It had been a good year for Lois Mace.
She and her husband, only three years beyond college, had bought their first house. A solid red-brick and clapboard Cape Cod, it sat on a leafy street named for a character out of a Longfellow poem. In its driveway glistened a new sedan, silver-gray with burgundy roof and whitewalls, a gift from her father, a Ford dealer.
And under its dormers that last day of August 1954 slept her three children: A sunny toddler with platinum blonde hair and a weak stomach sphincter, known around the house, mostly affectionately, as Miss Urp. A three-year-old bruiser with a devilish twinkle in his eye, whom the neighbor nicknamed Meatball. Then there was the eldest, a lithe towhead with quick feet and an even quicker tongue—him they called Motormouth. He was set in a week’s time to walk the two blocks down the hill…
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