Infinite Loss (Infinite Series, Book 3)

by L. E. Waters

  The face I’ve recognized since that first day of my arrival, takes form in crevices and scowls. “Carve yer own way!” He shoots back in the chair with an exaggerated guffaw. “Look around ye, Edgar! Ye’ve enjoyed a pampered life in one of the finest houses in Richmond. Ye might’ve been born in a boarding house and fed off the charity of theater patrons throwing pennies at yer mother’s feet, but A’ve held the carving knife for ye and ye’ve sat there like a fat fledgling, yer beak wide open waiting for me to drop another juicy worm into yer flapping gob!”

  I sit up to take the brunt of his anger. “I’ve asked for no more than any child would ask of their parents. Although you have made it clear to me, in so many unloving ways, that I am no son in your eyes or on paper.”

  “A’ve given eleven and half dollars for pantaloons, coats, and trimmings. Bought a pen knife and new calf-skin boots. And whit do I get? No appreciation in return! Not a spark of affection for me, not a particle of gratitude for all my care and kindness!”

  I knew all the items he so willingly bought me to appear before all those in town properly mourning would come back to bite me. “Do you think the Mackenzies treat Rosalie in such a way? Counting all of the kindnesses and responsibilities they bestow with an expectation of constant beggar’s gratitude!” I’m screaming now. “No, even though she is quite backwards, they’ve adopted my sister long ago.”

  “At least she is half yer sister,” he mutters.

  “What did you just say?” I stand up, sending Bryon crashing to the floor. “Only a coward mutters such baseless slander.”

  “It’s not baseless. Everyone is quite aware that Joseph Gallego died and left a will bequeathing two thousand dollars for Rosalie’s maintenance.” He waits while that sinks in.

  I’ve never heard that before and I doubt his word.

  Seeing my doubt, he says, “Ask the Mackenzies themselves, they’ve accepted the money on her behalf and are weill aware of its implication. No man leaves that amount of money to a single child out of sheer charity. Yer father left soon after.”

  This news and the scotch swirl in my head.

  Mr. Allan takes joy in deflating me where I least expect it. I pick back up my book and bring the Scotch back to the tray. When will these mysteries from my parents’ past end? They cannot stay dead.

  “Edgar, A’ve always strived to do right with ye. If only ye’d follow my example. Fortitude. Correctness. Obedience—”

  The words strike a chord and I launch Byron with great force, hitting him on the side of the head. I can’t bear his mantra one more time. Not a single word more. I turn to fetch my trunk once again, not even checking if he recovers from my beating. I take one last look upon my lonely room, knowing I will never come back and Mr. Allan, holding a hand to his head, shouts out the door as I leave, “With Fanny gone, ye’ve no reason to return.”

  Chapter 17

  The Hudson River winds up between the jagged, steep cliffs to New York City. The wide river valley and its many ferries hit some deep nostalgia I can’t place. Did I remember this from when my parents lived here as a baby? Could I remember at such an early age? Why then, if I viewed this landscape in the arms of my mother with my father beside, did such an ominous, deep sense of regret overtake me?

  I’m assigned to a tent with three other cadets. We live and breathe drills, ammunition, weapons, guard duty—all rigid in the extreme. We’re informed on our first day that out of one hundred and thirty cadets, only thirty-five graduate. In October, I get best in French and best in math, but I’m struggling in all other areas. I expect the same degree of wealth surrounding me as I did at the University of Virginia, but these men are far superior. Each is the very cream of the crop, the most educated, most disciplined, wealthiest class of gentry. I immediately feel far, far below. A month goes by without any letter with funding. I grow so angry with Mr. Allan that I lose my temper in a letter:

  Dear Sir,

  Did I, when an infant, solicit your charity and protection, or was it of your own free will, that you volunteered your services in my behalf? It is well known to respectable individuals in Baltimore, and elsewhere, that my grandfather (my natural protector at the time you interposed) was wealthy, and that I was his favorite which you held forth to him a letter which is now in possession of my family, induced him to resign all care of me into your hands. Under such circumstances, can it be said that I have no right to expect anything at your hands?

