The Secrets on Chicory Lane: A Novel(2)
He carefully uses a fingernail to open the envelope and hands me the contents—a message printed on the law firm’s letterhead, official and neat. My hand trembles as I read.
“Well, hell,” I mutter, sighing heavily.
“What?” Billy asks.
“All of the appeals have been denied.”
“He’s going to be executed?”
I nod. “Barring some kind of miracle stay from the Board of Pardons and Paroles or the governor of Texas, yeah.” I look at the calendar on the desk. “In four days.”
“Jesus, you’ll be in Texas then.”
“That’s not all.” I hand Billy the letter and he reads it, wide-eyed.
He looks up. “You gonna go?”
“I don’t know.” I take the letter back and reread what Mr. Crane has written.
Eddie requests that you visit him this week. He says he has something important to tell you. I have placed your name on the visitation list and the warden has already approved it. Note that this is highly irregular, but an exception has been made. Please let me know as soon as possible if you can make it. I know Eddie will be pleased to see you. Please call my office. In the meantime, I will phone you.
“Crane says he’ll phone you.”
“He hasn’t yet.”
Billy nods at the answering machine that sits on a little table near the printer, which is normally out of my sight line unless I actually look at it. Of course, the number “2” blinks on the LED. I roll my chair to the table and punch the Play button. Mr. Crane relates the same message that is in the letter, and leaves his phone number. Twice.
“I guess I missed those.” As I roll back to my position at the desk, I sigh again. Lately I’ve been doing a lot of sighing. “I’m supposed to be in Limite for the park dedication ceremony on the day of his execution.”
“I know.”
“I suppose I could swing by Huntsville on the way.”
“Do you want to?”
“I don’t know, Billy. Why don’t you get the coffee and let me think about this.”
He nods at the blank Word document on the computer monitor. “I see you’ve got Patricia in a fine mess this time.”
“Don’t rub it in. I’m a little too preoccupied to think about who Patricia is going to sleep with next.” As I say it, I realize it’s the truth. Perhaps that’s why I can’t seem to get started this morning. My mind is already on Eddie. It has been for quite some time.
“I’ll just get that coffee …” Billy steps out of the room and leaves me alone with my apprehension.
Why the hell does Eddie want to talk to me? We haven’t spoken in twenty years, long before his crime. When he received the death penalty, he wouldn’t let me visit and we never communicated. I resigned myself that I’d never see him again. The advocacy group tried to get me to attend the execution and protest outside the prison, me being a celebrity and all. I had decided long ago that I wouldn’t attend, even if I were invited to be a witness to the execution. Giving them money and allowing them to use my name and a quotation is one thing, but I prefer not to show my face for the cameras down in Texas. My plan is to be nowhere near the southeast part of the state; however, I will soon be traveling instead to the western portion near that right angle at the bottom of the Panhandle.
I check the paper calendar again. Today is Monday. The park dedication in Limite is scheduled for Friday, as is Eddie’s execution. I’d committed to a speaking engagement at a library in Schaumburg on Wednesday evening, so my original plan was to fly to Texas on Thursday. There is no direct flight to the Limite airport from Chicago O’Hare; I have to fly to Dallas and change planes. I could cancel the library event, although I don’t like doing that.
You see, they are naming a park after me in my old hometown: the Shelby Truman Community Park. It was where we used to play as children—all of the kids on our block—since it was just another street over. If the place had a name then, I don’t remember it. It was unique because along with standard swing sets, slides, climbing structures, and a merry-go-round, there sat, incongruously, a World War II–era airplane and a yacht. Each hulk was propped up with supports and had ladders and slides attached so kids could actually climb inside and play. The passenger section was empty of seats, but you could look out the windows. I remember sitting in the plane’s cockpit and pretending I was flying. The cabin of the boat was more intimate, and the older teenagers used it as a place to make out. Again, there was no furniture or machinery. I doubt running around in those derelict ships was very safe, but that was back in the sixties. I recall more than one cut or scrape from some sneaky sharp edge.
Eventually the plane and yacht were taken out of the park, sometime when I was a young adult. It was then known as East Limite Family Park. Now the powers-that-be want to honor a hometown-kid-that-made-good and rename the grounds. Sure, I’m flattered, but I don’t relish returning to Limite. Too many unpleasant memories. After all, the death of a family member—a sibling in this case—changes the dynamics of a household.
After the summer of 1966, things were never the same in my family. Mother certainly wasn’t. My parents stayed in Limite when I left for college in ’72, and I went back to visit as often as I could stand it. After their deaths, I figured I’d never have to see those flat desert plains and pumpjack oil wells again. High school reunions never interested me. No other relatives live there. There simply never was a good reason to return to West Texas, but now I have an obligation to go. The price of fame and fortune.