Not Quite Dead

by John MacLachlan Gray

  “On second thought,” I said, for I could endure his stare no longer, “it has been a long day.”

  “As you wish, sah.”

  The butler indicated a chair by the table, there to await Elmira Royster (whom I still could not acknowledge as Mrs. Shelton for some reason). Nonetheless I chose to remain standing, for as with Neilson Poe at the Exchange Hotel, there is something about being discovered sitting down that reduces one to a subordinate level.

  The butler returned with a glass of whiskey on a small silver tray and set it on the table. “Purely medicinal, I assure you,” I said to his retreating back, and wondered why I had felt the need to explain.

  “It is the brand your friend was drinking when first we met,” said Elmira Royster from the doorway. “You were watching it evah so longingly, and I felt sorry for you.”

  If erotic longing is a cause for pity, I must have made a pathetic sight as I gaped at the figure in the doorway—her skeptical eye, her lithe, supple form, her slightly aquiline nose, her quality of psychical distance contradicted by the rapid motion of her bosom.

  “When last we met I was a Son of Temperance,” I replied, weakly. “Presumptuous of me to say it, I know.”

  “In what way was it presumptuous, suh?” She wore a plain, thin cotton dress of the sort worn by Negro servants. The simplicity of it struck me as angelic and provocative at the same time.

  “Presumptuous,” I replied, “to assume such dominion over oneself.”

  “That is rightly true. We are all creatures of the flesh, and the flesh is weak.”

  Beneath the dress, she did not appear to be wearing a corset. A silver mourning locket hung by a chain to a point between the swell of her breasts, each of which would have fitted into my hand.

  “Do you know why I invited you, Dr. Chivahs? Do you know why you are here?”

  With my mind in a fog of desire, I had no idea what to reply. This was perhaps not the time to mention that I did not care a fig about Eddie Poe, that he had given me nothing but trouble since he entered my life as a boy, that the thought of him in trouble filled my heart with inexpressible joy.

  Nor was it the time to say that I had come because I needed to see her, to be in her presence, in the way that a dipsomaniac needs a drink. That I would leap like a trout at the opportunity to look at her face, let alone hear her voice, smell her violet scent. Had I expressed my thoughts outright, she would have been well advised to have me shot, if only as a precaution.

  While my mind scrambled for words with which to explain myself in an acceptable manner, my body acted of its own accord. Aghast at what I was doing, I arose from my chair, stepped forward, and placed my lips directly upon hers. She did not resist, nor did she call for help; on the contrary, for a moment she grasped the nape of my neck with one tentative hand in order to press her mouth more firmly upon mine.

  Our lips parted. My mouth felt swollen as though bee-stung, as Elmira Royster sank into a chair beside the tea table.

  “Dr. Chivahs, I declare that I have nevah experienced such behavior from a gentleman in my life.”

  Nor had I, though I once witnessed similar activity between seamen and their women; and I had heard of such behavior among Negroes, and the Irish as well.

  “I assure you, ma’am, that I am appalled by myself. I scarcely know what to say in my defense.”

  “The less said about it the better,” she said. “Of course it is understood between us that this may not go one step further.”

  “Why?” I croaked without thinking. The whiskey glass shook in my hand as I raised it to my lips.

  She seemed mildly affronted by the question. “Why, you ask? The fact that I am in this room alone with you is in itself a disgrace, suh.”

  “I agree that my action was reprehensible, ma’am. But allow me to point out that you did not resist.”

  “I did not slap your face, if that is what you mean.”

  “That is not what I mean, ma’am.”

  “Very well, suh. I agree that the flesh is weak, mine included. Can a heart so full of corruption also contain the Holy Spirit? Can good and evil exist at the same time, in the same body?” She asked me these questions as though I might venture an answer.

  “I do not have the faintest idea,” I replied. “I am a freethinker.” The corners of her mouth moved upward, though her eyes continued to evaluate. “Freethinkers never know anything for certain. I wonder how you manage to leave the house.”

