. Said her mom came home crying and talking about how unfair life was.”

  Eleanor listened as she continued toward the creek. She could hear her brothers Allan and Tommie even from this distance, and it didn’t sound like they were fishing. Their mom was going to be mad at them if they came home empty-handed. There was some sort of herbal remedy their mother planned to make, and she needed fish oil or some part of the fish.

  “I hope Marty doesn’t go away,” Eleanor said, still thinking about the night before. “I thought it was scary when the police came.”

  “Call them pigs. That’s what my dad calls them. He says they’re no better than a bunch of stinking animals.”

  “But why? I thought we were supposed to love everybody. My mom said that the world would be a perfect place if everyone would just love one another and let each person do their own thing.” To Eleanor the contrast of responses was confusing. How could they treat some people—like those in the government—poorly but respect others and supposedly love everyone?

  “But the pigs don’t want us to do our own thing,” Sapphira countered, as if Eleanor should already know this. “My dad says we’re a threat to them, so they have to try to put us in our place before we try and overtake them.”

  “But if we’re loving everybody, why would we be overtaking anybody?”

  “Beats me.”

  Eleanor came to the shallow creek banks. “Allan! Tommie! You’re supposed to come home now.”

  Moans from the four- and six-year-old followed, but Eleanor was not moved. “Right now!”

  “I don’t wanna,” the older Allan protested.

  “Momma said to come right now. There’s work to be done.”

  Eleanor knew other people in the community who barely did anything, but because her father was a doctor, he insisted on two things: one was that the family keep clean; the other was that they grow herbs for his healing practice. Both required a fair amount of work. Sometimes Eleanor resented the additional responsibility. It seemed Sapphira never had to do much of anything. She didn’t even have to bathe, which was evidenced by her matted hair.

  Rounding up her brothers, Eleanor turned to Sapphira. “Can you come over later?”

  “Oh, for sure. I think my folks are going somewhere tonight. I’ll come over when they leave.”

  Eleanor nodded. “My mom said something about a party, so maybe they’re all going to the same place.”

  With her brothers trotting off toward home, Eleanor considered the things she had heard and seen in the last twenty-four hours. She couldn’t understand why people were so cruel to each other. She didn’t understand why the police—or “the pigs”—should care if people smoked pot and used LSD. It wasn’t like they were going anywhere or hurting anybody. It didn’t make sense.

  By late afternoon Eleanor had worried herself half crazy with the issues at hand. She was relieved when her mother suggested she take a bag of herbs to her father’s clinic. The worn-down trailer was on the opposite side of the small hippie community, and it provided Eleanor a bit of time to put together in her mind exactly what it was she would ask her father.

  She opened the trailer door without knocking. That’s the way it was for most every place in the commune, be it houses or businesses, although in truth there weren’t many of the latter. Freed people didn’t seem too inclined to spend their days in long labor. Eleanor often wondered how people got their money, but she figured part of it had to do with drugs. She knew several people raised pot; still, it hardly seemed enough to support the community.

  “Dad?” she called out from the front office area. Her father had always given her strict instructions to never come into the back rooms, as this was where he examined patients.

  “Hey there, Ellie girl,” her father said, emerging from the back room with a guy Eleanor knew only as Coon. “Now keep that cut clean, and it should heal just fine.”

  “You still want me to work on your carburetor, man? You know, like to pay for this?”

  Eleanor’s father seemed to contemplate the situation. “Give your hand a rest for at least two days, then you can look at my van. It’s not like we’re planning a trip anywhere long distance.”

  Coon laughed in a snorting kind of way and nudged his elbow at Eleanor. “You plannin’ any trips, little sister? Gonna run off with your boyfriend?”

  Eleanor shook her head. “I don’t have a boyfriend.”

  “You should,” he said, letting his eyes travel the full length of her body.

  “What’re you doin’ here, Eleanor?”

  Her father’s tone told her he wasn’t pleased. Eleanor wasn’t sure what she’d done wrong, but she shrugged it off. “Mom sent this stuff,” Eleanor replied, placing the bag on the counter.

  Her father, hair just below his collar and his face bearing a beard and mustache, was Eleanor’s favorite person in the entire world. She adored the man. He picked up the bag, undid the twist tie, and sorted through several small clusters of dried herbs.

  “Is that pot, Doc?” Coon’s eyes widened.

  “No, it’s medicinal herbs. I’ll see you later, Coon. Go take care of your hand.”

  The man frowned, definitely disappointed in the dismissal. “Okay. I’ll see you later.”

  Eleanor’s father waited until Coon was gone before he closed the bag. “This is exactly what I needed.” He put it aside and offered his daughter a smile. “So how’s your day, Ellie?”

  “Rotten.” She jumped up on a bar stool and frowned. “I’m afraid. I don’t like what happened last night.”

  Her father crossed his arms against his chest. “I didn’t either. Those were good men who didn’t deserve to be hassled.”

  “Well, I heard now that Marty might have to leave because of it.”

  Her father seemed to consider her words a moment. “Seems gossip gets around fast, but the truth of it is, she might. The fuzz wasn’t at all happy with her father or her mother. When her mother went to see about the arrest, she was threatened with jail too.”

  “Why?”

  Her father sighed. “They’re worried that Marty’s at risk by living like we do.”

  “But what’s wrong with how we live?”

  “There’s nothing wrong with the way we live. But the way we live tends to annoy those who aren’t living that way.”

  “Mom said they were living in chains.” Eleanor shifted, thinking back over the things she had wanted to ask her father. “But why can’t they live the way they want and we live the way we want?”

  “A good question. We keep asking that too.” He sat down on a stool opposite her. “You don’t remember when we came here or why, do you?”

  “I only know what you have told me.”

  “Well, we lived in a big city and it was horrible. There was so much pollution in the air and war talk all the time. People were afraid of everything. Crime was really getting bad. People were killing each other over the stupidest thi—”

  “Nobody has ever killed anybody here,” Eleanor interrupted. “A lot of people got born, though.” She was thinking of her brothers and the many other children in the community. Her father had boasted of delivering more than forty kids over the last eight years.

  “That’s right. We have no reason to kill. We’re at peace with nature and one another. We aren’t harming our bodies, we eat good food
, and we use the remedies offered by mother earth for our medicines. That’s not at all the way the world is outside of our commune.”

  “But why? If we have a good life, why don’t they want to have a good life too?” To Eleanor’s logical mind, it didn’t make sense that a person wouldn’t want to have the best—to be happy.

  “Ellie, the world is full of unhappy people. They aren’t necessarily bad people, although they do bad things. But their unhappiness makes them do it. People rob one another because they’re sure that what somebody else has will make them happy. People kill because they believe if that other person is gone, things will be better and they’ll be happy. Every bad thing done is because someone is desperate to be happy. Yet day after day, they continue in their sorrow and bitterness. They judge one another’s motives, positions, and hearts as if they were God and could see the truth about each person all at once.”

  “But the rest of the world thinks we’re bad. I heard them call us ‘stinkin’ Commie hippies.’ Why’d they say that?”

  Her dad shook his head. “Because they don’t understand. It’s true enough we don’t dress like the rest of the world. I used to wear a suit. I had to when I was training to become a doctor. When your mom was in boarding school, she had to wear a uniform. Did those things make us better people? I don’t think so.”

  Eleanor knew her parents had grown up in structured environments. So structured, in fact, that her father had described it to be like a noose around his neck. They had both come from moneyed families, but the money couldn’t make them happy—or so her father had said on more than one occasion.

  “So what’s a Commie?” Eleanor asked.

  “Well, that’s a person who believes in Communism.”