by L. E. Waters
The shame of dropping out crawls over me.
“Oh yes, we had high hopes for him, but then he met your mother.”
I stiffen in my chair.
“Oh, I don’t mean that in any disparaging way, Eddie. I cast no fault on your departed mother.”
Henry seems used to this story since he sits back, cradling his tall glass of cheap whiskey, one hand in his pocket.
Her tone rises with honey. “Once he set eyes on beautiful Eliza, singing on stage like a caged canary he could think of nothing else but her. He left the expectation of law and joined your mother’s troupe just to be near her.” She flutters her hand at Virginia. “Dear, play Edgar the song Eliza played when David first saw her.”
Virginia bounces to the piano and, while she sings, I try to imagine my young mother singing on an empty stage with my father falling in love with her among the crowd.
“Come blind, come lame, come cripple,
Come someone and take me away!
For ‘tis O! What will become of me,
O! What shall I do?
Nobody coming to marry me,
Nobody coming to woo!”
Virginia takes on the stately posture of Ma in the portrait. I never noticed how long her neck is and how gracefully she moves with the keys. At only ten she plays like a girl of twice her years. I understand every bit of why Pa was drawn to Ma and why he would have thrown all plans aside to be near her. Virginia casts the same spell, the siren without the seas, the siren of musical keys.
Henry’s deep-ocean eyes are fixed and intense as he watches her every move. Henry pulls from his pocket a tied tendril of dark-brown hair, bristly from age. “This gift of her I loved so well.” He brings the old thing up to his lips, like a priest kissing his crucifix. The flash of Ma placing it in his chubby, five-year-old fingers resurfaces, bringing stinging memories I have to push away.
Muddy chimes in. “Oh, you were such a round, rosy baby, Edgar. I remember they came to visit us when you were only a few months old. Your ma always said you were such a good baby. Not one night of colic.” She turns to Virginia. “Not as much as I can say for Virginia, here. Kept me up until she was nearly two!”
Virginia smiles, but Henry jumps to her defense. “But she is not a day of trouble now.”
“That she is. That she is.” Muddy places her strong hands on Virginia’s delicate shoulders. “I count my blessings every day for her.” She kisses her gently on the crown of her head.
These missing details are all pieces that make up the shattered fragments of my life. I still cling to too many extra pieces and stare down to a broken chain of random connections, struggling to guess what makes me who I am.
It must be these missing pieces and interconnections that drives Henry to such liquid devices. Even though he’s been blessed with such riches as Virginia and Muddy all the while, I find soon enough that something dark and damaging brews within him as well. He coaxes me out to visit Sammy’s counter, and I match him one to every three of his drinks. I feel no need to drown the sudden and unexpected happiness that fills me. Even with no response or funds from Mr. Allan, even sharing a bed fit for only one grown man, even without any prospects, I’m content. The mother, the sister, and the brother I’ve always longed for are under the same roof. The unimaginable—and previously thought unobtainable—sense of true belonging warms me like old, worn quilt.
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When we return, Muddy fights the chiding—keeping it on the tip of her tongue—and always has something warm waiting for us. “Go wash up. I won’t have any filthy fingernails in my house.”
“See.” Henry lays out his pink hands in the air for her. “Not a speck of dirt.” Henry wobbles a bit with drink as he attempts to sit down and, noticing this, Virginia distracts Muddy with an unknown piece of calm music.
Muddy asks, while she’s spooning our supper, “Any news from Mr. Allan, Eddie?”
“I wish I had.” Oh, how I wish I had something to contribute. “Before I left West Point my friends pulled together some funds so that I could publish my collection of poems.”
Muddy stops spooning. “Henry’s told us of your talents, and he should know. Did you know Henry’s published a short story himself?”
He nods at my questioning glance.
“What have you published, and why have you not shared it with me?”
