by L. E. Waters
Once again, we pack up everything into our trunks and, since we’ve acquired so much in the last fat months, I have to buy another trunk to move our things. I’m forced to sell the dainty piano and Virginia pretends not to care, but I catch her playing when I leave to find a buyer.
∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞
New York City is as filthy as I remember. Ever expanding industry only sullies the streets and blackens the air. Enormous pigs patrol the streets, allowed since they’re the city’s only refuse workers. Garbage is brought out to the street or thrown from windows, and the pigs shove their huge heads into the piles and strew rotting material all over the roads and sidewalks—echoing a deep imagery of pestilence. Manure is not picked up but trampled and turned into mud with every rain. The sheer amount of people in the streets astounds me. The sidewalks in the south are never as crowded and hurried. Bummers, penniless widows, and orphaned children beg on the sidewalks during the day and live in alleyways at night.
I miss the leisure and slow pace of the agricultural south, the beautiful and manicured cities, even the happy rural people. But this is where the printing industry booms and I must try to make my mark. However, with the industry boom comes immigrants in hoards, ever willing to work day and night and at any job someone offers them, at any pay. I go around to all Mr. White’s friends, but I’m only offered small print jobs that can’t even support one person substantially. In such a huge city, is there so little opportunity?
When our funds run out (and we stretch them as far as they can go), I have to take menial jobs and join in with the mudsill. Jobs that young boys performed for me at the Messenger. Muddy and Virginia pale in the filthy city, and do their best to bring in laundry and sewing, but all the immigrants fill the market. Muddy becomes stir-crazy not having a garden to care for or something to contribute. Virginia watches out the window all day without books to read or an instrument to play.
Neilson, of course, can’t help but stick his nose into our business. Muddy flaps another letter at me as soon as I come in.
“From sweet Neilson. Sending his love and much needed funds.” She tucks the money into her apron pocket, quickly.
“Use it for your own necessities. I don’t want to eat a half cent of his.”
Muddy tries, “He only wants what’s best for us. He has no ill will toward you.”
I stare at our small fire, hoping she won’t read that letter to me.
But she holds it up at arm’s length and squints at the words. “He says he hates to hear of our constant struggles—”
“Who is telling him of our struggles?”
She’s immediately guilty. “I’ve only answered his letters with honesty. Things are not easy for any of us. Do you wish me to bend the truth?”
I know she’s exaggerated things to receive the extra aid, not embarrassed at all by begging.
I stay quiet, but she persists. “Well, your cousin sends his concern. He implores you to return to Baltimore. He says he might be able to find a job for you at his paper.”
“What about publishing one of my poems or stories?” I say far too loud. “I’ve sent him my best works and he never prints any of them. He is most certainly not trying to help me.”
She goes back to her chores, and Virginia gives me a nod of agreement, not needing words, our understanding is so unconscious.
I don’t have a bit to spend in the rum-holes and even though I stay free of it, it makes no difference. There is no way of succeeding in this overcrowded city. We flee after a grueling and soul-sucking fifteen months.
Chapter 26
We look like plants that have turned yellow and lanky from not enough sun. We reach Philadelphia exhausted after a bumpy coach requires us to hold our hands to our heads for protection the whole journey. With a heavy sigh, Virginia crawls out to look out on the city in amazement. Even though I’ve never visited the clean and stately metropolis before, it welcomes us like home. The quiet Quaker city is filled with grand houses, and lush trees line the streets, which cross each other at right angles. Each house is ornamented with every extra detail a carpenter can master, every house showcasing the immense wealth and style of such a timeless place. Once we think we’ve seen the most beautiful specimen, we walk on and see another that surpasses it. Red-bricked buildings with marble balconies stand beside brand new gas lighting, and bright yellow omnibuses come and go on every street. We pass markets with every kind of food one desires—our stomachs growl enviously since of course we can’t pay for such opulence. Philadelphia, the other hub of publishing, and every bit the city of promise I hoped it would be.
After our necks grow sore from looking up at all the architecture, I remember the trunks waiting at the coach station for an address for delivery. “Where should we seek shelter?”
Muddy begs, “Please, I cannot bear another tenant house.”
Virginia seems lost, caught between wishing for something decent but worrying about funds.
I rest my hands on her broad shoulders. “I will do my best to obtain a little cottage somewhere near.”
“No matter how small and forgotten.” She smiles weakly.
“Rest upon this bench, and I will hurry to find something suitable.”
When I return, they beg me to disclose what I’ve found, but I keep a tight smile as the carriage carries us outside the city line.
“But you will have such a long walk into work?” Virginia worries.
“I could use some fresh air, and it will all be worth it when you see what I’ve found.”
Muddy and Virginia watch out the window expectantly and both gasp when the little, thatched, stone cottage comes into view.
“It is wonderful!” Muddy can’t get the door opened fast enough, and the driver seems put out that she hasn’t waited for his assistance.
