Dad picked me up at the airport, as usual. During the ride home, he asked if I would be seeing Eddie.
“Of course,” I replied.
“Well, for your mother’s sake, I hope you’ll spend some time at home with us.”
“I will! I wouldn’t abandon you guys.”
But of course I did. I was terrible to my parents. I had only a week away from school, and I spent more of my time with Eddie than with them. We didn’t stay in the bomb shelter as much as the last time, though, and instead went out on the town, as it were, at night. Once, he took me to dinner and a movie. We ate at the Red Shack, a nice steak restaurant that Limite was always known for. It was a lovely evening, although Eddie insisted that we move to a different table when a family with children sat near us. A child in a high chair started crying, and Eddie tensed up.
“What’s the matter?”
“I don’t like babies,” he said.
I think I muttered that I didn’t care for it when they made a scene in public either, but then I remembered how, back when we were kids, Eddie couldn’t take it when baby Michael cried. He must have carried that dread with him into adulthood.
After dinner, we went to see Rocky, which had won the Oscar that very week and was playing in town. I had already seen it, but Eddie hadn’t. We went to a Denny’s afterward for some comfort food and—big mistake—coffee. The two of us ended up in the bomb shelter, staying up all night. However, already when we were at Denny’s, I noticed that Eddie was his less talkative self. He seemed darker and withdrawn.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
He looked at me as if I had no reason to inquire. “Nothing’s wrong.”
“You liked the movie?”
“Oh, it’s not that. I mean, the boxing was cool. Yeah, I liked it. I was just thinking”—he laughed a little—“about my dad, of all people.”
“Why?”
“He loved boxing. He practiced on me and my mom every day.”
His statement jolted me out of my mood at the moment. Eddie noticed my reaction and said, “Sorry. That was a joke.”
“Eddie, geez …”
“Except, what the hell, it’s pretty true. Maybe not every day, but it happened a lot.”
“I’m sorry, Eddie.” I was, but I didn’t want to talk about it back then. That element of Eddie’s life bothered me. There was a dark side to Eddie, and I could sense that it sometimes wanted to reveal itself when he was with me. I believe he purposefully fought to hold it in check. But every once in a while, Eddie would say something truly off the wall, a non sequitur that had to do with God or Satan or his awful father or his sick mother. And his artwork—that was what really gave it away. His work had become even more disturbing and strange, though still oddly beautiful. It seemed he enjoyed playing the role of the “tortured artist.” And I’m afraid that’s what attracted me to him. Indeed, the bad boy thing appealed to me—something rough around the edges that I simply found exciting.
We went to the Oil Derrick a couple of other nights. I remember asking Eddie how come I never saw anyone I knew from high school there. He explained that it was because they had all gotten married and that they had no need to go to a singles bar anymore. At least, that was what usually happened to the kids who stayed in Limite. Only some, like me, had left and gone to college. Eddie said we were the “smart ones.”
“So why don’t you leave, Eddie?” I asked him. “Why do you stay? You could go to a bigger city where you might have better opportunities to sell your artwork.”
He was silent for a while as he thought about how to respond. Then he answered, “As strange as it sounds, Shelby, I’m uncomfortable when I’m out of town. I can’t stand Limite, but I don’t like it when I’m not here, either. There’s something about this place, that street where we live, that house, the bomb shelter … it’s my world. Besides, my mother needs me.”
“Does she?”
“Sure. After all she suffered being married to Charles Newcott? Are you kidding? She became a doormat, and now I have to take care of her.”
Suddenly, I had a bird’s-eye view of us, sitting there in the nightclub, in love and oblivious to the disaster that our relationship would become. “Eddie, I’m never going to come back to Limite to live.”
He wrinkled his brow. “I don’t expect you to.”
“Then what are we doing?”
“What do you mean?”
“You and me. If you’re never going to leave Limite, and I don’t want to come back here, are we wasting our time with each other?”
Eddie flinched a little. “Do you think we’re wasting our time?”