He brings out a magazine, permanently bent to a page where The Pirate by William Leonard Poe rests. I can’t believe my eyes. Henry is capable of such an accomplishment. I want to sit down and read it, but Muddy prompts, “Go fetch your poems at once to read to us.”
I put Henry’s short story down in hopes of reading it by the fire later. After I finish reading the last line of Tamerlane, I look down to two sets of eager eyes and Henry’s drooping, tired ones. All three clap though.
Virginia perches on the edge of her chair. “Oh, Eddie, you are a master!”
Muddy wipes a tear away. “You must publish these, and immediately. The world must hear such a gift. Virginia, what do you think of these talented Poe brothers?”
“They are both magicians with words.”
I absorb every word, but I put the journal down. “I’m sure I can publish them another time. I’ve decided to give you the money for publishing to provide for my burden.”
“Oh, I won’t have it. We might be crowded and eating leaner, but we must not interfere with such promise. No, you will use the funds to get these out the world and the money will follow.”
I want to hold her high up in the air but settle for a tight hug.
“Eddie, you’re crushing me.” She laughs and Virginia hops like a young rabbit.
“You will be famous! I feel it!” Virginia leaps into my arms and her energy soaks through my skin.
Henry remains in his chair, but a glimmer of pride—as well as a shadow of envy—appears deep within the ocean of his indigo gaze. “You really must publish them.”
By the end of the joyous night, Henry is incapable of climbing the steep stairs by himself. I lie to Muddy. “He’s so tired. I better give him a push up to bed.”
But Muddy looks away and calls for Virginia to join her in her bed, in the room they share with our invalid grandmother.
A drunk is three times heavier than a conscious person, for reasons I haven’t yet solved. It takes me three attempts to get him into the small rope-bed under the slanted ceiling of our loft. Henry’s feet hang off the ends and I leave him in his clothes, too exhausted from heaving him this far to change him.
He babbles, “She’s mine, not yours, Benedict. She’s always been mine. Will always be mine.”
I chuckle and roll over, but he continues, “Why does she have to be so young? Who chose this? Such impure thoughts. She’s only ten.”
I turn over. “Who’s only ten?”
His eyes drift open for a moment and then close again, resting on the slurred words, “Virginia.” A rolling cough overtakes him. “My sweet Virginia.”
Henry’s nearly twenty-four. All the cuddling and playful fun between the two seems tainted now.
His eyes fly open with instant sobriety. “After all these stinkin’ lives, I’m finally going to marry her, but she’s too goddamn young. How the hell can I wait so long?” His voice rises and I worry the others will hear him.
“Shhh. Go to sleep, Henry. You’re having a dream.”
“I’m living a nightmare. One that never ends.”
He’s quiet for a while and I think he’s drifted off to sleep. The question pops into my mind: Other lives?
Just as if I’d said the words aloud, he responds with his eyes closed, “We’ve all lived other lives before. We keep dancing the same dance, with the same damn ending.”
The shock of him answering my unspoken question sends chills throughout my body. I ask silently again: Why would we live other lives?
In his hypnotic monotone, he answers, “God’s sick game. Watching us all scramble to figure it
all out before the time’s up. Virginia will never be mine.”
This time I whisper aloud, “What is my destiny?”
A smile stretches across his face, but no words part his lips. The smile wanes into quiet slumber, but his strange words hang in the air, robbing me of any sleep that night.
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I decide not to tell Henry of his confessions when he groans and kicks me out of bed. I leave him to nurse his headache and go out to split some firewood. I don’t even notice Henry slip out, but when I sense his absence and check our bed, I wonder why he didn’t fetch me to go to town with him. I find him immediately in the first place I check: Sammy’s counter. A wide smile hides any embarrassment once he spies me.
He holds up his half-drunk glass. “Best remedy for a liquor-ache.”
He’s the only one drinking so early.
“Sammy!” He coughs. “Get another for my brother.”
I put my hand up to stop him. “No, thank you, Sammy. I’ll have mine later.”