The girls (and that is what they both seem) squeal for joy when they open the gate in the white picket fence, which leads into a robust, perennial garden. The light-blue shutters are the favorite shade of blue Virginia loves. How very easy it is to please the poor. The joy they can find in the simplest offer of beauty or comfort. Already I feel the storm has cleared. I straighten my long-bent posture and leave them yet again to set up shop.
The walk seems short with all my optimism and the first printing house I reach offers me a lowly lithography job, but nothing can dampen my spirits and I’ve learned to take whatever I’m offered. The next day I struggle with learning the only job at the Messenger that I pitied the most. The hardest part being the position you must assume to perform. My back screams for relief the whole day and stays so bent in the hunched position that I’ve such difficulty walking home. I pass the liquor shop and wrench my back to gaze at the medicine that will surely remove the pain. My mouth waters for the amber glow, but the lack of jingle in my pocket forces me to walk on.
Virginia cries as I return that night when she notices I can no longer straighten out.
Muddy says, “This job is killing you.”
“You must go find another more humane job,” Virginia says through her tears.
I cough thickly. “I’m waiting for them to hire me up to a better position. It might not be much longer.”
“That cough. I’ve noticed it getting worse by the day. It sounds like Henry’s.” Virginia watches me as if I might fall over any minute.
Muddy slices the warm bread thickly and drips the sparkling molasses over it. Unfortunately, this is a far too repeated dinner. I’m too tired to even care.
I smile. “It’s only the printing chemicals. The vapor hangs in the air and comes home with me.”
Muddy shakes out my coat with a soured face. “I haven’t noticed.”
We all laugh, but it fades into weariness. Virginia asks, “Have you heard anything from The Harpers?”
I sigh like an old man. “They keep delaying publishing Pym.”
“It’s not going to break their budget to pay you the measly amount for printing. Humph, bank crisis my foot.” Muddy
takes out her anger on my coat, hitting clouds of dust out of it.
“Well, at least they’re willing to pay for it. I’ve heard of at least two pirated versions over in England that I’ve received nothing for.” I can’t sit in the chair any longer, yet I’m afraid to try to stand back up. “How can an author make a living?”
Virginia jumps to her light feet immediately at seeing me struggle. She helps me up from my chair.
“Well, we are going to need something to give to our delightful landlady at the end of the week and even bread and molasses costs something.”
“Ma, let Edgar rest.”
“No, I’ll think of something. I’ll search out another loan until I can get more in print.” I ease down into my feather bed, groaning as my muscles protest the movement, and Virginia tucks the old quilt up around my hunched shoulders.
She slips something over my head and I tiredly bring my hand up around the pendant. “What’s this?”
“Something I made to ease your pain and to bring us a little luck.”
I forget about the charm in the foggy state between wake and sleep.
“Tomorrow will come soon enough. Rest now.” Her round, seventeen-year-old face is the last thing I see before closing my eyes.
∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞
My back has sufficient time to reset itself, and I walk practically straight into the city when the dew fog is still low. I have exhausted two loan sources already, so I seek out an ex-employee that befriended me before leaving to The Gentleman’s Magazine. I ask for him and wait for his break. One of the big bugs from the magazine saunters through the waiting area in the finest clothing you can buy in Philadelphia shops. As much as I want to hate him for it, I come away envious. He checks back to me before walking into his office.
“Are you waiting to see me?” he asks in a mild English accent.
“Oh, no, sir. I’m just waiting to speak to one of your employees…on their break, of course.”
He nods but studies me yet again before removing his regal coat and lowering himself in his chair. I re-cross my legs and stare at my badly worn pants. How someone such as he must look down upon me. I pick at the lint on my coat as I sense the burn of someone staring at me. I glance up again to see the big shot leaning on the door jam, watching me, with his fingers resting on his jaw, beside two moles.
I question his staring with one look.
“Oh, pardon me.” He startles. “I feel as though I know you, but my memory fails me.”
How would he know me?
He marches toward me with his hand out. “The name’s William Evans Burton.”
The founder of The Gentleman’s Magazine. I shake his thick hand. “Edgar Allan Poe, sir.”
“No need for sir. I’m not a drill sergeant.” He stares up to the ceiling in search of my name in some forgotten corner of his mind. “I’m terrible with names, but I never forget a face. Please come into my office and we will solve this mystery.”
I glance down to the print room for my friend, but Mr. Burton slaps me on the back, ushering me to his office. “He won’t mind. I sign his paychecks.”
He takes out the stopper to a bottle of cognac, no doubt of good quality, and pours himself a drink. “I find a drink in the morning gets my day started better than a cup of coffee. Can I pour you one?”
I nod, shocked that he would offer the likes of me such a fine liquor. Even though it’s early, I can’t miss the opportunity. I take the delicate glass and it’s every bit as smooth as I guessed. “A wonderful specimen, sir—”
“Billy.” He smiles. “I’m assured we are acquaintances so we must cast aside all formality. Once we find out how I know you it will all make sense.”
I offer. “I was the junior editor at the Southern Literary Messenger. Are you familiar?”
“Oh yes, that could be it.” He takes a long sip of cognac. “I thoroughly enjoyed your review of James Fennimore Cooper.” His eyes glisten with sarcasm.
