The Secrets on Chicory Lane: A Novel(41)

While continuing to publish issues of Devil Man, Eddie began writing and illustrating an atheistic newsletter called Godless Times, which had a shockingly large number of subscribers, several thousand. His audience consisted of a surprising number of intellectuals, teachers, and even ministers, but the publication also attracted the weirdos.

Eddie turned his house on Chicory Lane into a business. His mother still lived there, although her health declined rapidly in the eighties. Nevertheless, the house across from my childhood home became the Godless Times HQ. The newsletter made money, which attracted the attention of the local news. He was interviewed and soon became an infamous celebrity in Limite. What did he say on television? Eddie flaunted a belief in witchcraft and the devil. In a small town in Texas, something like that could end up with fatal consequences. His neighbors on the block almost rioted. Fortunately, I was far away and never got a sense of how hated he was until much later.

The neighbors tried to get the city to evict them—but Mrs. Newcott owned the house and paid the utilities. Technically, Eddie wasn’t disturbing anyone with noise, or anything like that. No, he offended them with his words and ideas. He frightened them, and the natural response was to attack.

In 1983, some DA tried to charge Eddie with operating a business in a residential area, or something similarly ridiculous. Eddie went to court and won. He was a freelancer, and he simply operated a business out of his home—perfectly legal. The powers-that-be just didn’t like his business.

It came to a head in the spring of ’84. Why Eddie continued to visit the seedy oil field bars would always be a mystery to me, but that’s where the fight occurred. You’d think he would have the sense to know that he was a controversial figure in town, and that maybe the rednecks and good ol’ boys wouldn’t take too kindly toward an atheist.

When recognized at the bar, Eddie practically had to fight for his life. The other man was seriously injured, since Eddie beat him to a pulp with the broken leg of a barstool. The same DA charged him this time with aggravated assault and battery. Eddie pled down to assault and was sentenced to two years in the penitentiary, which many thought was too harsh. In January of 1985, Eddie Newcott became a prisoner at Darrington Correctional Institution in Rosharon, Texas. He was paroled at the end of August ’86 for good behavior. His mother had had a stroke that July, and the parole board must have felt sorry for him.

With Mrs. Newcott confined to a wheelchair and unable to speak, Eddie became a full-time caretaker. It would have been a difficult job for an experienced nurse, but Eddie rose to the task. Now he really did have a reason to stay in Limite. By all accounts Eddie did an admirable job caring for her, and I eventually saw the setup firsthand. He may have come to be called “Evil Eddie,” but he certainly loved his mother.

He started up his business again once he was out of prison. Godless Times quickly rebuilt its subscriber base, and Eddie was once again Limite’s most notorious Satanist; the only one, I imagine. He stayed out of legal trouble, but controversy clearly surrounded him. At one point, he painted the entire house black—that really freaked out the neighbors. Numerous visitors would stop by at night, and Eddie made sure they were quiet and didn’t bother anyone. Rumors flew as to what went on in that black house. People actually believed Eddie was holding black masses and rituals in the neighborhood. Never mind that his mother still lived in the house.

The police paid visits to the home on several occasions. Turned out that the nuisance calls were never anything serious—Eddie diligently ensured he wasn’t breaking any laws. Some phone-happy neighbors obviously hoped that he was.

For the rest of the eighties and early nineties, I didn’t hear another word about Eddie or his mother. I visited my father in Limite three or four times at his new apartment, purposefully avoiding driving by the old neighborhood. Limite had become very different from the small town of the sixties where I’d grown up. It had increased in population by a hundred percent, and none of those vacant lots we used to play in were there anymore. Chicory Lane was no longer on the edge of town; the city had expanded a great deal with the addition of a second mall, numerous shopping centers, fast food chains, and businesses. The sixties and seventies had been good to Limite, but in the late eighties the oil business had a downturn and the town experienced a recession. Hundreds of newly built homes went into foreclosure, and people started leaving. It didn’t affect my father’s business; he was about to retire anyway. The bank was doing all right. Nevertheless, Limite had expanded too quickly to support itself, and a lot of people were out of work.

I came home for the Christmas holidays in 1994 and planned to stay at least a couple of weeks. Dad had an extra bedroom in his apartment, which was where I always bunked whenever I visited. He looked older and more haggard, but he was in a much better frame of mind, especially since leaving our old house. He also had something of a girlfriend—Jane, a woman his age who was a member of his church congregation. She was a widow, and they had been seeing each other for a year or so. I liked her, and I could see that she made Dad very happy.

Three days before Christmas, I found myself at the Limite mall doing some last-minute shopping. It was a madhouse. The stores were packed, and I wanted to get out as quickly as possible. The shortest way to the parking lot was though a wing where several Limite artists traditionally set up kiosks to sell their work—paintings, sketches, sculptures, and jewelry. It was one thing about the Limite mall that I admired—year round, they always allotted space to host a gallery and flea market for local artists. There were table fees, of course, but it was still a nice opportunity for craft makers and artists to display their work. Being that time of year, almost all of the merchandise was Christmas-themed—nativity scenes and velvet Jesuses abounded. I was pleasantly surprised to see a fair-sized crowd of customers gathered around these displays, so I decided to have a look. A woman selling scarves had some pretty items, several jewelers had beautiful pieces, and the paintings were remarkably fine. But I’m not good at fighting a crowd; it makes me claustrophobic. Some young mothers had fussy children in strollers, the kids whining and crying with ever-increasing volume. It wasn’t worth the ordeal. As I backed out of the throng, I noticed one table that seemed to be set apart from the others, as if it didn’t belong. No one stood in front of it, for the work on exhibition there had nothing to do with Christmas. In fact, as I soon learned, everyone was offended that the artist could parade such “filth” next to religious art.