Again—I was blessed. By whom, I didn’t know, because by that time I wasn’t as religious as I’d been as a girl. Somewhere along the way—probably during my tumultuous marriage—I lost the faith. It wasn’t that I stopped believing in God, it’s just that I ceased paying attention to Him. I don’t believe Eddie had any influence on me in that regard. He had always been an atheist, even as a little boy. He hated it when his parents made him go to church with them, and in reality they didn’t attend often, only visiting on the big holidays like Christmas and Easter. On the other hand, I had to go every Sunday. Between the day I was born and the summer I left Limite for college, I spent nearly every Sunday morning of my life at church. By the time I moved to Austin, I’d had enough of it.
My spirituality underwent a restructuring. I believe I’m a good person, and I try to live by the tenets I learned from Christianity. I just don’t bother much with the organized part of it. I respect people who do, as long as it’s not waved in my face. Like several other authors in our country, I was once attacked by a fanatical religious group about the sex and promiscuity in my books. Oh, please. It’s just entertainment. Sure, sex sells. Sex written for women by a woman is also perfectly healthy.
The problem, I’ve come to realize, is that today I still do not understand the presence of Evil, capital “E” again. It lived on our block in the form of Mr. Alpine. It resided across the street in Charles Newcott. That’s a lot of Evil for one neighborhood. My family—and especially my mother—was in turn corrupted by the Evil inside Mr. Alpine. Poor Eddie—the boy across the street—was damaged by the one inside his dad. Where did that Evil come from? If there really is a God, does that mean there really is a Satan? Eddie tried to convince me when I was twelve that there was no God, only the devil.
But enough of the philosophizing. Back to the year 1994, the period when my career was settling down to a comfortable routine without too much media attention.
That’s when I crossed paths with Eddie again.
17
News of Eddie was elusive during those years between 1977, the last time I saw him, and 1994. My father filled me in on some of the well-known bits, such as Eddie going to prison for twenty months. In 1984, Eddie got into another fight at some bar outside of Limite and nearly killed a guy. For that incident, charges were pressed.
Around the time I got divorced and published my first novel, Dad moved out of the house on Chicory Lane. Since I rarely came home, he didn’t think there was any reason to stay. Why should one person have all that space when a nice family might want it? He bought an apartment in a newer part of the city but still not far from the bank. I didn’t blame him. It was a tainted house.
For that matter, so was Eddie’s. Was it a coincidence that the two houses, directly across the street from each other, contained broken families? Two different tragedies, united in pain. But Eddie continued to stay on Chicory Lane. He belonged in an artistic community in a bigger city, but he didn’t budge. What became abundantly clear was that Eddie was a small-town boy at heart, and he had a very strong emotional tie to Limite and the Newcott home. The bomb shelter, his man cave, was precious to him. He must have thought he would be happy there for the rest of his life.
But as it turned out, he wasn’t happy at all. Instead, Eddie went over to the dark side. That’s the only way I can describe it. The darker qualities he had been displaying toward the end of our relationship manifested themselves into something more sinister.
This is what I learned, or ultimately found out. Devil Man became a minor hit in the underground comics scene, so Eddie continued to work on his art. He probably wasn’t making a lot of money from it, so I suppose he simply lived off his mother’s social security and his father’s insurance. A grown man living with his mom. You’d think that would be enough to tell you that Eddie lacked certain social skills, but the truth is far worse.
He developed a mental illness, and he became a Satanist.
Mind you, I’m no psychiatrist, but I’m not sure those two things were exclusive. Perhaps they were. I don’t mean to say that anyone who worships Satan is mentally ill—of course not. And not all souls who suffer from mental illness become Satanists. But from what I knew about Eddie’s life, and from what I heard and discovered about his behavior during this period, I do believe the two traits were linked. I found out about the Satanism fairly quickly because it was obvious. The mental illness—well, that took a while to figure out.