  Edgar

  I thought he’d at least write back a hostile reply, but it worries me more there is no answer. However, I do receive a letter from Henry that he got wind through Rosalie that Mr. Allan has remarried—to the very woman at the funeral. How could he not have let me know? To only add insult to injury, he got married at Patterson’s house, not far from West Point. He was in this area and he never came to visit me. It was my crime to have no one on Earth who cared for me, or loved me.

  Whenever I have a moment to myself (and there are not many of them) I write my poetry. My tent-mates force me to read them some when they see me busy in my journal and they applaud it. The word gets out that they’re worthy and many request copies to be passed around. They all implore me to publish. Without any funding, exhausted, and tired of borrowing and scavenging for money, I know I have to withdraw.

  Dear Sir,

  With lack of funding, I am seeking to withdraw from West Point. Since you are my guardian (at least on paper), it is mandatory that I have your written permission to withdraw. This is the last favor I request from you.

  Edgar

  I wait, and wait for a reply, but again, none comes. I write him another letter:

  Mr. Allan,

  From the time of writing this I shall neglect my studies and duties at the institution–if I do not receive your answer in ten days.

  Edgar

  Ten days come slowly, but once they pass, I don’t go to classes, show up for parade, make roll call, or attend church. After all the years of discipline and strict training, laziness is a welcomed change. Following a week of absences, there is a general court martial where I’m accused of gross neglect of duty and disobedience of orders. I sit quietly on the stand and they find me guilty of all charges, dismissing me from the service of the United States.

  As I’m packing up my things, my classmates come to me with somber but understanding looks. One of the men hands me an envelope full of collected cash to publish the poems they enjoyed. I fight back tears and tuck the money away, promising to thank them in my first edition.

  There is only one place I want to go. Only one place I can go.

  Chapter 18

  Baltimore is every bit the thriving city Henry described, and growing at an astonishing rate. The noises from the bustling harbor catch my attention and more ships than I have ever seen come and go, filled with either passengers or wares of all kind. The city buzzes with people, all on their way to something of importance. Well-dressed, prosperous people, but why do so many wear black? Could it be that so many people are mourning? The epidemics have been prospering as well.

  A brand new steam train chugs majestically pass, filling me with so much wonder it brings tears to my eyes. I can’t help but dream of the day when I can afford to travel in such luxury. One day. I make my way to the center of the city and stand at the foot of an impressive statue of George Washington, reigning on top of a sixty-foot tall white marble base. I squint to see every line and feature of the statue and think the artist just didn’t get his jaw right. His terrible teeth threw off his whole face. I shake my head at the strange thought—how would I know of Washington’s jaw or teeth?

  I must be tired from my travels. I spend some of the publishing money to visit Henry. He had only days before sent me a letter saying he is home on leave. I always imagine him in a stately Baltimore mansion with all of David Poe Senior’s memorabilia from his hero days in the revolution, decorated with Napoleonic-style portraits, framed letters from General Washington, and tattered flags hanging throughout the gra
nd halls. I take a second look at his return address when I arrive at the diminutive dwelling, with its small shed for chickens and a lush vegetable garden—obviously to sustain the occupants— on Mechanics row on Wilks street.

  Joyful voices of children sing out from the backyard. Do children live here as well? Henry chases a young girl with barley-sugar curls around the clothesline, where a plain-looking woman attempts to hang her bed linens.

  “Ma! He’s going to get me!” the pretty girl cries in fun.

  Henry growls at her playfully, as she shrieks and pulls a sheet off the line to throw over him in an attempt to avoid capture. Chickens complain and scatter in all directions.

  “Stay away from my laundry you two!” The older woman chides, “You’re making the chickens nervous!”

  But Henry balls up the sheet and hands it gently to her before reaching his arms out above his head and swooping down upon the girl, who clambers up the stonewall around the garden. He lifts her high up and she reels in half-terror, half-joy. He spies me in the instant and freezes with her hanging above his head. The cries halt, and all eyes rest upon me. Henry breaks into a gleaming smile and lays the little girl down as gently as an egg. He runs to me and swallows me up in his much thicker arms.