“One of the reasons I’m a lithographer at present.”
“Although your tongue was rather sharp, I respect a man who can voice his opinion in such a masterful way. I value those that deviate from the masses.”
“At least someone appreciated the review.”
“Well, that is where I recognize your name but what of your face?” He points. “Those eyes.” He leans back, cradling his drink. “Poe. Poe. Poe.”
“My mother, Eliza Poe, was an acclaimed actress in Boston, New York, Philadelphia, and Richmond.” It’s silly thought, but other than General Poe, I have no other famous connections.
He darts up in his chair. “You came from acting stock, then. Do you venture on the stage yourself? Maybe that is where I’ve seen you.”
“No, the only drama I create is through my pen.”
“It was actors like your mother who fevered me to pursue acting and comedy.”
“But you founded a magazine?”
“Oh, I had to step into my father’s printing shoes when he left us early. No, my passion lies on the stage, yet no one can make a decent living from it.”
“You don’t have to tell me that. I fear writing is plagued with the same unfortunate circumstance.”
He laughs heartily. “Tell me, what have you published?”
“The Narrative of Arthur Gordon Pym and The Conchologist’s First Book.” I know those are the only ones he would recognize.
He black eyes light up. “Impressive. I sensed you were a man of some talent.”
How could he see that from my haggard appearance and slumped posture? My friend appears and stares bewildered at my drinking companion. I nod to him and stand up, with a bow. “I thank you for the praises, and the exceptional cognac, Mr. Burton.”
He guffaws. “Bloody Billy.”
“Billy.” I replace the glass on his silver tray. “I have enjoyed our conversation.”
“So, when should I expect you?”
“Expect me?”
“When will you come work for me as my co-editor?”
I have to swallow to clear the shock from my throat. “You wish to hire me?”
He searches around the room. “I must do something about the echo in here.”
I laugh. “As soon as I can pick up my last paycheck.”
“Good, see you tomorrow then, Edgar, and bring along some of your unpublished works. I’m sick of all the twaddle of late. My magazine could use a little stirring up, and I think you might be just the remedy.”
Chapter 27
Virginia and Muddy squeal at the stroke of good luck, then Virginia kisses the charm she’s given me the night before. It isn’t until the next day that I find out how much our plight has improved. He starts me at four times the amount I was earning as a lithographer and for only two hours a day, so I can write contributions for his magazine. Every morning we have our cognac together and I go straight to work. After the fast two hours dissolve into the air, I enjoy the leisurely walk in the daylight—a sight I haven’t seen since slaving away below the lithograph—and plot my next short story. Once I reach home, Muddy has sausages and sourdough waiting and I take my pen, ink, and paper to a lake nearby and write under the shade of a weeping willow. I’m writing on one of these warm days when I’m startled by a young man bathing in the lake.
He welcomes me with a broad smile and a wave, then unabashed, finishes up his scrubbing. I keep my eyes on my paper as he takes long strides out of the water, and only until he’s dried and dressed, do I look up as he approaches.
“It seems this spot is critical to both of us. For me it is my wash basin and for you it serves as inspiration.” He closes his eyes to dry his face with a towel that has seen better days. He holds out a slightly dried hand. “George Lippard.” I’m surprised by the purple angel kiss on his right eye, normally hidden by his thick dark lashes.
“Edgar Poe.”
“The new editor of Gentleman’s Magazine.”
I wonder how this derelict could afford the subscription.
>
He peers over my shoulder. “And a writer, after my own heart.”
“Oh, are you a writer?” I seriously doubt that, given his need to bathe outdoors.
“Not published yet, but I have many manuscripts in the works.” He shakes out his long, dark hair and I wonder if he might have some native in him, with his tan skin, thick lips, and high cheekbones. There is something wild in his dark brown eyes and aura. I suddenly feel too tame.
“It is not an easy thing to make a living with words. Have you fallen on hard times?”
“Fallen.” He laughs. “I dove into it. All by my own intent.”
What do you say to that? I look back to my paper for the answer.
“After the bank crisis I decided to live among the people. I’ve been a vagrant for the last year. Moved around the abandoned buildings of this great city, working odd jobs for occasional sustenance,”—his sustenance could not be much given how lean his physique, the lines of fatless sinews—“All to understand the plight of the people better. I want my works to make a difference. Open the eyes of the blind elite.”
“I have had far too much experience among the desperate, and I hate to admit it is not voluntary.”
He gives a hearty chuckle. “Then we shall have much to discuss.”
I restack my papers, checking first that the ink is dry. “Will you be so kind to discuss them with me over a simple supper?”
He wrings out his hair a final time, sending a stream down his tight, coffee-skinned arm. “I should think of nothing more pleasant after a summer swim.”
I can tell Muddy and Virginia immediately approve of him. I don’t know who wouldn’t, with his relaxed appearance, good manners, and honest disposition. I see how someone like this could go about depending on the kindnesses of strangers, since so many would want to aid him in any way they can.