While continuing to publish issues of Devil Man, Eddie began writing and illustrating an atheistic newsletter called Godless Times, which had a shockingly large number of subscribers, several thousand. His audience consisted of a surprising number of intellectuals, teachers, and even ministers, but the publication also attracted the weirdos.
Eddie turned his house on Chicory Lane into a business. His mother still lived there, although her health declined rapidly in the eighties. Nevertheless, the house across from my childhood home became the Godless Times HQ. The newsletter made money, which attracted the attention of the local news. He was interviewed and soon became an infamous celebrity in Limite. What did he say on television? Eddie flaunted a belief in witchcraft and the devil. In a small town in Texas, something like that could end up with fatal consequences. His neighbors on the block almost rioted. Fortunately, I was far away and never got a sense of how hated he was until much later.
The neighbors tried to get the city to evict them—but Mrs. Newcott owned the house and paid the utilities. Technically, Eddie wasn’t disturbing anyone with noise, or anything like that. No, he offended them with his words and ideas. He frightened them, and the natural response was to attack.
In 1983, some DA tried to charge Eddie with operating a business in a residential area, or something similarly ridiculous. Eddie went to court and won. He was a freelancer, and he simply operated a business out of his home—perfectly legal. The powers-that-be just didn’t like his business.
It came to a head in the spring of ’84. Why Eddie continued to visit the seedy oil field bars would always be a mystery to me, but that’s where the fight occurred. You’d think he would have the sense to know that he was a controversial figure in town, and that maybe the rednecks and good ol’ boys wouldn’t take too kindly toward an atheist.
When recognized at the bar, Eddie practically had to fight for his life. The other man was seriously injured, since Eddie beat him to a pulp with the broken leg of a barstool. The same DA charged him this time with aggravated assault and battery. Eddie pled down to assault and was sentenced to two years in the penitentiary, which many thought was too harsh. In January of 1985, Eddie Newcott became a prisoner at Darrington Correctional Institution in Rosharon, Texas. He was paroled at the end of August ’86 for good behavior. His mother had had a stroke that July, and the parole board must have felt sorry for him.
With Mrs. Newcott confined to a wheelchair and unable to speak, Eddie became a full-time caretaker. It would have been a difficult job for an experienced nurse, but Eddie rose to the task. Now he really did have a reason to stay in Limite. By all accounts Eddie did an admirable job caring for her, and I eventually saw the setup firsthand. He may have come to be called “Evil Eddie,” but he certainly loved his mother.
He started up his business again once he was out of prison. Godless Times quickly rebuilt its subscriber base, and Eddie was once again Limite’s most notorious Satanist; the only one, I imagine. He stayed out of legal trouble, but controversy clearly surrounded him. At one point, he painted the entire house black—that really freaked out the neighbors. Numerous visitors would stop by at night, and Eddie made sure they were quiet and didn’t bother anyone. Rumors flew as to what went on in that black house. People actually believed Eddie was holding black masses and rituals in the neighborhood. Never mind that his mother still lived in the house.
The police paid visits to the home on several occasions. Turned out that the nuisance calls were never anything serious—Eddie diligently ensured he wasn’t break
ing any laws. Some phone-happy neighbors obviously hoped that he was.
For the rest of the eighties and early nineties, I didn’t hear another word about Eddie or his mother. I visited my father in Limite three or four times at his new apartment, purposefully avoiding driving by the old neighborhood. Limite had become very different from the small town of the sixties where I’d grown up. It had increased in population by a hundred percent, and none of those vacant lots we used to play in were there anymore. Chicory Lane was no longer on the edge of town; the city had expanded a great deal with the addition of a second mall, numerous shopping centers, fast food chains, and businesses. The sixties and seventies had been good to Limite, but in the late eighties the oil business had a downturn and the town experienced a recession. Hundreds of newly built homes went into foreclosure, and people started leaving. It didn’t affect my father’s business; he was about to retire anyway. The bank was doing all right. Nevertheless, Limite had expanded too quickly to support itself, and a lot of people were out of work.
