The Secrets on Chicory Lane: A Novel(42)
They were magnificently executed fantasy drawings and paintings of demonic and pagan imagery. Scenes depicted sinners falling into hell and being tormented by demons and monsters. Nude women were discreetly covered with masking tape for the public display. Another striking piece was a presentation of a war between angels and devils. The most controversial painting depicted a Nativity scene featuring demons and monsters instead of the usual cast of characters. It was truly breathtaking, but shocking, work.
Eddie Newcott sat behind the table, drawing in a sketch pad and paying no attention to his lack of business. Seeing him there took my breath away. All I could do was stare.
He was dressed entirely in black. His dark hair was long and stylish, almost like a Beatles haircut circa 1966. A goatee adorned his face, which gave him a Mephistophelean appearance. Despite the darkly sinister vibe, Eddie looked marvelous. I’ve said that he was a handsome man, but, my God, he was now more gorgeous than ever. Truly. There was a worldliness about him that exuded maturity, intelligence, and sensuality. Yes, he still displayed a bad boy image, but I’d put him in the same class as Elvis or Marlon Brando in the fifties or Johnny Depp in the nineties. Was it my imagination, or did an aura surround him? I didn’t know. There was no question that he radiated charisma in spades, rock star stuff.
By my calculations, he was thirty-nine years old. I was forty at the time.
“Eddie.” I must have blurted it, for his eyes jerked up. His irises had deepened to a darker brown, mesmerizing black holes into which, I dare say, any heterosexual woman could have fallen, never to return. Why wasn’t there a crowd of females lingering around his table? Well, I knew the obvious answer to that. The subject matter of his art and the less enlightened attitudes of Limite’s population were hardly a good match.
Those eyes widened when he recognized me. “Shelby! My God!”
I immediately went over to him; he stood, and we hugged each other. “I can’t believe it,” I said. “You look great. How are you?”
“I’m fine. You look terrific, too. Fame and fortune becomes you.”
“Oh, hush. I’m still me.”
“Yes, you are.”
I nodded at his sketchpad. “And you’re still you, I see.”
“Oh, yeah. I can’t understand why no one wants to buy any of my paintings for Christmas.” He rolled his eyes and chuckled.
“Uh, maybe because it’s not Halloween?”
“You think?” We both laughed. “Hell, I don’t know why I bother. I should pack up and get out of here.” He glanced over at a mother trying to shush her screaming toddler. Eddie winced and then asked, “What are you doing? You want to get a cup of coffee?”
That actually sounded lovely. I said yes. My desire to leave the mall in a hurry had dissipated. I desperately wanted to sit down with the man who, I suddenly realized then and there, still occupied a special place in my heart.
He started to pack up his things and I volunteered to help carry the stuff to his car. Most of it fit on a dolly that he’d hidden under his table, and it took us only one trip.
“Math was never my strong suit. How long has it been?” he asked as we stepped outside and crossed the crowded parking lot. West Texas wasn’t Chicago, but Limite was still pretty cold in December. He wore a black leather jacket, naturally, and I bundled up in my down coat.
“Uh, seventeen years? Seventeen and a half, almost?”
“God.” He shook his head. “How time flies when you’re the most hated person in town.”
“You must love it, though, if you’ve stayed all these years.”
He laughed again. “You’re right. I do love it. It gives me a purpose in life. Scandalize the neighborhood, provoke the Christians, and assert my rights according to the First Amendment.”
His car was a small van that held his easel and paintings in the back. After packing it up and locking the doors, he said, “Shall we just go to the cafeteria in the mall, or do you want to go somewhere else?” This was before Starbucks had conquered America, although I believe stores were already starting to open in some of the bigger cities around the country.
“Let’s go somewhere else, if you don’t mind,” I said. “Big crowds in a shopping frenzy make me nervous.”
We ended up at Denny’s. I followed him in my father’s car, which I’d borrowed. Dad was off work and didn’t mind hanging out at his apartment while I ran errands. At Denny’s, a young waitress recognized Eddie and said hello in, what seemed to me, a provocative way. Eddie addressed her by name and returned the greeting. Hmm, I thought.
Our conversation over coffee was pleasant and informative. The bad feelings from our breakup in 1977 seemed to have been forgotten. He first asked about me and my life. There wasn’t much to tell. I outlined the failure of my marriage and the fact that I couldn’t have children. Intimate and personal details came flowing out; with anyone else that wouldn’t have happened. Despite the years apart, it was as if Eddie and I were still best friends on Chicory Lane, telling each other our innermost secrets. He asked about my writing career and admitted that he’d picked up a couple of my books. They weren’t his “cup of tea.” I laughed and acknowledged that my audience consisted of bored housewives who needed a little fantasy in their lives. Other than my authorial existence in Chicago, which wasn’t as exciting as it sounded, recounting my biographical story didn’t take up much time.