  “I mean to say that I am open to suggestion and argument.” “Dr. Chivahs, are you familiar with the marriage vow?” “Certainly, ma’am. I swore to it myself, once. In fact I am a widower.” “And I am a widow.” Elmira Royster frowned slightly, as though the word evoked a distant memory. “I never liked the word widow. It makes me think of spiders. And widower is very much like murderer, don’t you think—as though a man creates a widow? Such sinister words for such a melancholy condition!”

  I ventured no reply. The room was warm and she exuded violet. My mother’s clothes had smelled of violet, from the sprigs of orrisroot that lined her linen drawer.

  “How much better is the word engaged, don’t you think? Yes, Dr. Chivahs, I am engaged, even if I am not to be married.”

  Once again her mouth formed an expression of ambivalent amusement. “Ephesians Five: ‘Wives, submit yourselves unto your own husband, as unto the Lord “

  I could not tell if she was declaiming the verse or mocking it. “You must have loved Mr. Shelton a great deal,” I said, feeling inane for not the first time.

  “I did not, suh. I hated him. He was a brute. I might as well have been one of the staff—he beat me when he felt like it, and he violated me when he felt like it. If I refused, he would simply visit one of the slave girls. At any sign of an independent spirit I was mocked, in public if possible.”

  “Was this beastly behavior not noticed by others?” “I imagine that it was. But among the couples we socialized with the situation appeared no different from ours. Through experience I became attuned to the weapons men and women use on one another. I could hear the subtle barbs, uttered in a private code and therefore guaranteed to wound; and the response—the ways in which a woman makes light of her husband’s behavior in a social setting. “But now my husband is dead, suh, and all that he did is gone with him. And I am engaged to a man who would rather plunge a quill into his own eye than cause me pain.”

  My mind struggled to concentrate, for I was literally quivering with hatred for her late husband, and for his oversensitive replacement. “Ma’am, how is it possible to be engaged to be married, without contemplating marriage itself?”

  “I am a practical woman, suh. Engagement without marriage places our association in exactly the place I want to be.”

  “I am glad of it, ma’am. I recall that the last time Eddie married, his bride was all of thirteen.”

  “My fiancé’s relations with women have nothing to do with using her, carnally or in any other way. Eddie loved little Virginia, suh. He worshipped her. Cherished her. And when poor Virginia became consumptive, he loved her all the more. He went without food in order to purchase medicine for her. In her weeks of dying he never left her side, not once, and when she passed away he was like a walking corpse himself.”

  “And yet he seems to have made an impressive recovery.”

  “On the contrary, my fiancé is in desperate distress.”

  “Yes, you said so in your letter.”

  “Those were his own words, in a letter to me.”

  “May I see the letter?”

  “Certainly not, suh. It is my personal correspondence.”

  What an infuriating woman, I thought.

  “However, I can tell you that it concerns some Irish gentlemen,” she continued. “Briefly, it seems clear that Eddie is in peril, suh. As you are his best friend—”

  “Ma’am, as your fiancé, he is at this moment my worst enemy.”

  A silence fell between us in which, in my imagination, my mouth found
hers, my arms wrapped themselves around her waist, and I pulled her close so that I might feel her breasts, swollen beneath the soft cotton of her dress. Her mouth was surprisingly cool…

  “Doctor, you astonish me.”

  “Please forgive me, ma’am,” I said, momentarily convinced that she could read my thoughts.

  “Dr. Chivahs, I think it would be best if we prayed together.”

  I honestly did not know how to respond to such an outlandish suggestion, other than to accede.

  We joined hands—which in itself made the moment worthwhile— and softly she said a prayer. I felt her breath on my face; it smelled of leaves.

  As we endure this mortal coil

  Allow us not our souls to soil

  Let our desires dormant lie

  To be released when we die

  At Thy feet our passions poured

  In praise for Thou, our Loving Lord

  “Amen,” we said together.

