Tightrope Walker by Dorothy Gilman Page A

botch this, too, if the occasion arose.
    “Actually,” said Joe, pointing to still another motel with a CLOSED UNTIL MEMORIAL DAY sign, “we haven’t any idea what we’ll be getting into, Amelia. I think we should stop at L. L. Bean’s in Freeport and pick up some camping gear just in case. I brought a sleeping bag but you didn’t, and we may have to use the van.” His voice was so impersonal—like Peary planning a trip to the North Pole—that I couldn’t help but relax.
    “Good idea,” I said briskly.
    They were having a parade in Freeport on this Sunday afternoon, with a high school band that marched along briskly, playing “Strike Up the Band” a little off-key, and a procession of men and women carrying placards that read VOTE FOR ANGUS TUTTLE FOR U.S. SENATOR . A small, amiable group followed the parade on the sidewalk bearing signs reading SILAS WHITNEY FOR U.S. SENATOR . There were a few balloons and friendly shouts but the only excitement seemed to be caused by the traffic jam, until the band disappeared down a side street and we were able to park and walk into L. L. Bean’s. Whereupon I proceeded to acquire my first sleeping bag, as well as a pair of hiking boots, a flashlight, thermos, and collapsible drinking cup. I literally had to be dragged out of the store by Joe.
    Hours later we stopped in Anglesworth for a quick dinner, had the thermos filled with hot cocoa, and headed immediately for Carleton so that we would reach it before the general store closed. That, Joe said, was the place to learn anything in the country, and he was right. There were two gas pumps and a faded sign saying PRITCHETT ’ S GENERAL STORE , Simon Pritchett,Proprietor. Featured in the left-hand window was a placard reading VOTE FOR SILAS WHITNEY , in the right-hand window a sign reading VOTE FOR ANGUS TUTTLE : evenly distributed among these were hand-lettered signs of Grange dinners, bookmobile dates, and town-hall meetings. We walked inside and found Simon Pritchett, proprietor, reading a newspaper behind the counter and the store otherwise deserted. He put aside his newspaper and walked toward us: we met at the pot-bellied stove in the middle of the room, which was engulfed by trade goods of the most incredible variety: boxes of towels and washcloths, snow boots and sleds hanging from the ceiling, blankets and shirts and sou’westers piled high, all of this crowded around a soda cooler, a penny candy counter, and a meat locker. Joe gave the man a pleasant smile and said, “Good evening.”
    “ ’Evening,” said the man, “can I help you folks?”
    “We’re hoping you can,” Joe told him. “My friend here, Amelia Jones, is looking for the place where Mrs. Hannah Meerloo used to live.”
    “A very dear friend of my family’s at one time,” I added, seeing him look at me with a sharpened, warier glance.
    He was silent, mulling us over thoughtfully for a long minute. He must have decided at last that we were trustworthy because he finally nodded and said, “That’d be the place up for sale again by the summer folks who bought it three years ago. The Keppel place.”
    “Keppel,” I repeated.
    He nodded. “Down the road a piece, far as the fork. Bear to the right—that’d be Tuttle Road—and you’ll find it on your left, near the river. Big place, can’t miss the for sale sign on the white brick wall.” Having spewed this out he looked at me expectantly, obviously waiting to learn what I was going to do with a closed-uphouse behind a white brick wall. I asked instead with a smile, “Did you know Hannah Meerloo?”
    “Know everyone in Carleton,” he said cautiously. “One time or ’nother.”
    “She—uh—died … I mean, of course she’s dead but—?”
    I stopped doubtfully.
    “Buried in the town cemetery,” he said flatly. “Can’t be deader than that.”
    So that was that.
    Joe, seeing the expression on my face, stepped into the breach to ask casually, “And for how long did she happen