  I grab the taut muscles. “Navy life has steeled you.”

  He shakes off my compliment. “What on earth are you doing here? I thought you were at West Point.” He sing-songs the last part to make fun.

  I don’t want to tell him of my failures. “Fanny passed on unexpectedly,”—which isn’t true, she’d been expecting it all her life—“and Mr. Allan has decided to forget me.”

  The little girl dances up at that point and, immediately upon hearing my statement, she gives me a flower she picks from the garden. Her large honey eyes are sparkling pools of warmth. Henry roughly pulls her under his wing, pressing her lovingly against him. “This here is our cousin, Virginia.” She brushes the hair out of her eyes, exposing a tiny white scar in the center of her forehead. “Virginia, this is the little brother I’m always telling you about.”

  The girl beams. “Edgar!” she chimes and gives me a hug, as though I’ve known her all her life.

  I bend down to her level and ask, “And how old is this sweet flower?”

  She rolls her hands coyly. “Almost ten.”

  Henry pulls her back to him, “Don’t you be getting any ideas, Edgar. She’s far too young to marry and, even if she weren’t, she has promised her heart to me.” With a hearty laugh, he lifts her up over his head again and spins her in giggling circles, her blue satin sash twirling out like a flag.

  The older woman breaks in, with a maternal cluck. “Henry, she’ll spill her lunch. Put her down.” She pulls the clothespins from her mouth and attempts to press her fly-away hair under her kerchief. “My name is Maria, but my family calls me Muddy. And you, Eddie, are most certainly family.” Her smile reaches all the way into the tiny freckles high on her cheekbones. She pities my travel-worn clothes. “You must be weary from your journey, Eddie. Come inside at once and I shall repair you with a nice thick stew and some of Henry’s fresh clothes.”

  The keeping room is small but cozy. Worn chairs are draped in fresh linens to cover bare threads, and smells of a hearty stew hangs in the air. Muddy leads me to the softest chair. “You must be famished. Rest here and I shall serve you, dear.”

  Henry sits on the deacon’s bench across from me and crosses his legs, as though he is used to such pampering.

  Virginia floats in and rests like a butterfly on Henry’s knee. Henry pats her back. “Play Edgar one of your sweet songs.”

  She gives me a sugared grin and rushes to small piano that takes up so much precious space I deduce music must be of great importance. Once the bird starts playing, I understand why.

  I recognize the tune instantly, one of my favorite classical tunes, Pachelbel’s Canon in D. On such a small piano the meandering, thoughtful tune sounds almost like a music box being played. Although I’ve heard it many times before on the large organ of our church, I prefer the sweeter, more innocent sound.

  “Where’s my supper?” comes a croak from the back room.

  I startle at the interruption and Henry and Virginia snicker. Henry bursts out, “That’s your Grandma Poe.”

  Muddy has a charitable expression as she mashes up the chunks of stew. “Bound to her bed for the last few years, poor soul.”

  She rushes the plate to her and I creep to the doorjamb to peer in. A fragile, ancient lady languishes on a bed, propped up with pillows that freeze her into a statue-position. Muddy carefully feeds her as though she were a toothless babe, and the fresh state she is in is a testament to Muddy’s meticulous care. The setting sun shines through the small, four-over-four paned window, bathing Muddy with a fitting angelic aura. The piano starts up again and coaxes me back to my chair. This time Henry shares the delicate piano bench with Virginia and the two hammer out a rowdy tune: Follow Me Up to Carlow.

  Muddy leans over to me. “Henry taught her all she knows. Any instrument his picks up he can play. Such gifts he has.”

  Whenever the chorus plays Virginia takes over and Henry leaps from the bench and jigs in front of the fire until the sweat pours down his face and Virginia beams. Muddy returns to the room for the last stanza, as Henry grabs Virginia from the bench and dances around singing without the aid of or use for the piano.

