The Secrets on Chicory Lane: A Novel(17)

It was a Sunday, and again I went searching for Eddie. Forgetting that I was alone, I went over to Mr. Alpine’s house and rang the doorbell to see if Eddie might be there. The library was closed for the holiday weekend and Mr. Alpine was home. He was surprised to see me.

“Well, if it isn’t my darling Shelby!” he announced with a flourish. It made me laugh. “What brings such a fascinating creature such as you to my doorstep?”

My face felt hot and I became shy. “Is … is Eddie here?”

“No, ma’am, young Master Newcott isn’t here at the moment. But would you like to come inside for a glass of ice-cold lemonade and a cookie?”

You know, it was hot. West Texas is murder in the summer months. A glass of cold lemonade sounded real good. To heck with my parents, I thought. “Sure,” I said. He held the screen door open for me and I entered a real devil’s lair—I just didn’t know it at the time. We went through the parlor hallway and into his den, where his television, comics, and some pieces of his toy collection were kept. Strangely, I noticed a number of unframed portraits of babies scattered on a table—then I quickly remembered that he photographed infants as well as the kids at school. There were also a few framed photos of babies on the wall. Among them, I found the portrait he’d taken of my brother Michael. He noticed that I was staring at them.

“Ah, some of my lovely subjects,” he said. “I like to display my favorites. Aren’t they beautiful? Not too fond of dirty diapers, but I love the babies!” He laughed.

“That’s my brother,” I said, pointing.

“So it is! Yeah, I think that’s one of my best ones, don’t you?”

“Sure, I guess so.” At the time, something felt instinctively weird about his displaying of baby pictures in his own home. But I shook it off. There wasn’t anything particularly wrong with that, since he was a part-time photographer. Looking back, I realize how naive I was. Photos of other people’s children, hanging in his living room?

A portable movie screen was set up on one end of the room, and the projector sat on a small table in the middle. I went over to the box of small film canisters to see what he had—several reels of 8 mm celluloid, labeled with numbers. Mr. Alpine came over and quickly picked them up.

“I was watching some home movies of my family. My cartoons and comedies are over there.” He moved to a shelf containing other boxes of reels and put that box back. I may be mistakenly recollecting his actions, but I distinctly remember thinking that he wanted to hide the numbered reels from me.

“How are your mom and dad?” he asked.

“They’re fine.” I kept thinking about the child that died, but I didn’t dare mention it. Instead, I asked, “Do your … where do your parents live?”

“Oh, they live in El Paso.”

“Is that where you grew up?”

“Sure did. Me and my brother Carl. Lemonade’s in here.”

I followed him through the den and into the adjoining kitchen. He opened the fridge, retrieved a bottle, and poured two glasses. He clinked my glass and said, “Cheers. May all your dreams become reality, my princess.”

It tasted fresh, cold, and wonderful.

“Would you like to watch a movie?” he asked. “I’ll make some popcorn.”

Suddenly, I could hear my mother’s voice in my head, telling me not to go to Mr. Alpine’s house alone. “No, thank you,” I said, and made some excuse to leave.

He performed a little bow. “Well, you crush me, fair maiden, but I will allow you to fulfill your obligations.”

I laughed again; I liked this guy.

“Oh! You should see the antique dolls I got from Germany. I bet you’d like those.”

“I’m too old to play with dolls.”

“Of course you are, my dear, but you’re also old enough to appreciate their beauty and the artistic talent that went into creating them. They’re hand-painted.”

“Where are they?”

“In my bedroom. Come and see.”

Alarm bells went off in my head. At the time, I’d simply felt uncomfortable about going into his bedroom; it was only later, when I was older, that I realized my defense instincts had kicked in.

“No thanks, I need to go. Thank you for the lemonade, Mr. Alpine!” And I was out the door.

I never returned to his house again.

I didn’t find Eddie the rest of the day and chalked it up to the possibility that he was avoiding me. It made me feel bad, but perhaps this was what he had to do to cope with the breakup.

The Fourth of July holiday began with a great breakfast my mother made. My dad was off work for a few days, and we had planned to take a trip to New Mexico to see Carlsbad Caverns. Fireworks began around ten in the morning, and the crying started early. Michael didn’t like the noise. I remember going out to a vacant lot with my father in the afternoon to shoot some Black Cats—actually Dad did most of the work while I watched and held my ears.

That night, a bunch of people shot fancy fireworks in the park. They weren’t organized in any way, and it was probably dangerous as hell, but in those days no one thought anything about it. Michael was finally asleep, so Mom, Dad, and I went outside to our backyard to watch the display. We could see the airspace over the park from there—we had the best view. I remember Mom being antsy; she didn’t want to spend too much time outside since Michael was asleep inside. Dad assured her, saying that there were plenty of quiet moments between the explosions in the sky to hear the baby cry if necessary.