  She opened her eyes and looked into mine. “Dr. Chivahs, I wonder if you are capable of sustaining an association of the soul?” “Ma’am, I am afraid I have not given my soul much thought.” She nodded, as though the answer would suffice for the present. “You must go now. I surely do hope your hotel is comfortable.” “I do not think I shall be comfortable for some time to come.” “A woman must be firm if she is to stem the tide of a man’s sensual nature. She must set limits and abide by them. I may need your help, for Eddie’s sake. In which case I must trust in your honor, suh. Otherwise I do fear we mayn’t meet again.”

  “I shall do my best, ma’am. As I mentioned, I am a freethinker.” Soon after that I left the house. Two ancient Negroes waited for me at the door of the ancient carriage.

  “Have a safe trip, sah,” said the butler in his improbably resonant voice, and the driver bowed his head. Altogether, I experienced the distinct feeling that I was being mocked.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  * * *

  Baltimore

  Repentance, n. The faithful attendant and

  follower of Punishment.

  —Ambrose Bierce

  Dr. Chivers, there is a gentleman to see you. I believe he is a constable.” Nurse Slatin articulated this information as though she had acquired police powers herself.

  I cannot adequately describe my distress at this news. For days I had been going about my rounds with a display of cool professionalism, while bearing an inward turmoil that permitted me neither to eat nor sleep. At the mention of constable it required an effort not to throw myself out the window.

  In the days since our meeting, I had not for one moment recovered from Elmira Royster. Night after night I lay awake, listening to the creak of my rope bed, tormented by imaginings I had not experienced since my youth, when the sight of a girl’s bare arm would return in the night to brush against my lips, producing a temporary fever and an inflammation of the loins.

  The only plausible reason for a constable to visit was that Eddie had been exposed. Whether dead or alive it scarcely mattered; what mattered was that Poe was not where he should be—underground.

  I did not throw myself out the window. Nonetheless, I kept my morphine ready.

  Under the policing system of the day, Baltimore constables were appointed by a warden under the direction of an elected official, as a reward for the applicant’s support during the last election. This was universally understood and accepted.

  The constable in this instance had surely given good service to some clan or sect or ethnic society, for he radiated confidence in the security of his position, despite a lack of anything resembling knowledge or training, or even a command of the English language.

  “You being Dr. Chivers please, sir?”

  “I am he.”

  A mass of folds resembled a smile. “It is good profession, Doctor. It is hoped my son to be doctor. Any man can be doctor in America.”

  “Democracy is a powerful stimulant to advancement,” I replied.

  “I apologize, Doctor, to be interruption between your works.”

  “That is all right, Constable, I am sure it is an important matter.”

  “A disturbing communical from the Philadelphia Municipal Police we have had.” The constable glanced down at his notes, which were taken in a foreign language. “It concerns a … a hunting, sir.”

  “I’m sorry but I never go near the forest.”

  “No, sir, hunting it is. Hunting.”

  “Haunting, you mean.”

  “Yes.”

  A pause ensued, during which I formed a civil reply to such an absurdity. “Poltergeists are outside my area of scientific expertise, Constable,” I said, with an air of restrained amusement. “Here at Washington College Hospital, we deal with the living—if only just.”

  “Ha, ha. That is funny one. But I must to ask you the question: Am I understanding you were present at the death of Edgar Allan Poe the writer?”

  “Indeed I was. I am sure Nurse Slatin can produce the full report for you.”

  “That is not what I am seeking, sir. I am to understand you were friendship of Mr. Poe?”

  “We were chums, yes. However, we hadn’t seen each other in years.”

  “But you would to recognize him, is so?”

  “Oh I recognized him, all right. Though he was very near death.”

  “So. I shall my report giving that Mr. Poe was positively identified by …” Here the constable produced a piece of paper from one coat pocket and a monocle from another, and read aloud: “the attendant surgeon at the time and place of his death!’ He removed the monocle:

  “Indeed I was. Might I ask what this has to do with your haunting in Philadelphia?”