Henry shakes off any judgment and taps the piece of paper face-down on the sawbuck table. “You know what I’ve got here?”
“I hope it’s a letter from Mr. Allan full of money.”
He spins the paper over to me and sits back, bringing the glass up to his thick grin. I turn the paper over to see a torn article from an issue of The North American pasted on. My eyes shoot around the page until I rest on the title of one of the poems I wrote while in the Army: “The Happiest Day, The Happiest Hour.”
I look back up to Henry who blurts, “I sent it in a month ago for you. They printed it immediately.”
I run my eyes over each word again and glare at the author credited.
“Henry, it says you wrote it!”
His eyes widen in feigned surprise. “Oh, well, they confused us. What does it matter? You’ve been published!”
I turn in my seat and shout out to Sammy, “Where’s that drink?”
Sammy chuckles. “So, this is later?”
I relax in my chair once the glass is in hand. “What did you do with the payment they gave us?”
He smiles and holds up his glass for a clank. “We’re drinking it.”
Chapter 20
Virginia and Muddy both cry when Henry packs his small satchel of his most necessary belongings to ship back out. I feel like crying as well but can’t betray my sex. He gives Virginia one last toss up in the air, but she clings to him as he tries to set her down. Henry keeps careful distance from her lately. He gives her a sweet pat on the head, but she climbs up his arm for a kiss on his freshly shaven cheek. He allows her to linger there for a moment, but with a deep breath in, he pulls away. “You must not replace me with Edgar here. I expect long, gushing letters about the hole my absence has left.” He says this with a playful turn of his lips.
Virginia’s mournful face feeds Henry’s insecurity. With a quivering lip she says sweetly, “I shall miss you every minute and write you every day.”
“Good girl,” is all he can muster and then he turns to Muddy for a parting kiss on the cheek. “I feel much better with the parting now that Edgar is here to watch over you.”
Muddy gives me a doting gaze. “We are so blessed to have Eddie.”
As the women cry, I walk Henry down the dirt side-roads to the cobblestone Baltimore harbor streets, he quickens every step by sharing his nautical adventures of exotic places, where salty, tattooed mariners fought, sought out wanton women, and emptied many a bottle. The large ship glistens in the early spring sun. A few uneducated and rough men come over to slap Henry’s back at once. I instantly feel childish and out of place, so I pull Henry aside to say goodbye.
“Too bad you can’t come along.”
Part of me wishes I’m man enough to walk with Henry onto that fabled ship, to throw my future into the wind, caring little where it takes me. “I’m going to try to get my first collection published.”
He nods immediately, knowing it’s no use. “Send me a copy at once when you do. And write as often as you can.” He looks at the other men and whispers, “Though they are an interesting bunch,”—a sudden, thick cough overtakes him and I don’t like him leaving with an illness starting. He regains his composure and finishes, “I crave the intelligent companionship lacking from this sort.”
I stand a little taller, happy I can’t be replaced so easily. “I will make it my mission.”
Henry stuffs a clasped hand inside my waistcoat pocket.
“What’s this?” I pull the contents out that he left behind: every bill and coin of what he has been holding on to.
“To get your poems published.”
I stare into his heavy eyes, but he breaks contact as soon as our gazes lock. He says, “I would just spend it on baldfaced and used-up women.”
We don’t hug, but the look in his eyes embraces me.
“Good luck and safe-keeping,” I say.
He gives me a stoic nod back and pulls his satchel higher on his broad shoulder as he rejoins his rag-tag group.
It’s a much longer walk back home.
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In the boredom left by Henry’s absence, I publish a thin volume titled, Al Aaraaf, Tamerlane, and Minor Poems. All the eager blood within spins through me, almost making me dizzy once I hold the simple, printed book in my hands and sift through the thin paper, resting lastly on the bottom of the cover: by Edgar A. Poe. I immediately send out copies to all the reviewers in Baltimore and rush home with next Sunday’s newspaper without a peek.
