The Secrets on Chicory Lane: A Novel(38)

“Do you mean that?” I asked.

“Yeah. Go. Go back to Illinois. Forget about me. Please.” He hung his head.

We were silent for a moment. Then I said, “Goodbye, Eddie,” turned, and left the bomb shelter.

I wouldn’t see Eddie again until seventeen years later. We would be very different people by then.





16


Back at the Best Western, I tell myself it’s going to be an early night. At least I’m hoping it will be. I’m one of those people who can never sleep well when traveling, and I dislike not having my own pillow. Nevertheless, I open my tablet and connect to the Internet in order to check my email and the like. The television is tuned to a mindless talent competition show—sometimes music can be nice in the background. If only the judges would shut up.

After taking care of business, I go to Google on a whim and type “Edward Newcott Evil Eddie” in the search box. Dozens of links appear. Evil Eddie had attracted attention, infamous on a national basis. I didn’t know the extent of his fame overseas, but I see URLs for a London and a Paris news outlet. Most of the recent articles are about the trial and the upcoming execution. Eddie is painted to be a demon, a creature that deserves to die by lethal injection.

I am very torn. Recalling the night he told me he’d killed his father prompts me to reexamine everything. I want to be prepared for my face-to-face with Eddie tomorrow. Even if he is so far gone mentally that we’re barely able to speak to each other, I am determined to fully come to terms with how I feel about him and the things he’s done. What he did to Dora Walton and her baby is unthinkable. No question about it. I shouldn’t have anything more to do with Eddie because of that, but I can’t help but believe he was sick in the head. The Eddie I know couldn’t have done that horrible deed.

Could he?

After all, he’d killed before. He’d admitted to me—and only me—that he caused the death of his abusive father.

How the hell do I feel about any of it? I don’t know. God help me, but I am torn.

The TV becomes an ambient drone as my mind drifts back to that summer of 1977. The pain of Eddie telling me he didn’t want me in his life anymore drove me back to Evanston earlier than I’d originally planned. I abruptly announced to my parents that I was going back to Illinois, even though it wasn’t yet the middle of July. They were upset, but I said I’d get a part-time job, which would help with expenses. I did, too—I got a job as a secretary through a temp agency. I worked in the Chicago Loop in a building not far from Union Station, so I was able to take the train to and from Evanston. One of the few things I did well at the time was type. I knew a little about the WANG word processor and easily got a position in a firm that sold investor relations products. I never understood what they were, but I dutifully typed letters and answered phones. It wasn’t bad money, either—eight dollars an hour, which was fabulous in 1977. Too bad I had to disappoint the firm in August when I announced I had to leave and go back to school.

I didn’t hear from Eddie for a long time. It took me at least until spring of 1978 to truly get over him, but even then he was never far from my mind. I dated some, even became intimate with one guy named Brad, but he was definitely in the rebound category. That ended a month or two after it began. I did my best to concentrate on my studies. The previous semester, I had changed my graduate field of study to literature and had started writing more. It was nothing spectacular, just material that I was sure would be the next great American novel. Turned out it was crap, but it was a good learning experience. Novel number two went into the drawer, never to see the light of day. Nevertheless, the work I did in class was pretty good, if I do say so myself, and I made high marks. My professors thought I showed talent, which was very encouraging. I graduated with an MA in literature in May of 1978.

There was a teacher’s aide in my advanced rhetoric class named Derek. Derek Golding. He was also in graduate school, had taken longer to get through it, and was in his fourth, and last, year. He was due to receive his MA at the end of the semester. Good-looking, smart, and much different from Eddie. For one thing, he wore glasses and was thin, nonathletic, and a bit of a nerd. But I liked him. He had a wicked sense of humor, and he made me laugh. Toward the end of the school session, he asked me out on a date. Back then, there was no stigma of teacher’s aides—or even full professors—dating students. Happened all the time. We went out to dinner and had a great evening. We started dating, and as soon as school was out we were sleeping together.

The romance was going well when I suddenly received a call from my father.

My mother had died suddenly.

I can’t describe how horrible I felt. The guilt was tremendous. All the past years I’d spent basically shoving away the reality of my sick, tormented mother caught up with me, and I broke down in a serious way. Derek did his best to console me. He offered to come back to Limite with me for the funeral, but I told him it was too soon for him to be that involved with my family. It was.

My father told me that Mom had taken an overdose of sleeping pills. Whether or not it had been intentional, the police refused to say. “Accidental” was the official report, but I think I knew better. My mother departed this world voluntarily, and as miserable as I’d seen her be, I could almost understand it. Still, I felt betrayed, guilty, and angry. Mostly, I was very sad.