  “I am not free with that informative.”

  “If I cannot know what the problem is, how in heaven’s name do you expect me to answer your questions?”

  “I see no reason not. Man name Rufus Griswold claim he is feisted by Mr. Poe in the night, horrible threats given. It is in the business of the police to follow such when the victim has the good stansion.”

  “If this was the Griswold who penned Mr. Poe’s obituary, then he might be suffering from a malady known as remorse. Rufus Griswold did Mr. Poe a good deal of harm, and for no good reason.”

  “I will write down,” replied the constable, and did so in another language. “But there is complication.”

  “There are always complications.”

  “Is a bed murder in Philadelphia. I am bringing the newspaper for you, I do not read the English greatly.”

  POE IMPLICATED IN TOPHAM MURDER

  by Sanford W. Mitchell, The Philadelphia Inquirer

  PHILADELPHIA Not a few have noted aspects of the grisly murder of Mr. Henry Topham which correspond with uncanny accuracy to incidents in the work of Edgar Allan Poe, whose Collected Tales were published not long ago, in which murder, mutilation, and torture serve as recurrent motifs. Given the stormy relations between the late author and Mr. Topham, it is to be wondered whether the similarity was not a product of deliberate design.

  Inspector Shadduck, the officer responsible for the investigation, demurs. “There is no need to alarm the public,” he said. “Murderers seldom read novels, much less imitate them.”

  “Your hands is shaking, Doctor. Is the palsy?”

  “A slight case, yes. Am I to believe that Mr. Poe is a suspect in this murder?”

  “Is public sensation over hunting of Mr. Griswold. There is demanding to updig Mr. Poe for easing of the public mind. Let us hoping it is not necessitation.”

  I nodded sagely while my stomach roiled. “I agree, sir, that it would be a great shame to wake the dead.”

  MY SECOND VOYAGE from the land of Lord Baltimore was no more comfortable than the first. Between episodes of seasickness my thoughts went to the subject of death—the gravitational pull of escape, from everything, to be enveloped in black velvet, back to the infinite womb …

  Having disembarked in Norfolk Harbor, there being no hack available at the dock, an
d therefore obliged to find my own way, I walked to the Kaiser Brothers livery stable, where I was permitted to rent a rancorous saddle hoss for an outrageous sum. As well, I was provided with a map to the Shelton estate drawn by the manager, a Negro freedman by the name of Brooks.

  The distance to the Shelton estate was farther than I remembered. By the time we trotted onto the property, between the eerily rustling rows of chestnut trees and past the cemetery, my inner thighs were aflame with saddle welts, which would make my trousers a torture and leave me waddling like a sailor for days.

  By the time I stood stiffly onto the mounting block by the front stoop, the elderly Negro coachman had already materialized to take the reins, while Elmira Royster stood behind the screen door, holding the visiting card I had hastily sent ahead the day before.

  Shifting from foot to foot in order to restore feeling and movement to my legs, I noted her dress, which was the same as at our previous meeting, or one just like it. Already I could smell violet.

  “Dr. Chivahs. I am evah so surprised.”

  “Forgive me, ma’am, for arriving without due notice. I left Baltimore in some haste.”

  “You look peaked, suh, you appear right consumptive. I declare, when is the last time you have eaten?”

  “Eating is out of the question. On this occasion it is I who am in terrible distress.”

  “Then you are most welcome to come in, suh. Will you take another glass of whiskey on this occasion?”

  “I certainly shall.”

  I followed her down the hall—mesmerized by the swing of her body beneath her dress—and into the drawing room, while wondering why the devil I had come, what did I expect? After the constable’s visit I had acted with the instinct of a trapped animal and fled—but by what logic did I expect Elmira Royster to be of assistance to me, a woman who seemed seldom in her right mind herself?