The Secrets on Chicory Lane: A Novel(28)

In fact, all of the artwork was creepy and scary. It was the stuff of nightmares—demons, monsters, near-naked women, scenes of pain and suffering, and abstract collages that were violently powerful. I would have been completely turned off had it not been for the fact that the work was so good. Eddie’s style and technique was original and highly accomplished. I knew a little about art from my years at UT—drama majors were required to take an Art Appreciation course, and I personally enjoyed visiting the Art Institute in Chicago where I saw famous paintings I’d only seen before in books.

“My God, Eddie, these are—wow,” I said. “I mean, it’s pretty creepy stuff, but you’re so good.”

“Thanks.”

“You were always into drawing this kind of stuff, weren’t you?”

“You know I was.”

I stepped closer to a color painting that portrayed demons throwing babies into a pit of fire—with pitchforks, no less. Despite the sickening subject matter, the detail was so intricate and well-executed that I was amazed.

“You are one sick bastard,” I said,

That made him laugh. “Yeah, I am. Blame it all on my childhood. I let out all my pain and suffering through my work. Just like van Gogh.”

“Vincent van Gogh didn’t paint monsters throwing children into hell.”

“Yeah, but I bet he felt like doing so at times. He’s the guy who cut off his ear and gave it to his girlfriend, you know. He was mad as hell and couldn’t take it anymore!”

The rest of the shelter was decked out as living quarters. The three cots were gone, but a double bed occupied one side of the space, along with a night table and lava lamp. A television sat on a small table on the opposite side of the room, with a record player and sound system next to it. There were maybe a hundred albums and cassettes on a shelf.

“You live down here?”

“Not all the time. I still have my bedroom in the house. But I think I sleep here more often. I’m usually up late working, so I just crash here.” He showed me that he had installed a refrigerator and a heating/AC unit. I also noticed a roach clip and the butts of a few marijuana joints in an ashtray next to the lava lamp. He noticed me looking, so he turned it on.

“It takes a while to get going,” he explained. Then he put on a record. “You like Pink Floyd?”

“I guess so.”

“You guess so? What’s wrong with you?”

“I like them all right. They’re not my favorite.”

“Who is?”

“I don’t know. I like David Bowie. Linda Ronstadt.”

He furrowed his brow. “Those two don’t go together.”

“So what?”

He just laughed. I continued to examine his artwork. “Don’t the paint fumes get to you down here?”

“Nah, it’s well ventilated. And I have a fan.” He opened the fridge. “Want a beer?”

“No, thanks, I’ve had enough for one night.” He pulled out a can for himself and popped it open.

“Hey,” I said, “wasn’t there a secret hiding place in the floor?”

“You remember that, huh?”

“Behind the toilet. What did you call it?”

“Davy Jones’s Locker.”

“Right. I sure have a lot of memories of this place.”

He looked at me. His stare was intense. “Yeah, me too.”

Did he remember everything we had done in here? Probably. If I did, then he did. I wasn’t about to bring it up, though.

“Hey, do you smoke pot?” he asked.

I laughed. “Uh, I have.”

Eddie immediately went to a drawer in a filing cabinet and pulled out a baggie full of the stuff. “Let’s get high, then.”

“Mm, not tonight, thanks. I’d really better get back across the street.”

“Why? Aren’t you old enough that your parents don’t wait up for you?” He had already started rolling the joint.

“Well, sure, I just … I don’t know …” Maybe I was feeling some of the claustrophobia I recalled feeling from those days in the sixties when we were in the shelter. But the music, the lava lamp, and my insane attraction for Eddie changed my mind.

He lit the joint, took a hit, and handed it to me. I don’t know why I did it, but I grasped the thing between my fingers and inhaled. Looking back, I realized I was a bit bowled over by Eddie’s good looks and charisma. He had a way of seducing you with those dark eyes of his. I’ve read a lot about Rasputin and the hold he had over Alexandra, the last tsar’s wife in Russia. Lots of men throughout history were purported to have the ability to mesmerize women. I believe Eddie had that power.

All I recall about the rest of the night was that we ended up in that double bed, basking in the glow of the lava lamp. Whether it was because of the drugs, the alcohol, or the excitement of being in a forbidden place—one that, in my memories, was the site of many erotic experiences—I had one of the best sexual experiences of my life. My God, Eddie knew what he was doing. He took me to plateaus and peaks I never knew existed. His body was muscular and hard and strong. I felt myself surrender to him without compunction. He was sweet, too, inquiring first about contraception—whether or not he should wear a condom. I told him no, I was on the pill, and he seemed very happy about that. We must have made love three or four times that night, and it was incredibly intense. I do recollect closing my eyes so I couldn’t see all that demonic art around us; however, there was also something otherworldly about being in the shelter with this beautiful man. It made the encounter that much more electrifying.