Classic Passion: Origin
Copyright© 2026 by RedRambler
Chapter 9: House Cleaning
July 16, 1962 – Cleaning House
I spent the entire day scrubbing the apartment clean. Chief Simmons’ mother, Flo, had loaned me buckets, mops, rags, and an assortment of cleaning supplies after I’d explained my situation.
“You need anything else, you just holler,” she’d said, packing the supplies into a cardboard box. Her weathered hands moved with practiced efficiency, tucking in a small jar of homemade furniture polish. “I threw in some of my special beeswax blend. Works wonders on those old built ins.”
The apartment hadn’t been lived in for years. Dust coated every surface, cobwebs stretched across corners, and the bathroom sink had a ring of grime that took almost an hour to scrub away. But there was something satisfying about transforming the space, making it mine with every stroke of the rag, every pass of the mop.
By late afternoon, sweat soaked through my t-shirt despite the small oscillating fan Cathy had brought over. The wooden floors gleamed, windows sparkled, and even the ancient kitchenette looked serviceable. I’d need to scrounge up some basic kitchenware, but that could wait.
Grandmother hadn’t reappeared since our confrontation. Grandfather had silently moved my bed frame and mattress over, then returned with my desk and chair, never meeting my eyes. I arranged the sparse furniture, creating a sleeping area in what had once been a small dining room.
That evening, Flo insisted I join them for dinner. “You’re skin and bones,” she declared, ladling another helping of chicken and dumplings onto my plate. “Growing boys need proper food, not whatever nonsense that woman feeds you.”
The Simmons’ kitchen was everything my grandmother’s wasn’t, warm, inviting, filled with delicious smells and gentle conversation. Cathy told stories from her lifeguard shift, Chief Simmons shared an amusing tale about catching the mayor fishing without a license, and Flo kept everyone’s plates full.
“Tom, you’re welcome at this table anytime,” Flo said as I helped clear dishes. “Door’s always open.”
“Mrs. Simmons, there is one thing I would like to ask if I could impose upon you, would you teach me to cook ... nothing fancy, just simple survival food.”
“First of all, you either call me Granny or Flo ... I imagine Granny isn’t an option, though, so Flo it is. Second, I’ll be happy to teach you anything you want to know. I’m sure that goes for Cathy and Billy also. You are family, boy, and don’t you ever forget it Back in my apartment, I unrolled my sleeping bag on the bare mattress. The bed frame would need tightening tomorrow, but for now, this would do. Exhaustion pulled at me as I lay down, and within minutes, sleep dragged me under.
I found myself standing knee-deep in the cool stream that ran near our cottage back home.
The familiar weight of my homemade crawdad net felt right in my hands. Sunlight dappled through the trees, casting golden patterns on the water’s surface. “Don’t you think this morning’s showdown was a bit dramatic?” Birdie’s voice carried from the large flat rock where she sat hugging her knees. She wore cut-off jeans and a faded blue t-shirt, her hair pulled back in a messy ponytail.
“It worked, didn’t it?” I said, carefully lifting a rock to check underneath. “She backed down.”
“For now,” Birdie cautioned. “She’s not done with you yet.”
I nodded, moving deeper into the stream. “I know. But the power balance has shifted. She can’t control me through fear anymore.”
“So, what’s your next move, Hardy?” Birdie tossed a small pebble into the water, creating ripples that expanded outward.
“Get a job. Save money. Finish high school.” I spotted movement beneath a rock and quickly positioned my net. “Maybe even make some friends.”
“You already have. Cat and Em both think you’re pretty special.”
I smiled, successfully scooping up a crawdad. Its pincers snapped ineffectually at the air as I examined it before releasing it back into the stream.
“You know,” I said, watching the crawdad scuttle away, “talking to myself through you is actually, kind of helpful.”
Birdie laughed, the sound echoing off the rocks. “As long as you don’t start doing it out loud in public.”
“I don’t think this will become a daily thing,” I replied, moving to another promising spot.
“But it’s nice knowing I can retreat here when I need to center myself, not to hide, but to think.”
“You’ve noticed we’re not on the dock,” Birdie observed.
I paused, looking around at the familiar stream bed. She was right. All our serious conversations had always taken place on the dock, our special place for important matters.
“I think it means I’m more relaxed about the changes,” I said slowly. “The dock was where we
faced hard truths. This...” I gestured to the bubbling stream, the dappled sunlight, “this is were
we just existed. No pressure.”
Birdie nodded, smiling. “You’re getting the hang of this symbolism stuff.”
“Well, I had a good teacher.” I splashed water in her direction, and she squealed in mock outrage.
“Hardy, you’re impossible!” But her laughter filled the air as the dream began to fade around the edges.
I woke with first light streaming through curtainless windows, feeling more rested than I had in months. The apartment was silent except for the distant chirping of birds. For the first time since arriving in Florida, I felt something close to peace.
This nearly empty apartment, sparse as it was, represented something I’d never truly had before: independence. My own space. My own rules.
