The Secrets on Chicory Lane: A Novel(24)

“Of course it’s not.”

“But she holds it against me, Dad. She still blames me for what happened.”

“That’s not true, Shelby. Your mother—the only person she blames is herself. That’s what is eating her alive.”

“What can we do?”

He sighed and shook his head. “Be nice to her. That’s the only thing we can do now, because we’ve tried everything else. The doctors—I don’t know if they help her or hurt her …”

“Don’t you think she takes too many pills?”

“She makes it worse by mixing them with alcohol. I don’t know, honey, I’ve tried to get her to go easy on that stuff, but she does what she wants. In many ways, she’s a very strong-willed woman, despite her weaknesses.”

It was the first in a long time that my father and I had mentioned Michael’s abduction. We did our grocery shopping and returned home in silence.

That evening, after dinner, I walked alone to the park. Though the layout was the same, it wasn’t completely how I remembered it. For one thing, the airplane and yacht had long been removed for being “unsafe.” The playground equipment was more modern. Since it was winter, the trees were leafless and the grass was brown. The place was desolate and cold. It didn’t feel the same. I turned around and made my way back to the house.

It would have been an unmemorable holiday had I not decided, four days before Christmas, that I was going mad being alone with my parents. I announced that I wanted to visit some old haunts and could I please have the car. Dad didn’t mind; in fact, he encouraged me to get out of the house. I went to the Oil Derrick, which was still in business. It no longer had a separate seventeen-or-younger room—it was now all eighteen-or-over. The drinking age had not yet changed in ’76, so I suppose the Limite elder statesmen decided that having an underage establishment connected to what was basically a pick-up bar was inappropriate. At least, that’s what the joint had become.

The possibility of running into someone from high school was fairly high. Half the people who grow up in Limite usually stay there as adults. They go to the local community college and straight to a locally based career, and they plant roots. Some folks are just better suited for small towns. And as it was the holidays approaching Christmas, I figured someone I knew would be there.

It must have been around nine o’clock when I walked in through the door. A blast of music and cigarette smoke hit me in the face. People had always smoked in the Oil Derrick, but it had become worse than when I was seventeen. Never liked it. I suppose we just lived with it back then; it was part of the nightlife everywhere. Today, I wouldn’t be able to step inside a place like that without choking.

I distinctly remember the song I walked in on, that duet Elton John did with Kiki Dee, “Don’t Go Breaking My Heart.” I almost started laughing at the irony. After all, what the hell was I looking for in a bar in Limite, Texas? Certainly not romance. I was never into one-night stands, despite the few I’d had in college. Dancing with a stranger wasn’t on my to-do list, either.

Maybe I just wanted a stiff drink. The dark cloud hanging over our house called for it.

I ordered something—I think it was a screwdriver—and sat on a stool at the bar. The place was a gas for people-watching, although few couples were on the dance floor. No one looked familiar, but they were all the same type. The men wore carbon-copy blue jeans and western shirts. The women all had on identical Charlie’s Angels wardrobes. And the clientele was all white, of course. Whoa. After living in Austin and Evanston, Limite was Nowheresville. I felt like a fish out of water, to be sure. Leaving my hometown and going off to college had made me grow as a person, both in knowledge and emotional maturity. It opened my mind to so much more than what Limite had to offer. I like to say I learned how to think abstractly once I left home. I studied art and theater and literature and film—and everything else that excited and interested me. I’m not proud to admit it, but it was no wonder I unwittingly felt superior to everyone in the Oil Derrick that night. I just thought they were hicks; I, on the other hand, was smarter, more attractive, and more liberal-thinking. Perhaps I was a little full of myself.

Within the space of two minutes, a young man—college age—approached me and asked if he could buy me a drink. I was sitting there with a full one. “No, thanks,” I said, and turned away to give him the message. Go away.

Three minutes later, another man approached me. He was older, more the thirty-something type. Probably divorced, or perhaps even still married, and he was actually quite good-looking.

“Never seen you here before. Hi, I’m Jack.” He held out his hand. I didn’t take it.

“Hi Jack, I’m Shelby.”

He smiled and awkwardly lowered his hand. “Do, uh, you come here a lot?”

“Nope.”

“I didn’t think so. I’d know it if I saw you before. Where do you mostly roost?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Where do you usually go? There’s not that many good clubs on this side of town.”

“I’m not from here, I’m visiting my folks. I live in Chicago.”

“Oh, I see.” He started to sit down on the stool next to me, but I held up my hand—“Please, I’m expecting someone.”

“You are?”