The Secrets on Chicory Lane: A Novel(36)

“Take the car home, Shelby!” Eddie shouted. “The keys are still in the ignition.”

By then, the cop had pushed Eddie into the cruiser’s back seat and slammed the door. The policeman returned to me and asked, “Were you a witness to the fight at the bar?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then you may need to make a statement. Your friend hurt two men, one pretty badly. He may lose an eye.” He asked for my ID and wrote everything down. “Follow us to the Limite police station, would you, please? We’ll ask you some questions there.”

The rest of that night is a haze. I remember going to the station and telling my side of the story while Eddie was kept in another room. The man at the bar, whose name I can’t recall, was in the hospital. The other guy—the one Eddie jabbed with the sharp edge of the bottle—had been treated for a minor injury and released. Both men were pressing charges. I told it exactly how I saw it—the man had approached Eddie in a threatening manner and essentially accused him of being a murderer. When we tried to leave peacefully, the man grabbed Eddie’s shirt with the intention of hurting him. Eddie was only defending himself.

After I gave my statement, they let me go. I drove the Newcott family car back to Chicory Lane and parked it in their driveway. The house was dark, so I figured Mrs. Newcott was asleep. Nevertheless, I rang the doorbell. Twice, three times. Finally, the door opened and a haggard-looking woman stood behind the screen door. I barely recognized her as Eddie’s mom, and I realized I hadn’t seen her at all in the few weeks since I’d been back. Like my own mother, she appeared as if she had aged several years.

“Mrs. Newcott, Eddie’s in trouble,” I said, breathlessly. “He’s been arrested.”

“What?”

I told her the story, and she simply shook her head. “I’ll deal with it in the morning,” she muttered, and then she shut the door. Christ! I was flabbergasted. The woman didn’t care; or maybe she was just too out of it to give a damn. Whatever—I stood there for a minute attempting to figure out what I should do. In the end, I did nothing. I turned, walked across the street, and entered our home. The place was dead quiet, a single lamp in the living room left on for me. Mom and Dad were asleep. Silently, I made my way to my bedroom, undressed, and climbed into bed.

I’m not sure if I slept or not.





15


Eddie was released on bail the next day. He called when he got home, so I went across the street to see him. He was in the fallout shelter, lying on his bed, staring at the ceiling. Music I wasn’t familiar with was blaring—heavy rock and the dark, metal stuff, probably Black Sabbath. Eddie had been listening to a lot of Black Sabbath; he identified with the band’s Satanic imagery and themes. It wasn’t my cup of tea.

His mother had hired a lawyer and posted a five-thousand-dollar bail to get her son out of jail. “She’s not talking to me now,” he said.

“Eddie, why did you have to hit the man with a bottle? Couldn’t we have just walked out of the bar?”

“You heard what he said,” he answered. “Besides, I don’t think he would have let us walk out without following us and doing something in the parking lot.”

“Do you really go there often?”

“Not that often. There are a few kicker bars just outside the city limits that have a seediness that appeals to me.”

“Why?”

“I don’t expect you to understand.” With that, he lit a joint, inhaled deeply, and handed it to me.

“No, thanks.”

“Suit yourself.” He continued to take drags.

I didn’t know what else to say, and I didn’t want to stay. I got up. “Well, I need to help my mom with something today. I’ll see you later.”

As I returned to our house, thoughts churned in my head. Eddie was not the same person I had fallen in love with. What had changed him in such a short time? It had only been a few months since Christmas.

His lawyer contacted me after a few days, requesting a deposition, so I gave him one. It must have helped, for two weeks later at a preliminary hearing, the case was thrown out. No criminal charges would be filed against Eddie, but that didn’t mean the man wouldn’t file a civil suit. Luckily for Eddie, it didn’t happen. The man must have sucked it up to a few stitches and let it go.

One night, I went over to the bomb shelter with some trepidation. It was very early July, I remember, before the Fourth. The month of June had been a trying one for Eddie and me, and our relationship was strained. I cared about him a great deal, but when we saw each other it felt as if he was pushing me away. He was keeping secrets from me; I could tell. It was the way he acted; I can’t explain it. Most women have an innate ability to spot a liar. Not that I thought Eddie was lying to me, it’s just that there were things he wasn’t telling me. That afternoon, I had called and told him I wanted a “serious discussion.” He said, “Uh oh.” We agreed to meet at the bomb shelter at nine o’clock.

When I opened the squeaky steel door, I was hit with a thousand decibels of what I guess was Black Sabbath. I climbed down the steps into the smoky man cave, beheld the ever-bubbling lava lamp, and found Eddie lying drunk as a skunk on his bed.

“Hiiii, Shelby,” he said.

“Oh, Eddie.” I was disappointed. “It’s stuff like this that made me want to talk to you.”