“No, I’m just saying, I mean, I wonder—do we have a future together? Do we want a future together?”
He took both of my hands in his and looked at me. “I would kill for you, Shelby,” he said, with those intense brown eyes drilling through me.
“Jesus, Eddie, I don’t want you to do that.” I tried to laugh it off. “Seriously, Eddie, does that mean you’d leave for me?”
“Of course it does. I’d do anything for you. It’s the same as when we were twelve and eleven. Everything I did then was for you.”
“Don’t be silly.”
“It was. Whatever I did back then, it was for you. You were everything to me. You still are. More.”
I don’t remember how the evening ended; I think we must have danced. Maybe that night I went home to sleep in my own bed for a change.
The thing was, it seemed to me that I had truly left Limite behind, and aside from my parents and Eddie, I had no real ties there anymore. Already, I felt as if I had progressed from a small-town hick girl to a more urban and sophisticated young woman. I had grown more cultured and, dare I say, snooty. Limite was yesterday’s news in my life, and I was a fish out of water there. Home was now Evanston, Illinois, though at the time I couldn’t have imagined that I would end up staying in Chicago for the rest of my life. All I knew was that I didn’t belong in Texas anymore.
For the rest of the spring semester, Eddie and I continued our long-distance relationship through phone calls, letters from me, and sketches from him. I know I received more drawings than what I still own. Perhaps I only kept the really good ones, though I don’t recall ever throwing them out. Even though I stayed in Illinois, I’ve moved four times since those years in grad school. Stuff gets weeded out with every move.
As soon as school was out in May, I skedaddled back to Limite to see my parents. And Eddie, of course. In fact, I planned to stay in Limite the entire summer, or maybe talk Eddie into coming up to Illinois with me. Whatever happened, I wanted to be with him for those three months, not doing anything else.
It didn’t turn out that way.
13
I check in to the Best Western and find myself in a comfortable no-frills room on the second floor. The only nonsmoking room available has two queen beds in it. Fine—I throw my suitcase on one and plan to use the other for myself. It’s nearly dinnertime, but before going out to explore the “metropolis” that is Livingston to find a place to eat, I phone Eddie’s lawyer. He had told me to call him when I arrived. Mr. Crane is in town all week long from Limite and staying at a different hotel.
“I’m here,” I say when he answers.
“Welcome to Texas. How was the flight?”
“Fine. No problems. Rented a car and drove to Livingston. I’m in the Best Western.”
“Good choice.”
I tell him I’ll soon be off to dinner, and he recommends a few joints, none of which sound very appealing. Tex-Mex is something I can’t get in Chicago, though, so there is that. He apologizes—he has an appointment with a client’s family and can’t have dinner with me, but I hadn’t expected to eat with him so I tell him it’s all right.
“So, everything is arranged. You’re on the visitor list, the warden’s approved, and you’re set to go,” he says.
“And what’s the plan?”
“I will meet you there in the registration ar
ea just inside the main entrance at ten o’clock. You remember the dress code I told you about?”
“Don’t wear white because that’s the color of the inmates’ clothing. Don’t wear anything that shows cleavage. No shorts, no short skirts—I wouldn’t dare these days—no hats, no sandals or shoes that show my toes, and no T-shirts with slogans protesting the death penalty.”
“Right.”
“I plan to wear a pantsuit. It’s blue.”
“Bring plenty of change, if you have it; otherwise they have bill-changing machines in the reception area. You can’t take bills in to see Eddie. Not that you’d be able to hand any to him through the glass.”
“So why have change?”
“For the vending machines inside. It’s good protocol to buy something for the inmate—a drink or package of snacks or whatever. Just remember that you can’t touch the product that comes out of the machine. An officer handles it and delivers it to the inmate, so you can both sit there and have a nosh while you talk. If you want.”
“Will Eddie expect it?”
“I always get him a Snickers. He likes that.”
“All right.”
“Bring your ID, and you should probably have your plane ticket with you to prove you traveled over 250 miles. It’s already in the notes for your visit, but just in case.”
