Читать книгу The Calling - Kim O'Neill - Страница 11

1966 was a different time. In the Chicago suburbs, people left their front doors open at night. Summertime brought everyone outdoors to celebrate the warm temperatures after a long, snowy winter. Children of all ages played outside and safely roamed the streets on brightly colored bicycles. Neighbors waved to one another and exchanged heartfelt pleasantries. Laundry hung to dry, caressed by a summer breeze sweetened with the captivating scent of sunshine, new-mown grass, and blooming flowers. Under an endless blue sky, kids in bathing suits frolicked through sprinklers that automatically fanned back and forth on lush green lawns.

We drank milk, Tab, Coke, and Tang. Water was considered a beverage with which to take an aspirin, make Jell-O, or stir into powdered Kool-Aid. If you wanted a cup of coffee, you made it in your own kitchen—for pennies—from a large can of ground Folgers. If you happened to see someone jogging, they were trying to catch a bus. Grownups exclaimed over the latest technological advancement—the color TV—and all of our friends hoped they would be the first to own one.

That summer, our apple tree produced fruit so tart that it was inedible but I nibbled anyway because it was our tree. Sporting brand new Keds, my brother and I dug up huge, squirming earthworms, captured monarch butterflies, climbed trees, played kick the can, read comic books, consumed endless boxes of root beer popsicles, and watched the fireflies work their on-and-off incandescent magic every night at dusk. In our suburb northwest of the city, the captivating smell of sizzling hamburgers and hotdogs regularly perfumed the neighborhood from backyard barbeque grills, even on weeknights.

Lyndon Johnson was president. Gas was 32 cents a gallon. Everybody smoked, including our doctor, who kept a metal ashtray on his desk. Radios were tuned to the Beach Boys, the Monkees, or the Cubs if they were playing a home game. While my brother teased me, I danced along to American Bandstand on TV, and developed a secret crush on Davey Jones. I nagged my mother to buy me the latest fashion direct from London. At ten years old, I argued, I was certainly grown up enough to wear the miniskirt!

Unbeknown to me, that innocent time was going to come to a fateful conclusion by two life-changing events that I would witness in the course of a single midsummer night. First, I saw my father try to strangle my mother. When I succumbed to an exhausted, terrified stupor that night, I found myself—in my sleep—at the scene of what Chicago Tribune reporters had dubbed The Crime of the Century. I watched in horror as a lone assailant brutally raped and then slaughtered seven young women. My psychic destiny had ignited, flared and caught fire. It was only the beginning of my journey.