The Secrets on Chicory Lane: A Novel(14)
For a week, we pretended to be secret agents, using the hiding place to leave clues for each other to solve a hide-and-seek puzzle. I made one up and he made up another; I had to solve his and vice versa. I remember having to find a Spider-Man comic book hidden in the airplane in the park. Everyone was spy-crazy in 1966. Television and movies were full of spy shows like The Man from U.N.C.L.E. or I Spy or The Avengers, and there were movies with James Bond or Matt Helm or Derek Flint. He was the dashing Sean Connery type and I was the gorgeous Diana Rigg clone. He’d say to me, “Davy Jones’s Locker,” and I knew immediately where I needed to go to get the instructions for my next mission, instructions like: “Meet me at the park at noon”; “Your prize is inside the empty vase outside the house;” “Call me at 7:00 sharp.” It was silly, but it was fun. For an eleven-and twelve-year-old, playing spies was exotic and exciting.
We were at the park on one such day, gliding back and forth on the swings and discussing various topics. Since Eddie saw a lot of movies, he would tell me about them and practically act out all the parts. It was very entertaining. He was a talented actor but didn’t seem to have the desire to pursue the craft at that time. Later, however, the persona he adopted as an adult was a magnificent performance of artifice, and one that few people saw through.
In the middle of swinging conversation, Eddie suddenly said, “Davy Jones’s Locker.”
I groaned aloud and told him I didn’t want to play that game anymore.
“Well, you’ll miss out, then,” he said, which did the trick to tempt me.
Conveniently, Eddie had to leave with his mother somewhere—a dentist appointment or something like that. Mr. Newcott wasn’t home. As soon as they left in the family car, I went across the street and into their backyard. Without hesitation, I opened the fallout shelter door, turned on the lights, and climbed down—a familiar route. Everything looked the same; the cots were made up neatly with sheets and blankets. Long-expired canned goods and other essentials lined the shelves. I crossed the floor to the other side, went behind the partition, and got on my hands and knees behind the toilet. It was always difficult to get a grip on the concrete slab at first; there was a knack to doing it, and it took me several tries before I managed to pry it open.
Along with Eddie’s usual supply of magazines and toys, there was an envelope with my name on it. Inside, I found a note printed in his easily recognizable hand, along with a drawing of a prince fighting a dragon. An inscription read, “I WILL BE YOUR NIGHT—Eddie.” Okay, he wasn’t the best speller; I knew he meant knight. The note touched me deeply. It’s among the few mementos I kept—and still own—from that period of our relationship.
Later, I got another note:
JUNE 21, 1966
DEAR SHELBY—
THANK YOU FOR LIVING ACROS THE STREET. YOU ARE THE BEST THING IN MY LIFE. I DONT NO WHAT I WOOD DO WITH OUT YOU. I LOVE YOU.
EDDIE
Despite the spelling and grammatical errors, it was sweet. He really did know how to charm a girl.
Over the remaining course of our young romance, Eddie and I never did anything like that first peek-a-boo session in the bomb shelter again.
At least, not until we were in our twenties.
6
The airline crew member makes the announcement that it’s time to board the plane. I’d been so lost in my thoughts that I forgot to go to the ladies room, as I usually do before flights. It’s too late now; the call has come for first class passengers to step up to the gate. Once I claim my seat and get settled, I use the lavatory, return to my seat, and strap myself in. We take off on time. I gaze dreamily out the window as the memories of June 1966 return.
Our house on Chicory Lane. I can visualize certain things about it—the squatty brown exterior with a picture window that was the mouth of an imaginary face, for example. The single-car garage door that acted as a right eye, and two of my bedroom windows that served as the left one. My father was the one who pointed this out to me when I was little. I was sitting in the front seat of the car—a no-no today, but in the early sixties kids climbed all over the inside of a car while it was on the road—as we pulled up into our driveway. It was dark outside. The light was on in our front room, and we could see Mom standing at the window, peering out at us. Dad said, “Shelby, doesn’t it look like Mom is inside the mouth of a big face? Look! You see it?” I squinted to look, and after a second or two, my brain put the puzzle pieces together and I got it. It was indeed a face. I’ll always remember that.
Strangely, my recollections of the inside of the house are more elusive. I can recall the path through the house to my room from the front door. The front room contained the piano, where I used to spend a lot of time; I was never very good at piano, though, and obviously I never pursued it. To this day, I don’t have a clue what my parents’ bedroom looked like. My own was, in my mind, a generic American girl’s bedroom with all the standard accessories—twin bed with stuffed animals, a simple painted oak desk and chair, a bookcase, and a closet. When I first visited home after going away to college, I was struck by how small it was. For the longest time, we only owned a black-and-white television. When the other kids talked about how their families had gotten color TVs, I was jealous. When we finally got one, it was after the tragic events of 1966. By then, it was too late. It wasn’t pleasant sitting in that living room in front of our color TV, attempting to be a normal family again.