Whew. The rules are overwhelming. What do they think? A sixty-one-year-old woman is going to stage a breakout?
Crane tells me to allow thirty minutes to drive to the prison from my hotel, go through the front gate, park, and enter the main building.
“Okay. I’ll see you there.”
He must detect the anxiety in my voice because he asks, “Are you all right, Shelby?”
With a sigh, I answer, “Sure. It’s going to be harder than I originally thought. I’m afraid it’ll be depressing.”
“Well, I’m sorry, but it will be. I imagine you’ll feel pretty wretched when you leave. Polunsky does that to people. It’s a very depressing place. It’s hell on earth. That’s just the way it is. It’s a prison. Prisons aren’t nice.”
“Gotcha. I’ll put on my heart-guard and wear blinders.”
He chuckles. “You’ll be okay. People visit death row every day. It can be emotional, for sure, but no one’s ever committed suicide in the visitation room.”
I think that’s an insensitive statement to make, but I don’t mention it.
After hanging up, I leave the room and ask the young Hispanic woman at the front desk how to get to La Colonia, the Mexican restaurant I want to try. It isn’t far, a ten-minute drive. The place looks pretty low-rent, but it’s authentic. I order a fajita plate with rice, charro beans, pico de gallo, and guacamole with flour tortillas. And it’s darned good. I just hope it won’t upset my stomach; my insides are already topsy-turvy to begin with. However, the two margaritas help calm my nerves. Over dinner, my thoughts return to that summer of 1977, when my long-distance relationship with Eddie came to an abrupt end. The alcohol serves as a travel guide of sorts into my memories.
When I came home to Limite that May, the first thing I noticed was that my mother looked terrible. Maybe I hadn’t paid much attention the last time I was there, but it seemed as if she had aged ten years since I’d last seen her. She’d lost weight. Dark circles surrounded her eyes. When I hugged her, it felt as if I could easily crush her fragile frame with little effort. Dad looked pretty much the same, although it was obvious he was having a difficult time dealing with her. He took me aside and told me the news.
“She doesn’t do much anymore,” he said. “She stays home, won’t go out, and doesn’t see her friends. I’m worried about her.”
“What does the doctor say?”
“That she’s depressed. She takes these … pills. Frankly, I think they do her more harm than good. They make her like a zombie most days.”
At the time, I simply trusted that her doctor knew what he was doing; I didn’t bother looking into what drugs she was taking. I would later find out that she was on a cocktail of Elavil, a tricyclic antidepressant, and Valium, a benzodiazepine, otherwise known as a tranquilizer. No wonder she got hooked and fell into a whirlpool of mental illness.
This time, I was determined to spend more time with her while I was home, but I also wanted to see Eddie as soon as possible. I phoned his house, spoke to his mother, and learned that he wasn’t home at the moment. She’d tell him that I called.
I spent a couple of hours with my parents over dinner. It was difficult to have a decent conversation with my mother; she didn’t have a whole lot to say. She had managed to cook a nice meal—with my help. Dad and I did most of the talking. At any rate, Eddie called around nine p.m. and I went across the street. Opening the gate at the side of his house, I crossed the yard to the bomb shelter door and knocked. There was no answer, so I opened it myself.
“Eddie?”
“Down here!”
The whiff of marijuana smoke hit me in the face. I remember disapproving. I hadn’t really indulged at school for the past few months. The partying of my first semester at grad school had tapered down during the second half. Courses had been more difficult, and my mind was on Eddie, among other things. I wasn’t prepared to get blitzed with him again. Nevertheless, I went down the steps into the dimly lit, compressed space. The lava lamp was going strong, the smoke filled the room like a blanket, and the television was on. After coughing a bit, I said, “Geez, Eddie, how can you breathe in here?”
