The Secrets on Chicory Lane: A Novel(7)

And Eddie Newcott lived right across the street from me.

At some time or another during those early years, we all played with one another in the park, which was the real center of our universe. The elementary school was next to the park, so everyone walked to classes every single day. That was a time when kids could be outside and safe, or so we thought. Those were the days of lunch pails, Halloween carnivals and trick-or-treating, The Dick Van Dyke Show, and catching horny toads, the indigenous lizards that populated the area—technically called “horned” toads, though kids always called them horny toads. Since Chicory Lane was a fairly new development right on the edge of town, we could walk two or three blocks beyond the park and be in vacant lots. The desert. It was not uncommon to see all kinds of lizards and snakes and bugs around our little world decorated with mesquite and tumbleweeds. West Texas winds are notorious—they rival Chicago’s!—and the dust storms are atrocious. But there’s something dreamy about the sight of a tumbleweed being carried along the ground in a wide, open space. I suppose my favorite thing about growing up in Limite was the view of a hundred-and-eighty-degree sunset, horizon to horizon. Some nights, it was breathtakingly gorgeous. The vastness of the stars—and omniscient moon—was magnificent.

Today all those vacant lots are developed, and the city extends for miles. Things change.

My dad worked in a bank. By the time I was in high school, he was the manager of the Fifth National Bank, holding that title until he retired. My mother was mostly a stay-at-home mom, although she took some part-time jobs as a temp secretary when I was in grade school. She was a good typist and worked on a manual machine—which is what I learned to type on. I became a competent typist, too. Good genes. Unfortunately, my mother had some serious problems and never held a job for very long. My parents, Craig and Shirley Truman.

I was the only child until my baby brother, Michael Craig Truman, was born on April 20, 1966. I was eleven years old and in sixth grade. Mom and I never spoke about why they had another child when there was such an age difference between the siblings, but I do recall Mom calling him her “little miracle.” She was thirty-seven when he was born.

A month later that year, I turned twelve. The pictures of me at the time show a girl with straight, dirty-blonde hair and bangs. Blue eyes. I was of average height and weight, and I was already growing breasts. I think I started wearing a bra about the time I turned eleven. My funny-looking stage didn’t last very long, thank goodness. Girls always go through a funny-looking stage—acne, weirdly proportioned limbs, awkwardly budding breasts—and afterwards they bloom.

At that frozen moment of time in May, we were a typical family; we were happy. My dad made a modest middle-class salary, and we were the epitome of baby boomer living. We went to church every Sunday. Every Sunday. The First Christian Church was Protestant and proud of it. I got the impression the adults there thought they were above the Baptists or Methodists. To me there was no difference. I grew up believing in God—and I suppose I still do. After all, if Evil exists, then there damn well better be some Good somewhere, right?

The Lord knows my faith has been tested over the years. The first time was when I was twelve, that summer of 1966.

My interests then were puppets, bike riding, piano playing, and storytelling. I loved to put on puppet shows. One of my most cherished toys was an elaborate puppet theater that my father built for me. I suppose that’s where my talent for writing comes from; I was always making up tales. Once I got Eddie to help me carry the theater all the way to the park, where he and I put on a puppet show for anyone who wanted to watch. We drew a crowd of twenty people, which was huge to me at the time. Eddie could sketch and paint, so he made the scenery. Eddie was often my collaborator. Sally was my best girlfriend, but Eddie was my best friend. We spent a lot of time together because we were just about the same age—Eddie was just a year behind me in fifth grade. We were both eleven when Michael was born. Sometimes the kids on the block made fun of us and called us “boyfriend and girlfriend,” which was embarrassing. I’m pretty sure Eddie enjoyed that misrepresentation, but I didn’t. In my mind, we were more like brother and sister.

My mom didn’t particularly like me spending so much time with Eddie. For one thing, he was a boy, and secondly, she thought his parents, Charles and Betty Newcott, were strange. His mother was nice enough, but she was sickly, and I don’t think I ever saw her not wearing a ratty bathrobe and smoking a cigarette. It was Mr. Newcott who scared me. All the kids were afraid of him. A big, tough guy, he worked in the oil fields. We thought he was mean, especially to Eddie, his only child. Eddie and his mother were completely subservient to the man.

Mr. Newcott was forever threatening to “get the belt” after Eddie. Nothing Eddie did was good enough for his father. It seemed to me that Eddie was always being punished for something, usually stupid stuff. In the backyard of Eddie’s home, Mr. Newcott had built a bomb shelter as big as a large single room. Families in the early sixties had built these shelters because of the so-called Red Scare. By 1966, though, no one believed a nuclear attack on American soil would happen, and the folks who had spent a bunch of money to build the shelters felt foolish. The shelter in Eddie’s backyard was abandoned, and it became our secret play place, our own little safe haven—but Mr. Newcott didn’t like us playing in the shelter. If he caught us in there or even looking like we might be thinking of going in there, he’d send me home and give Eddie a beating—I recall several occurrences.