The Secrets on Chicory Lane: A Novel(35)

Eddie didn’t say anything.

“I was there, too,” the man said. “I worked with Charlie for twenty years.” He said it with a decidedly threatening tone. It made me uncomfortable.

“Congratulations,” Eddie said.

“He was a friend of mine.”

“Good for you.”

The man leaned close so that he was face-to-face with Eddie. I could smell the man’s liquor-fueled breath from where I sat. “You know what I think?” the man asked with a snarl.

“You can think?” Eddie spat.

“You punk. I think that was no accident when Charlie fell. You were up there with him at the top of the rig.” When Eddie didn’t respond, the man kept going. “Charlie would never slip. He was a pro. You killed him, didn’t you? You fucking pushed your father off the platform.”

Eddie shoved the man away and stood. “Come on, Shelby, let’s get out of here,” he said, holding out his hand to me. I gladly took it and got up.

But the man wouldn’t have it. He actually grabbed Eddie’s shirt with a clenched fist. “Admit it, you hippie shit. You murdered your old man. We all know you did.”

“Get your goddamned hand off of me.”

“All of us that worked there that day, we knew. The cops may have believed your story that he lost his footing, but we know better.”

It happened suddenly, and it scared the crap out of me. Eddie had somehow taken hold of his empty beer bottle in one hand and brought it down hard on the man’s head. The bottle shattered and the man let go of Eddie’s shirt as he stumbled backward, stunned. Time halted for a moment as everyone in the bar focused their attention on us. Eddie stood there with half the broken bottle in his fist, ready to jam it into the man’s face if he came closer.

The man shook his head like a wet dog and felt his scalp. Blood was oozing down his forehead. “You little shit!” he shouted as he leaped for Eddie. I screamed. Eddie swung the sharp edge of the bottle across the man’s face, slicing it in three distinct red stripes. This time the man screamed and covered his face with his bloody hands.

The man’s buddies came forward—four men who looked like they could tear Eddie apart. Eddie stood his ground, holding the jagged-edged bottle. One man bravely rushed Eddie, only to be jabbed in the chest with the weapon. I must have been shouting, “Eddie, stop! Eddie!” I’m pretty sure I heard the bartender yell, “I’m calling the cops!”

“Let’s go,” Eddie said as he took my arm with his free hand and backed us out of the joint. He never dropped the broken bottle or turned his back on his adversaries. When we were out the door, he shouted, “Run!” and we did. The men burst out the door after us. We got in his mother’s car, shut the doors, and locked them. He fumbled for the keys.

“Get out here, you shit!”

“Come out and fight like a man!”

“Eddie, let’s go!” I cried.

They reached the car and tried to open the door on the driver’s side. A rock hit the windshield and caused a spiderweb crack. I screamed again.

Finally the engine turned over. The tires screeched on the gravel parking lot as Eddie backed out of the space, almost hitting one of the men behind us. They were still shouting as he tore out of the lot and onto the highway.

“Jesus, Eddie!” I was near hysterics. I had never in my life been that close to violence. I’m sure tears were streaming down my face.

“It’s all right,” he said. “We’re safe. No one got hurt.”

“No one got hurt? Are you crazy? You nearly cut that man’s face off!”

“He deserved it.”

“What was that he said? He accused you of killing your father!”

“He’s an asshole.”

“Eddie, what was that all about?”

“Shut up!”

The force of his words startled me. I did shut up. But Eddie drove recklessly and broke the speed limit. As soon as we entered the city limits, a police cruiser pulled out of its hiding place. The cop turned on his red-and-blue lights and hit the siren. Eddie cursed, slowed the car, and pulled over. I didn’t say a word, but I was thinking, Serves you right.

Eddie had been doing eighty miles per hour in a forty-five mph zone. Eddie handed over his driver’s license and registration. The cop went back to his car while we sat in silence. Finally, Eddie said, “Sorry, Shelby. I kind of lost it back there.”

I just nodded; I was still very upset. I’d also never been in a car that was pulled over by a policeman before. I was pretty scared.

A traffic ticket might have been the end of it, but unfortunately the policeman must have received word about the fight at the bar while he had returned to his cruiser. The man came back to our car with his pistol drawn.

“Step out of the car, please,” he ordered. Eddie complied. I got out, too, but the policeman barked, “You stay in the car, miss,” so I got back in. The man commanded Eddie to put his hands on the side of the vehicle and to spread his legs. The cop frisked him and then quickly put handcuffs on him. “You’re under arrest for assault. Come with me.” He roughly pulled Eddie toward the cruiser. I panicked and got out of the car again.

“Wait! What about me?” I called.

The policeman answered, “Stay there. I’ll be right back.”