The Secrets on Chicory Lane: A Novel(64)

“Eddie. Do you want me to leave?”

With unnatural abruptness, he ceases the laughter and then says, “Shelby, Shelby, Shelby, Shelby, Shelby, Shelby. Shelby Truman, Shelby Truman, Shelby Truman, Shelby Truman.”

“Eddie, are you all right?”

Back to the silence. Then he picks up the Snickers I’d bought him, tears off the wrapper, and starts eating it. Chewing. Not saying a word.

“Eddie? I know that’s a stupid question. I’m sorry. But … have they treated you well? Are you all right?”

“I’m fine.” It’s the first thing he says that sounds normal. “I’m just fine. Thank you for coming. And thanks for the candy bar.”

I breathe a sigh of relief. Perhaps our conversation will be coherent after all.

“You’re welcome. Mr. Crane—your lawyer—he says you wanted to see me. That you made a special request for me to come and visit. You have something you want to tell me.”

He continues chewing. I watch him eat the entire Snickers before he answers my question.

“Tell you? No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, I can’t tell you, I could never tell you, how could I tell you? I mean, you know, I couldn’t, because, well, you know—I mean, that’s just the way it is, the way it is, the way it’s always been, the way it’ll always be.”

Maybe I am wrong about the conversation. I want to run. I can’t take the torment. But I remember that Crane had said Eddie often rambles and babbles, speaking nonsense, and then suddenly he’s lucid. I force myself to remain and see how it plays out.

“I don’t know what you’re trying to say, Eddie,” I say, and he starts to laugh again. “Eddie. Please. I know … I know you’re ill. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry you have to go through this.”

The laughing stops abruptly again. “Don’t be sorry. I’m the one who should be sorry. Am I sorry? For some things. Yes, I’m sorry for many things. Sorry, sorry, sorry. But not for all. Not for him. Or for him.”

“Are you talking about your father?”

“Him, him, him, him.”

“Or Mr. Alpine?”

He shakes his head violently. “Evil, evil, evil. It was all so evil, evil, evil.”

“Yes, I know. Be careful what you say, Eddie. Although I suppose it doesn’t matter now.”

“Evil, evil, evil, evil. The evil came to our street. Our street! It got inside me. Inside me, inside me. Then I was inside you, inside you. Are you evil, too? Are you, Shelby? Are you?”

“I don’t think so, Eddie. And I don’t think you’re evil either.”

“Oh, oh, oh, yes I am. Don’t kid yourself, don’t kid yourself. Evil, evil, evil, evil. It came to our street and got inside me. Got inside me. Me. Me. Me.”

“Eddie …”

“Hey!” His eyes grow wide with excitement.

“What?”

“Remember our game?”

I have to think again. “What game?”

“Our game, our game, our game! Davy Jones’s Locker, Davy Jones’s Locker, Davy Jones’s Locker!”

At first I don’t make the connection. Even though I’d gone over that period of our lives over the past twenty-four hours, I don’t understand what he means. “What?” I say.

“The hiding place! The hiding place, hiding place. Davy Jones’s Locker!”

Ah, right. “Of course, Eddie. I remember. In the bomb shelter.”

“The shelter, the shelter, my sanctuary, my church, my sanctuary, The Temple, my private self, my evil.”

“What about Davy Jones’s Locker, Eddie?”

“It all started there, don’t you see? It all started there. The evil is inside the hiding place. The evil came up through the ground and got inside me through Davy Jones’s Locker!”

The poor man. He is so far gone. I feel tears welling in my eyes. Not wanting him to see me cry, I turn away, grab a tissue from my pocket, and wipe my face.

Eddie keeps on babbling nonsensical phrases and words about evil and the hiding place and other things I know nothing about. He speaks some words in a language that sounds like Vietnamese. He laughs. And then he jabbers on, blathering about the devil. Satan visiting our street in Limite and getting inside his body.

I can’t take it anymore. “Eddie, stop. Please. I need to go. Please.”

“All the answers, all the answers, all the answers are there. Davy Jones’s Locker. It all started there. The evil, evil, evil, evil, evil. Didn’t you get the letter?”

“Letter? What letter?”

“The police didn’t find it first?”

“What are you talking about, Eddie?”

“Davy Jones’s Locker! Davy Jones’s Locker!”

He’s not making any sense. I stand, and he suddenly shuts up. Our eyes meet each other, and I see there are tears in his as well. “Don’t go,” he whispers.

“Eddie, this is so hard. I can’t talk to you. We can’t have a real conversation.” Nevertheless, I continue to hold the phone to my ear. I hear him breathe rapidly. He is quite agitated. It scares me.

Crane calls to me. “Shelby? Everything all right?”

I turn and answer, “We’ll be finished in a minute.” Back to Eddie. “I came to see you, Eddie, what was it you wanted to tell me? Was it anything at all?” I sit again.