July 17, 1962 - Lake Sebring Tour
I stepped outside my front door the next morning, stretching carefully to test my ribs. The early Florida sunshine already promised another scorching day, but the morning air still held a hint of coolness.
Across the street, Cathy stood on her porch, watching expectantly. When our eyes met, she gave me an enthusiastic thumbs-up, then mimed eating with an exaggerated motion. Breakfast invitation, clear enough.
I held up five fingers, pointing back at myself to indicate I needed a few minutes. She nodded and disappeared back inside her house.
Back in my apartment, I splashed water on my face and brushed my teeth, running my fingers through my still-damp hair from my earlier shower. I’d slept in my shorts, so I pulled on a clean t-shirt and tennis shoes, wincing only slightly as I bent to tie the laces.
The doctors had given me a sling for my arm, which I’d dutifully worn inside the hospital. I’d promptly removed it the moment I was out of sight, stuffing it into my pocket. The less I looked like an invalid, the better.
In the garage, I found my Schwinn right where I’d left it. I ran my hand over the handlebars, relieved to see Grandfather had taken care of it when the people from St. Augustine’s all but pulled me off it, the morning they shanghaied me, only to drive me around for hours before delivering me to the school. Wheeling it outside, I was pleasantly surprised when my ribs only protested mildly as I swung my leg over the seat. Either Dr. Reeves had exaggerated the condition, or I was healing faster than expected.
Cathy waited at the curb, her copper hair shining in the morning light.
“Morning, Hardy,” she called as I pedaled up. “You hungry?”
“Starving,” I admitted.
“Grandma said she’d make pancakes, but...” She hesitated, looking at my bike. “I was thinking maybe we could go to Rosie’s instead? Just us?”
I considered this. Being alone with Cathy wasn’t exactly a hardship, and exploring the town on my own terms, appealed to me.
“Rosie’s it is,” I agreed. “Lead the way.”
She hopped on her blue Schwinn, and we rode side by side down the quiet street. The morning air felt good against my face, carrying the scent of flowering trees and fresh-cut grass.
“How’s the new place?” Cathy asked as we coasted down a gentle slope.
“Empty,” I replied. “But it’s mine.”
Rosie’s Diner sat on the corner of Main and Palmetto, its neon sign glowing pink even in the daylight. The morning crowd was just starting to thin as we parked our bikes and headed inside.
The waitress, a fifty-something woman with bottle-blonde hair piled high, greeted Cathy by name and led us to a booth by the window. She took our orders without writing anything down, winking at me before heading back to the kitchen.
“So,” Cathy said, stirring sugar into her coffee, “I was thinking I could come over after breakfast and help you get the place set up. I’m pretty good at making something out of nothing.”
I appreciated the offer, but hesitated. “I think I need to let the new reality settle in first,” I said carefully. “My grandmother isn’t exactly thrilled with the arrangement. Bringing in guests might escalate things before we’ve established the new boundaries.”
Cathy nodded, surprisingly understanding. “Smart thinking. When you’re ready for help, just say the word.”
“Actually,” I pulled a folded piece of paper from my pocket, “I started a list of things I need.
Maybe you could help me figure out where to get them?”
She brightened at this, taking the paper and scanning it. “This is a good start, but you’re missing a lot.”
For the next twenty minutes, as we worked through plates of eggs and bacon, Cathy helped me create a comprehensive list of everything a functional apartment might need. Cookware, towels, soap, lightbulbs, the list grew longer by the minute. I had some of it in the apartment, but some really needed replacement, like some of the cookware.
“The biggest thing you need is a refrigerator,” she declared, circling the item twice.
“Otherwise, you’ll be eating at Rosie’s for every meal.”
“Which wouldn’t be the worst fate,” I said, savoring the last bite of crispy bacon.
After breakfast, Cathy guided me to Harvey’s Second Chance Shop, a sprawling secondhand store on the edge of town. The place was a treasure trove of cast-offs and forgotten items, everything from furniture to kitchen appliances to old records.
“Harvey’s fair,” Cathy explained as we entered. “And he always has good appliances.”
The owner, a burly man with thick forearms and thinning gray hair, looked up from behind the counter. Recognition flickered across his face when he saw me.
“You’re the Hardy boy,” he said, not a question but a statement. “The one from St. Augustine’s.”
I nodded, uncomfortable with the attention but refusing to show it.
“Looking for a few things for my place,” I said.
Harvey showed us to the back, where several refrigerators stood in a row. He pointed out a white Kelvinator that looked almost new.
“Sixty dollars,” he said, then quickly added, “But for you, forty-five. Includes delivery.”
I frowned. The price seemed suspiciously low for such a nice appliance. “Why the discount?”
Harvey looked away, busying himself with adjusting the price tag. “My nephew was at St. Augustine’s three years ago. Came back different. Quiet. Won’t talk about it.” He cleared his throat. “Anyway, forty-five and I’ll have it delivered this afternoon.”
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