I came home for the Christmas holidays in 1994 and planned to stay at least a couple of weeks. Dad had an extra bedroom in his apartment, which was where I always bunked whenever I visited. He looked older and more haggard, but he was in a much better frame of mind, especially since leaving our old house. He also had something of a girlfriend—Jane, a woman his age who was a member of his church congregation. She was a widow, and they had been seeing each other for a year or so. I liked her, and I could see that she made Dad very happy.
Three days before Christmas, I found myself at the Limite mall doing some last-minute shopping. It was a madhouse. The stores were packed, and I wanted to get out as quickly as possible. The shortest way to the parking lot was though a wing where several Limite artists traditionally set up kiosks to sell their work—paintings, sketches, sculptures, and jewelry. It was one thing about the Limite mall that I admired—year round, they always allotted space to host a gallery and flea market for local artists. There were table fees, of course, but it was still a nice opportunity for craft makers and artists to display their work. Being that time of year, almost all of the merchandise was Christmas-themed—nativity scenes and velvet Jesuses abounded. I was pleasantly surprised to see a fair-sized crowd of customers gathered around these displays, so I decided to have a look. A woman selling scarves had some pretty items, several jewelers had beautiful pieces, and the paintings were remarkably fine. But I’m not good at fighting a crowd; it makes me claustrophobic. Some young mothers had fussy children in strollers, the kids whining and crying with ever-increasing volume. It wasn’t worth the ordeal. As I backed out of the throng, I noticed one table that seemed to be set apart from the others, as if it didn’t belong. No one stood in front of it, for the work on exhibition there had nothing to do with Christmas. In fact, as I soon learned, everyone was offended that the artist could parade such “filth” next to religious art.
They were magnificently executed fantasy drawings and paintings of demonic and pagan imagery. Scenes depicted sinners falling into hell and being tormented by demons and monsters. Nude women were discreetly covered with masking tape for the public display. Another striking piece was a presentation of a war between angels and devils. The most controversial painting depicted a Nativity scene featuring demons and monsters instead of the usual cast of characters. It was truly breathtaking, but shocking, work.
Eddie Newcott sat behind the table, drawing in a sketch pad and paying no attention to his lack of business. Seeing him there took my breath away. All I could do was stare.
He was dressed entirely in black. His dark hair was long and stylish, almost like a Beatles haircut circa 1966. A goatee adorned his face, which gave him a Mephistophelean appearance. Despite the darkly sinister vibe, Eddie looked marvelous. I’ve said that he was a handsome man, but, my God, he was now more gorgeous than ever. Truly. There was a worldliness about him that exuded maturity, intelligence, and sensuality. Yes, he still displayed a bad boy image, but I’d put him in the same class as Elvis or Marlon Brando in the fifties or Johnny Depp in the nineties. Was it my imagination, or did an aura surround him? I didn’t know. There was no question that he radiated charisma in spades, rock star stuff.
By my calculations, he was thirty-nine years old. I was forty at the time.
“Eddie.” I must have blurted it, for his eyes jerked up. His irises had deepened to a darker brown, mesmerizing black holes into which, I dare say, any heterosexual woman could have fallen, never to return. Why wasn’t there a crowd of females lingering around his table? Well, I knew the obvious answer to that. The subject matter of his art and the less enlightened attitudes of Limite’s population were hardly a good match.
Those eyes widened when he recognized me. “Shelby! My God!”
I immediately went over to him; he stood, and we hugged each other. “I can’t believe it,” I said. “You look great. How are you?”
“I’m fine. You look terrific, too. Fame and fortune becomes you.”
“Oh, hush. I’m still me.”
“Yes, you are.”
I nodded at his sketchpad. “And you’re still you, I see.”
“Oh, yeah. I can’t understand why no one wants to buy any of my paintings for Christmas.” He rolled his eyes and chuckled.
“Uh, maybe because it’s not Halloween?”