  I keep back tears, even though the jealousy and loneliness stings painfully, watching the love and joy Henry is blessed with—there can be no greater home. No need for grand portraits, letters from Washington, or columned porches. Henry enjoys far greater wealth. Who would I be if I had been taken by my grandparents as well? My longing is interrupted by Virginia pulling me up to dance with them, and the sadness is shaken out of me by the two warm hands holding me as we spin in circles.

  As we eat the savory stew, Muddy looks at all of us. “Our family is now complete. We’ve missed you, Eddie.”

  For the first time, I am home.

  ∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞

  After sharing a small bed in the loft with Henry, we awake to the smell of fried eggs and fresh bread.

  Muddy places two eggs on the plate before me. “I have only what the chickens provide for us. We try to live simply off Pa’s military pension and any sewing and laundry I can take in for extra money, but it hardly pays for the rent and Ma Poe’s care. The doctor visits are costly.”

  Henry shifts in his wooden chair. “I’m going back to sea shortly. I’ll send everything home.”

  She lays a well-worn hand, hardened by lye over the years of laundering, reassuringly on top of Henry’s. “Dear, I know. You provide for us very well. I’m only thinking about the addition of our sweet Eddie.”

  She just as quickly pats my hand. “Not to be mentioned to make you feel unwelcomed, only that we need to take care of such fiscal matters so we can enjoy each other’s company.”

  “I will go in search of a job immediately and contribute more than my share.”

  She seems pleased but follows with some hesitation, “In the meantime, do you think your wealthy guardian will provide in the interim?”

  The last thing I want is to bring more worry to these struggling people. Even though I know how Mr. Allan left things, and can imagine his response, I must attempt it for these dear people. “I can always try.”

  Henry slaps my back while patting his mouth. “Time for us to go town to send a letter to good ole Uncle Allan.”

  Muddy and Virginia attempt to hide their light laughter.

  Chapter 19

  Henry pens a groveling letter to Mr. Allan so bootlicking I haven’t the stomach to read it. Nevertheless, I allow him to sign my name for the good of our misbegotten group, and Henry opens the door to post it.

  “Hold on one minute.” I grab my jacket to venture into town with him.

  After we send the atrocious letter off, he brings me into the tavern. Henry slaps me on the back. “I usually don�
�t waste money on such things, but given we’re reunited at long last, that calls for some spirits.”

  “Henry, my boy!” The barkeep slaps his large fist on the bar. “The usual?”

  “Oh, no, Sammy. Now that my brother’s back to stay with me I’m thinking this calls for a whole bottle.”

  He seems to know the barkeep better than he let on.

  “Pleased to meet any brother of Henry’s.” He fetches a bottle. “Harsh stuff, but it does the trick just the same.”

  Henry slaps down a payment and tucks the bottle lovingly under his sinewy arm. We walk home through the cloud of dust kicked up by so many carts and Henry won’t stop coughing until we leave the busy roads.

  An early super is waiting for us on our return. Muddy chimes, “My boys are home again.”

  After taking care of Grandma Poe first, she returns and gives a tsk upon seeing Henry opening the bottle.

  He puts his arms up in defense. “It’s only to celebrate Edgar’s homecoming.”

  “You seem to always find a reason to celebrate.” She cleans up our plates as soon as we set our forks down. “None for me, or my Virginia.”

  Virginia’s shoulders sink.

  “You do know that is the very flavor your father loved too much.”

  The small tidbit about her late brother (although rather despairingly said) only increases my appetite. “Tell me more about our father.”

  She sees the hunger in my eyes and sets down her plate to fully feed my life-long curiosity.

  “David was a brilliant dancer—with the same life and lightness that Henry possesses.” Virginia looks up to him with a pride that makes me want to get up and challenge him. Wishing for someone to tell me I resemble him in any way.

  Muddy smiles, as if she sees him dancing in front of her. “Old muffin face,”—she turns to us—“is what I called him, was on his way to study law. He was brilliant, and my parents had high aspirations for him to go to university.”