The Secrets on Chicory Lane: A Novel(44)
It was freaky, like something out of a horror movie. “Eddie, are you kidding? This is just an act?”
“Shelby it’s a fucking show, oh, sorry, pardon my language.”
“So, what, is this a Satanic church?”
He laughed. “Oh, I guess you could call it that. I think I might name it ‘The Temple.’ LaVey’s Church of Satan is the model for everything I do. I steal it all from him. You know who he is, right?”
LaVey was still alive at the time. He was an occultist, writer, and musician in California who had become famous as the founder of a Satanic church. “I’ve heard of him. He’s that devil worshipper in San Francisco, right?”
“Yeah. But he’s not a devil worshipper. He doesn’t believe in the devil. It’s a common misconception.”
“And does anyone come here?”
“Yep, I have congregants. Once a month we have about five to ten people come and ‘worship.’ I’m the high priest.” Eddie continued to explain. “Listen, contrary to popular belief, this isn’t ‘devil worship.’ In Satanism—at least the kind preached by LaVey—each individual is his or her own god. There is no room for any other god, and that includes Satan or Lucifer or whatever other name you might use. I don’t believe in Satan as a deity. He’s a symbol. In that regard, I guess I am a Satanist. I am my own god.”
“But your, uh, congregants—don’t they come to worship Satan?”
He shrugged. “Not really. We follow LaVey’s Church of Satan philosophies. Like I said, Satan is more a symbol of a liberating figure. We’re atheists, which means we don’t believe in any deities, God or Satan. The word ‘Satanism’ is often used incorrectly, but it’s generally utilized to describe the various movements that reject God and Christianity. We may use devil imagery, but it doesn’t necessarily mean we believe in a devil.”
Once we were back outside in the fresh air, Eddie asked if I’d like to get together again that night. Call me crazy—I still felt safe around him, I was still attracted to this mysterious and beautiful man, and I wanted to know more.
I made a date with a warlock.
18
The digital clock in the Livingston Best Western reads 2:35. In the morning. I lie there in bed, sleeping like a salad—constantly tossing. No matter what I do, I can’t fall asleep. Of course, that’s the problem; I am trying to go to sleep. That never works.
The motion picture in my brain keeps on running. The memories and flashbacks of my times with Eddie are nearing an end, so I figure it’s best to simply let the movie play out. After all, the plan was to go over everything from the past that I can recall; I just didn’t think it would take this long! The anxiety of facing him again is also a contributing factor to my sleeplessness. I wish there was an internal switch we could flip whenever we wanted to go to sleep. I’m often told I should learn to meditate, and I gave it a shot—several times in fact—but it never worked. My mind kept racing!
If Act One of my life with Eddie was the sixties, and Act Two the seventies and eighties, then Act Three is certainly what happened during the Christmas holidays of 1994. It’s one of the few times in my life when I questioned my own sanity. The fact that I went out with Eddie again that Christmas season and slept with him and almost revitalized our relationship was truly not the act of a sensible woman. Looking back, I realize now that I was very lonely. Despite my newfound fame, success, and fortune, I was still alone. Oh, there were men in my life, that wasn’t the problem. There was David, a cop, whom I often saw back in Chicago. That had been going on for a few months. His politics differed from mine, which was a bit of a sticking point, but otherwise he was kind and attentive. David was also good in bed, a major factor in his attractiveness. Nevertheless, there was a spark missing, that jolt of electricity I always experienced when I was with Eddie. To this day, I’ve never found another person who possesses that fire, someone who can bring out the fission in me. What can I say? David was good, but Eddie was the most intensely sensual lover I’ve ever known.
So I went with it. I was home for only two weeks, so I thought, what the hell … And who would know? I wasn’t making any public appearances in Limite. No one knew I was there except my agent (this was before I employed an assistant). I figured that whatever happened, it would remain discreet—and it did. Still, it was a mistake. The consequences nearly pushed Eddie over the edge, and it forced me to seriously distance myself from him. The next time I saw Eddie after Christmas of ’94 was at his trial in 2006, but we didn’t speak. Tomorrow will be the first time we’ve spoken in twenty years. My God.
On that first date of Act Three, we went to dinner at the Red Shack. I suppose we did it for old times’ sake because it reminded us of the Limite we’d known when we were younger. I was surprised it was still in operation. The Baker family, who has run it and other restaurants in Limite for generations, is a class act, and the Red Shack is still as popular today; I may just have to go for a steak this weekend when I’m in town. That night, the food, the wine, the atmosphere … I lost my inhibitions. Eddie still had that power of seduction. He charmed me, even though my inner Jiminy Cricket was pleading with me to recognize the warning signs and use my brain. The Satanist thing freaked me out, sure, but not enough to make me go running. In truth, I wasn’t afraid of Eddie at all. I thought he was eccentric, bizarre, handsome, and brilliant; and despite his violent reputation, I knew he would never harm me.