“You think?” We both laughed. “Hell, I don’t know why I bother. I should pack up and get out of here.” He glanced over at a mother trying to shush her screaming toddler. Eddie winced and then asked, “What are you doing? You want to get a cup of coffee?”
That actually sounded lovely. I said yes. My desire to leave the mall in a hurry had dissipated. I desperately wanted to sit down with the man who, I suddenly realized then and there, still occupied a special place in my heart.
He started to pack up his things and I volunteered to help carry the stuff to his car. Most of it fit on a dolly that he’d hidden under his table, and it took us only one trip.
“Math was never my strong suit. How long has it been?” he asked as we stepped outside and crossed the crowded parking lot. West Texas wasn’t Chicago, but Limite was still pretty cold in December. He wore a black leather jacket, naturally, and I bundled up in my down coat.
“Uh, seventeen years? Seventeen and a half, almost?”
“God.” He shook his head. “How time flies when you’re the most hated person in town.”
“You must love it, though, if you’ve stayed all these years.”
He laughed again. “You’re right. I do love it. It gives me a purpose in life. Scandalize the neighborhood, provoke the Christians, and assert my rights according to the First Amendment.”
His car was a small van that held his easel and paintings in the back. After packing it up and locking the doors, he said, “Shall we just go to the cafeteria in the mall, or do you want to go somewhere else?” This was before Starbucks had conquered America, although I believe stores were already starting to open in some of the bigger cities around the country.
“Let’s go somewhere else, if you don’t mind,” I said. “Big crowds in a shopping frenzy make me nervous.”
We ended up at Denny’s. I followed him in my father’s car, which I’d borrowed. Dad was off work and didn’t mind hanging out at his apartment while I ran errands. At Denny’s, a young waitress recognized Eddie and said hello in, what seemed to me, a provocative way. Eddie addressed her by name and returned the greeting. Hmm, I thought.
Our conversation over coffee was pleasant and informative. The bad feelings from our breakup in 1977 seemed to have been forgotten. He first asked about me and my life. There wasn’t much to tell. I outlined the failure of my marriage and the fact that I couldn’t have children. Intimate and personal details came flowing out; with anyone else that wouldn’t have happened. Despite the years apart, it was as if Eddie and I were still best friends on Chicory Lane, telling each other our innermost secrets. He asked about my writing career and admitted that he�
��d picked up a couple of my books. They weren’t his “cup of tea.” I laughed and acknowledged that my audience consisted of bored housewives who needed a little fantasy in their lives. Other than my authorial existence in Chicago, which wasn’t as exciting as it sounded, recounting my biographical story didn’t take up much time.
When it was his turn, Eddie didn’t hold back. He told me all about the newsletter he produced at home. How it pushed buttons and asked hard questions and made people think—those who actually read it, that is. Its position was blatantly atheistic, spouting philosophies borrowed from real Satanists throughout history. It was very disturbing to me. Despite my loss of faith, my church upbringing prevented me from buying into such a thing. I asked him straight out if this was what he truly believed.
“Are you kidding? This is a way to make money,” he answered. “I don’t believe any of this shit. Really. It’s all an act. You’ve heard of the Internet?” I nodded, since at that time the web was becoming the next big thing. I’d been advised by my publisher to create a website for myself, something that would happen in the near future. “Well, pretty soon my artwork and writings will be seen all over the world. If being successful means also being controversial, then so be it. I’ll be the next Aleister Crowley or Anton LaVey. It’s LaVey’s work that really inspired me. You should read his Satanic Bible. Enlightening stuff.”
He explained that he had cleaned up his act with regard to drugs. “I don’t do them anymore. I’m under too much scrutiny by the police and the media. I can’t give them a reason to arrest me. Alcohol—that’s another thing. It’s legal. I do still enjoy an alcoholic beverage or two. Or three or four. I’ve really gotten into wine.”
The Secrets on Chicory Lane Page 13