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.
Out back was another deck with a charcoal grill. A couple of canoes were turned upside down, paddles and life jackets tucked under them. And there was a Honda generator and two five-gallon gas cans.
A dock led out to the water and a swimming float a little farther out, the wood on top bleached from the sun, the sides covered with algae.
Thick stands of trees came right up to both sides of the yard, making the cottage feel very secluded, totally cut off from the rest of the world. You couldn’t see the other cottages from here.
There were no power lines.
No phone or cable.
I pulled out my phone: no service at all.
It would be utter hell for a teenage girl, particularly one who didn’t get along with her parents to begin with. It must have felt like a prison sentence.
Especially after just getting out of a six-week stint in a residential treatment center.
“Poor kid,” I muttered.
I followed the shoreline to the edge of the woods and spotted a path thickly carpeted with brown pine needles. Was it the same path Lauren had taken, night after night, heading out to Loon Cove to call to Rattling Jane the way a lonely child might conjure up an imaginary friend?
One way to find out.
I started walking.
The mosquitoes were bad once I got into the thick shade of the woods, and I felt ill-prepared. Back in the van, I had a small backpack for monster-hunting excursions: first aid kit, water, granola bars, fire starters, a silver emergency blanket, my video camera and digital recorder, and bug spray. Sometimes I’d take my gun too—just in case. But here I was, no bag, nothing in my pockets but keys. An ill-equipped monster hunter if ever there was one.
I thought of turning back to grab the bag, but I’d already been walking for a good ten minutes. Best to press on without it, I decided, at least for a few more minutes.
The path more or less followed the shoreline, but far enough away that I stayed in the shadowy woods. The forest was mostly pines here, a few deciduous trees mixed in. The ground was covered with pine needles, fallen leaves and branches, lush moss, although the path showed signs of having been used recently. I noticed the occasional footprint in wet ground, broken twigs and branches. I stopped to pick up a cigarette butt. One of Lauren’s?
As I made my way along the path, I tried to imagine I was Lauren, creeping away from the cottage after dark.
It wasn’t so hard, really. To remember what it was like to be thirteen and full of secrets, sneaking around in the dark.
* * *
HOW FAR TO the wildlife sanctuary? Would I even know when I got there?
After nearly half an hour of walking, I was kicking myself for not bringing my knapsack. I was thirsty and being eaten alive by mosquitoes.
Five more minutes, I told myself. If I didn’t see anything, I’d turn around, go back, and try again later. This might not even be the right path. Maybe, I decided, it would be best to head to Loon Cove from within the wildlife sanctuary, then try to find the path that led back to Lauren’s cottage. Reverse engineering.
Just as I was about to call it quits, the path opened up and I came to a larger trail, more like a dirt road. A painted wooden sign pointed to the right: LOON COVE .25 MILES. The preserve’s Silver and Red Trails were to the left.
Another metal sign like the one at the sanctuary’s front gate, this one pockmarked with holes—bullet holes—stated that it was open from sunrise to sunset and that motorized vehicles, camping, and fires were prohibited.
I turned right, and the road narrowed to a footpath downhill over rugged terrain: roots and rocks. Eventually I reached rugged and worn stone steps carefully built into the bank. They were old, no longer level and crumbling in places.
I followed them down to the water, stepping carefully. The last thing I needed was to turn an ankle out here—no bag, no cell service.
The cove was small and secluded, surrounded by birch and pine trees—the perfect place for teenagers to come and party. A beach covered in little pebbles showed the remnants of a campfire. The firepit held two empty beer cans, some cigarette butts. A big worn driftwood log was set up as a bench just in front of the firepit. I sat down on it, ran my fingers over the initials and words carved into it.
S.W.
FuK off
Tansy wuz here
No note from Lauren or Rattling Jane hinting at what might have happened here, where she might be. Of course not. What had I expected?
I looked out at the water, the way the light was playing on it, making it dance. I let myself imagine a figure surfacing: a woman made of fish bones and sticks, weeds and mud.
I stood, walked around the perimeter of the cove. It took some looking, but eventually I found the hollow tree the kids had told me about. An old white paper birch with a knothole a little over six feet up, the perfect place for a kid to hide her stash. And the perfect place to leave a secret gift.