The Secrets on Chicory Lane: A Novel(5)
“I know, but he did some pretty creepy shit.”
Billy has me there. I look away and study a map of the United States that I have pinned to a corkboard.
“Sorry, Shelby,” he says. “I didn’t mean—”
“It’s okay. Look.” I gesture to the map. “Huntsville is just a bit of a drive from George Bush International. Eddie’s in Livingston, over here nearby.”
“What will you have to do to get into the prison?”
“I don’t know. I imagine it’s like going through security when you get on a plane. Mr. Crane will tell me, I guess. Now, about that coffee.”
I go to the kitchen, fill my cup with fresh brew, and return upstairs. Instead of working on Patricia 43, I pull a suitcase out of the closet and bring it to my bedroom. As I use one half of my brain to figure out what I need to take on the trip, the other half dwells on a rush of mixed feelings.
Yes, Eddie did some pretty creepy shit. But it never would have happened had he not suffered what he did as a child. Eddie had been damaged, but he covered it up with his eccentric intellect and talent as an artist. He would have benefited from not having dropped out of high school, that’s for sure. Instead he joined the army and went to Vietnam for a couple of years, which darkened him even more.
There’s no question about what happened to Dora Walton—and the baby she was carrying in her womb. Eddie was caught red-handed. Only a psychiatrist could analyze how the trauma Eddie endured as a child contributed to his illness and ended up informing a horrific murder later in life, but one thing is for sure—Eddie could not have been in his right mind when it happened.
It occurred ten years ago, in 2005. Eddie was fifty years old. He lived with Dora Walton in the same house on Chicory Lane, across from where I’d resided with my parents. A controversial pair, neighbors ostracized them, but Eddie refused to abandon his parents’ house. On Christmas Eve, Eddie threw a party and invited another couple, Wade Jones and Catherine Carter. He decorated the entire place with his disturbing artwork that depicted devilish symbols and imagery, and then lit a hundred black candles to illuminate it. When I knew him as an adult, Eddie once admitted to me that while he was truly an atheist, the Satanism thing was merely something he did to shock people. It was just “art,” he said.
That night, Eddie took his art to the extreme. Wade and Catherine left the house after midnight. Eddie and Dora continued to party. Eddie drugged the wine. Dora drank it; he didn’t.
After that, Evil Eddie made a statement for all the world to see.
3
I like to be at the airport early, so I had Billy drop me off two hours before my flight to Houston. O’Hare is hopping, as usual. You never know when lines will be super-long at one of the world’s busiest airports. As I’ve grown older, I’ve found that my nerves are less tolerant of unexpected stress. I don’t like to be rushed. I’d rather be way too early than a minute too late.
One of the best things about being a well-known author is that your face isn’t necessarily well-known. Sure, I’ve been on TV talk shows and my picture has been in tons of magazines—I even made a “50 And Still Hot” list in People eleven years ago!—but I’m not a movie star. Very few people recognize me, and I’m perfectly fine with that. My blonde hair has whitened, but my blue eyes remain the same. I’m able to travel like anyone else, go to restaurants, hotels, the theater, whatever—and still maintain a decent degree of anonymity. Every so often a serious fan will know who I am and maybe say something complimentary about my books, and that’s always nice. I’ve never had a bad experience with notoriety. Today is no different.
After going through security, I browse in the bookstore and, out of habit, check to see if they have any of my books. They do. I buy the new Sandra Brown and then get coffee and a snack. With my purchases in hand, I sit at the gate an hour before we start to board, ready to relax and enjoy my food and beverage.
Relax. Right. Apprehension has been my master since I agreed to see Eddie. I try to begin the book I bought, but my mind wanders and I can’t concentrate on the words in front of my eyes. I keep thinking about Eddie, dammit. A tidal wave of memories continues to bombard me: like when Eddie sold his crazy artwork at the mall during Christmas time in the nineties; the smell of pot and booze from the seventies; and glimpses of the sixties, which are dominated by memories that mostly occurred in a playground and a bomb shelter. Eddie at twenty-one, Eddie at thirty-nine, Eddie at eleven … I’ve come to the conclusion that it would be a good idea, if not essential, that I attempt to think of the remembrances in some kind of chronology so they make some sense. Perhaps going over everything I can recall will be a helpful exercise to prepare for the eventuality of sitting face-to-face with him.
We really can’t remember much of our childhoods. It’s just a fact. We recall major events, but we can’t tell you what happened minute by minute. It’s impossible. A person might “remember” his first trip to Disneyland when he was seven years old. The truth is that he’ll remember going and that he did it, but he won’t be able to say specifically what he had done and in what order. There will be flashes of memory, such as his fright in Space Mountain, or the wonder of the fireworks that struck him as magical, but that’s it. A “playback” of the entire experience is usually unachievable.