Virginia’s doe eyes widen at the sight. “Ma! Come quick. Eddie’s got the paper.”
Muddy flies in with the clothespins still in her mouth and laundry balled under her thick arm. “Open it up at once and read it to us!”
I sit down at the tigerwood table with Muddy and Virginia. In my loudest voice I read:
“Al Aaraaf, Tamerlane, and Minor Poems by Edgar A. Poe.”
Virginia giggles happily at the mention of the title while Muddy purses her lips proudly.
“We view the production as highly credible to the Country. Throughout, there runs a rich vein of deep and powerful thought, clothed in the language of almost inimitable beauty and harmony. His fancy is rich and of an elevated cast; his imagination powerfully creative.”
Virginia gasps and hugs me with a giddy scream while Muddy pulls her sewing scissors out like Excalibur to clip the excerpt and hang it on the fireplace mantel. I write to Henry immediately and pay twice as much to post a copy of the collection as well as another newspaper article clipping. I imagine him opening it up on exotic seas with whales and sea monsters gliding behind him. I feel the smile that spread across his face when he wrote the words back to me,
I had no doubt you’d bring glory back to the Poe name.
I disappear long hours of the day in a fury to produce more, craving even more praise.
I’m reading a poem I’m working on to Muddy and Virginia as they fix beef dodgers and collard greens when our door opens. Our jaws all flap when the unexpected sight of Henry registers.
“Henry!” Virginia shrieks and leaps into his arms.
“Easy—” He tries to keep his balance, but falls over to the doorframe without dropping her. She pulls away slowly, measuring what could be the matter with him.
Muddy says, “Virginia, give him a moment. I’m sure he is tired from such a long journey.”
But I can tell she’s thinking the same thing I am. He was supposed to be away for six months. Why has he returned so soon?
He wearily finds the table and instead of placing his bag there lets it slide off his shoulder to the ground with a thud. Virginia darts to pull out a chair for him, the worry setting into her normally carefree face.
“My sweet Virginia,” Henry says, but the words end in a barking cough.
The cough I heard before his departure, only much worse.
“Virginia,” Muddy says. “Go and play him his favorite tune while I get
something warm in him.”
Grandma Poe cackles from the back room. “Who is it?”
Muddy calls back. “Only Henry, Ma.”
“What’s Henry doing home so soon?” she yells.
Her words hang, stale, in the air and even Henry seems nervous of them. He picks up a napkin Muddy lays down at his place setting and pats the clammy sweat off his brow and behind his neck. “I’ve got a nasty cough, Grandma. They sent me home.”
Even Grandma is quiet. No one sends mariners home for coughs or colds. No, this must be far worse. Something you don’t get better from.
Ma’s cough.
My hands grow cold. I have to rub them to regain warmth and feeling. “Well, it’s great to have you back, Henry.”
I force a smile and Virginia begins Follow Me Up To Carlow to fill the void. It’s the first time Henry doesn’t get up to dance to it.
Chapter 21
Henry doesn’t improve. After supper, while the summer sun is still high, he coughs some more and says he’s headed for bed. I follow him up the stairs, pretending I need to fetch something from our room, but I’m secretly unsure if he’ll tumble back down the steep steps. I watch as his hands tremble, holding onto the thin banister. I keep my hands out in case he should fall back. He makes it, though, but the sweat beads thickly on his brow, as he falls into our bed.
“Edgar. I have to ask you a favor.”
“Anything.” I say, searching for something I can say I came up here for.
His shaking hands fumble into his dirty pocket. He brings out some coins. “Take this into town and bring back a bottle.”
“But you’re ill?”
A fire lights in his eyes and he barks with sudden energy. “Which is all the more reason why I need it.”
I pick up my jacket, now needing it to walk into town. His voice softens when I take the coins from his rope-calloused hand. “It is the only thing that quiets my cough. I can’t sleep without it.”