“It’s ventilated, just like always.” He embraced me, and we held each other for a moment. I guess I’d never really noticed how smoky the shelter got whenever we partook before. My eyes burned and I coughed some more as he tried to kiss me. His hands were all over me. I pushed him away, perhaps a little too roughly.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
“It’s too smoky in here, Eddie. Can we go outside? It’s nice out. Let’s take a walk around the block, or go to the park.”
He shrugged. “Okay.” He turned off the TV and we left the shelter. The sun had just set, and the moon was bright and the stars were out. “The cops don’t like people in the park after dark,” he said.
“When did that start?”
“I don’t know. I think it’s always been that way.”
“When we were kids we were in the park at night.”
“I know. That was a long time ago.”
We walked toward the park anyway. At one point, he stopped, put his arms around me, and gave me a long, sensual kiss. “Happy birthday,” he said. “You’re a year older than me again.”
“Thanks.”
“There’s a present waiting for you back at the bomb shelter. And it’s not another drawing.”
I laughed. “That doesn’t matter, I’m just happy to see you again.”
He held my hand and asked how I was doing. I told him that my mother wasn’t well, and he explained that his mother wasn’t doing great either. She was drinking more than usual. “How come both our mothers are in bad shape?” I asked. “Isn’t that strange?”
“I don’t know. My father did it to my mother. What’s your mom’s prob—oh. I remember.”
“She was never the same after Michael’s abduction.”
“Yeah. Sorry about that.”
“It’s not your fault.”
“No. Fucking Mr. Alpine.”
“Let’s not talk about that, all right?”
“Sure.”
We reached the park and sat in the swings under the moonlight. Something felt different, but I couldn’t put my finger on it. For one thing, Eddie was stoned and I wasn’t. There was that.
“Too bad the yacht is gone,” he said. “We could’ve hid in there and done it.”
The thought of making love in that old yacht wasn’t appealing. “Eddie. Is that all you’re thinking about?”
“Well, hell, Shelby, I haven’t seen you in a couple of months. What’s going on? Don’t you want to?”
“Sure, but … I don’t know, I
didn’t want to jump into bed as soon as I saw you.” Maybe I said it a little too sternly. He made a grunting noise and became quiet. I could tell he was sinking into a mood. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I think I’m upset about my mother. And I don’t really want to get stoned right now. Maybe I’m disappointed that you were high when I came over.”
“I’ll tell you something, Shelby. I’m high a lot. It’s the only way I can cope.”
“Cope? Cope with what?”
“My mother. My art. My life.”
“What are you talking about? You don’t have it so bad.”
He gave a little laugh. “Try making a living selling comics. Devil Man does okay, for an independent comic book. Did I tell you I got a distributor?”
“No. Really?”
“Yeah, it’s sold nationwide now in comic stores. That is, it’s sold in the stores that actually stock it. Not many do, ’cause I’m not with Marvel or DC. They weren’t interested in my work. They want to own everything they publish.” Back in the seventies, independent comics were rare. It wasn’t like it is now, with plenty of graphic novel and comics publishers to choose from.
“At least it’s published,” I said. “Hey, you’re talented. You’ll get more work as an artist.”
“Hasn’t happened yet.”
“Eddie, you’re in Limite. You need to get out of here. Go to a big city. Go to LA or New York.”
“I don’t like big cities.”
“Well, you’re not going to get work here.”
“I know, I know.”
We went on like this, until our conversation turned into an argument. He finally got frustrated, bolted out of the swing, and started walking back to our neighborhood.
“Eddie, stop! Where are you going?”
“How about I see you tomorrow, Shelby?” he called without looking back at me. I ran after him, caught up, and grabbed his arm. He jerked it away from me. “Go home to your crazy mother, Shelby.”
“Eddie!”
He moved on. I stood there, stunned that he would say such a thing.
Something was definitely wrong.
14
The next day I tried calling Eddie, but his mother said she hadn’t seen him. “Is he in the bomb shelter?” I asked. He wasn’t—she had just gone outside to check after making breakfast. His motorcycle was gone. She had no idea where he was.
The Secrets on Chicory Lane Page 10
